Guitar

The guy in the buffalo check flannel tuned the guitar and played a few chords on it. The other guy, the one in the black hoodie, had been hunched over some paperwork. He looked up.

“Is that a Nick Drake?”

“Yes! Yes, it is! I feel like the person who gets this guitar needs to know it’s a Nick Drake.”

Before he died, my stepfather, David, gave me his 1963 Guild M-20. This particular guitar from this particular era is called a “Nick Drake” because that’s what he played. Nick Drake had a bit of a revival when VW used Pink Moon in a 1999 ad; people fell in love with his sound all over again. Nick Drake struggled with depression and died from a drug overdose at 26. He’d made three albums, each one is glorious.

I can’t remember if David gave me the guitar before or after he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. I can easily picture the guitar in the closet of the big upstairs guest room of the McMansion where he and my mom lived until, after his diagnosis, they moved into town. David’s hands had stopped working so well a few years back and he didn’t play much. He wanted me to have the guitar because I had been playing lots of music, my band was thriving, and so I took it home with me.

When I was in 4th grade, I played guitar. I took lessons after school from a woman I remember as a beautiful hippie who once had her three guitar students for sleepover at her house in the hills. She had curly hair and a horse and her home was like a treehouse stuck on the side of a steep canyon. I played my Dad’s guitar. This was ridiculous, my Dad was over six feet tall with a swimmer’s reach and I was barely 4 feet tall, but it was the guitar I had. I liked playing; I had a friend who lived just a few blocks away and we would meet at each other’s houses to play Carol King and Jim Croce songs.

It was the 70s, and my friend discovered boys, and my parents got divorced. Everything got turned upsidedown. I stopped playing music until I picked up the ukulele in my 40s. Before I picked up the uke, I’d borrowed a guitar from a friend thinking I would try again but I didn’t like the way it felt. He conceded it was kind of a cheap guitar, that’s why he’d stopped playing it. Never mind, I acquired a pile of ukuleles and recorded two albums with my band, and played dozens of shows every year, and then, David gave me his old Guild.

I didn’t play the Guild, not really. Every now and then I’d take it out of the case, tune it, look up a few chords, and stumble through some songs. It hurt my hands, the frets felt so far apart and the strings were sharp. I loved the sound coming out of it, a rich, full, buttery vibe but I’d always go back to my uke.

It is heavy work unloading the objects left behind when someone leaves you. When my now ex-husband left for the last time, he had only one small bag. The house was full of his belongings, his shirts hanging in the closet, his tools on the workbench downstairs. “I’ll do it later,” he said, but that was three years ago and there’s been no later. I’m sure my resentment carried over into dealing with my mom’s belongings. My brothers did the heavy part of emptying her home and I was grateful for that.

My stepfather died in 2016, my mom died in March, 2022. With both of them gone, I feel less obligated to hold on to things they had given me. I woke up last Sunday morning and decided it was time to let go of the guitar.

David saw my band play once, here in Seattle. He was not generous with praise but I will not soon forget what he said to me during our set break. “What took you so long!? Why didn’t you do this sooner?” He asked about the band often, he would tell me what songs he thought we should cover. I am so sad he did not get to hear our version of Won’t Get Fooled Again. David loved that track; it was on a CD he listened to while he used the rowing machine in his garage. We listened to his mix while we drove up to Mt. St. Helens to scatter my mom’s ashes, the same place we’d scattered his, and I laughed to think of how delighted he’d have been to hear our version live. Never mind the ukuleles, it fucking kicked ass.

From the case I took a pitch pipe (for tuning), a bandana, and the original 1963 receipt (113.50, with case) home with me. I left the guitar with the shop to sell in the hopes it will go to someone who will play it. An instrument should be played, it should not sit in its case gathering dust and slowly going out of tune.

I have very few memories of David playing this guitar, but the way he lit up when he saw my band play is unforgettable. For a while, I felt like I’d let him down by not picking up his guitar, but I no longer think it matters. “You’re the musician, you should have this,” is what that gift says to me, and letting it go doesn’t make me less of a musician. I am flanked by ukuleles right this moment, there’s one on my windowsill and another in the chair next to me.

“We’ll restring it and get it listed right away,” the guy at the shop said. They took a copy of the receipt to post with the listing. Both guys were shaking their heads in that way when you hold something full of meaning. I felt okay about leaving it with them, I had convinced myself they could see more than just the financial value of this classic old guitar. “We’ll find it a good home. Don’t worry.”

I thought that I was done grieving, but I cried in the car on the way home.