My grandfather and his brother Nathan were musicians in a band that toured. Well, actually, it was just the two of them, and by “toured” I mean they played the fiddle and guitar at parties and barn dances. This was rural Kentucky pre-World War II. They wore their best suits and provided the entertainment for gatherings of friends and family. That’s them in the photo above; don’t they look snazzy? Sadly, I never met my great uncle Nathan. He died before I was born. His guitar remained in its case, carefully tucked away just like he left it nearly 50 years ago.
One of the things on my list of goals for this year is to learn to play the guitar. I think it will come in handy when I am visiting the nursing home. I won’t have to depend on finding a musician to come with me each week for our Sunday school hour with the residents. I have some musical ability, so I am hoping to teach myself to play Nathan’s guitar. Afterall, he never took lessons. He and my grandfather were self-taught musicians. (And they didn’t have YouTube videos, which I am using.)
I took the guitar to get some minor repairs made to it, and it’s as good as new. Whenever I pick it up and strum my fingers across the strings (while learning to endure the fingertip pain), I wonder about all the places it’s been. What songs did it play? Who sang along with those songs? I keep envisioning my grandfather playing the fiddle and Nathan playing the guitar, while giggling children twirl around at their feet and the grown ups laugh and sit together, discussing the latest news, drinking coffee and enjoying a piece of pie. (I have no idea if that happened or not, it’s just the way I imagine it.)
There’s a sort of reverence I feel when I hold that guitar, the very guitar Nathan held. It may sound cheesy, but I want to honor the instrument and my great uncle. What would he think about my playing his guitar, all these years later? I’m sure he could never have imagined that his brother’s granddaughter, his great-niece, would even want his guitar, let alone learn to play it. I’m quite sure he could never have imagined that anyone could learn to play by sifting through hundreds of tutorial videos in a matter of seconds.
The last time my great-uncle played his guitar, laid it carefully in the case, and shut the lid, did he know that would be the last time he would do so? I can’t answer that, but I doubt it. I know so very little about him. And yet, his guitar reveals a few things about him: he loved music and he took good care of his instrument. The guitar had been covered over with a soft cloth and the inside of the case also contained a little box where he had placed extra picks and string.
When I look at that guitar, sometimes I’m afraid to even pick it up. It seems as though my inability to play it well might in some way diminish the significance and specialness of the guitar. I also don’t want to do anything that might harm it. I have no idea if it has any monetary value (no one around here seems to be able to tell me), but it has immeasurable worth to me. It’s a connection to my family, a physical reminder of someone who is no longer here, and a reminder of a time when life was less hurried and undigitized…more quiet even. A time when people valued community and family. Families didn’t sit around watching stories, they sat together telling them. Families didn’t pull up their favorite playlists on Spotify or tell Alexa to play their favorite songs; they just sang them.
So I pick up that guitar and gingerly run my fingers over it, hoping in some small way that it can still be used like it once was—to bring people together through the simplistic but mighty power of music and community.
