I saw this guitar being built. I held the raw wood in my hands, and pinged the ancient European white spruce panel that was made into it’s sound board, marveling at the richness of the ringing. I watched as the luthier shaved a little here, a little there from the neck to fit it perfectly to my old friend David’s hands. I watched him learn to play it to its potential, as formidable a guitarist as he already was. And now, nearly forty years later, I witness the end of that dream.
The End of a Dream
I saw this guitar being built. I held the raw wood in my hands, and pinged the ancient European white spruce panel that was made into it’s sound board, marveling at the richness of the ringing. I watched as the luthier shaved a little here, a little there from the neck to fit it perfectly to my old friend David’s hands. I watched him learn to play it to its potential, as formidable a guitarist as he already was. And now, nearly forty years later, I witness the end of that dream.