I am a long-time reader of this forum, but have never posted. I thought the Guild community might enjoy this story.
A couple of years ago a Craigslist seller had a Guild F-112 I checked out. The seller was an elderly, clearly infirm, older man; his son was with him. There were some serious issues with the guitar, so I politely passed.
As I was leaving, the son said they had another guitar for sale. He pulled a case from behind the couch. Inside was a sunburst Guild F-30. The label indicated a Hoboken origin. Cosmetically and structurally the guitar seemed to be in excellent condition except it had very high action. Given the goodly amount of saddle left, however, I thought I might be able get the guitar in playable condition were I inclined to mess with it — which I really wasn’t.
I’ve seldom bought guitars that needed repairs. I don’t have the skills, tools or the patience that repairs require. Plus, I’ve little faith in the luthiers in my area. I’ve destroyed very expensive guitars shipping them, so I hate to do that. Even under the best of circumstances major repairs are a bother and expensive and there are usually very long awaits involved—as we all know, and sometimes uncertain results. My personal preference has been to spend more and buy a guitar that is where I want it to be.
So I prepared to pass on this one too. Then the older man began to talk—or try to. His jumbled words came haltingly and with difficulty. He told me he was a Vietnam vet who had been exposed to Agent Orange and, as a result, he had developed Parkinson’s Disease. This had left him in his current condition and, of course, unable to play guitar.
He told me in 1967 as a very young man he’d bought the guitar new in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania just before he went into the Army. (A later check of the serial number confirmed the guitar was from that year.) It was his first “good guitar.” He told me after he got out of the war, which hadn’t gone well for him, he’d played the guitar as a form of self-therapy through the years.
By this time in the man’s story, I had the guitar tuned about as good as I was going to get it given its condition. I played a little something and the man began to cry. Through his tears he said that it was good to hear the guitar again and that he hoped someone would enjoy it as much as he had.
Some background: my brother had been a walking casualty of Vietnam before his early death. Another close friend had been an Army medic through several tours and developed bone cancer (that he’d also claimed was from Agent Orange exposure), a horrendous condition that plagued him until he drank himself to death at 50.
Given that several key older men in my life had fallen victim to the war, the man’s story touched me. Now almost in tears myself, I waved my usual practice of walking away from guitars in need of TLC and gave the man his price (which included the original hang-tags, care instructions and warranty card) without haggling.
On the drive home buyers’ remorse began to creep in. The last thing I needed was another 6-string. Not only that, but this guitar was going to probably need substantial repairs. I felt I had let my emotions get out in front of me on this one.
Once I got it home, I was able to get the guitar somewhat playable. But the action was still high and it left my hand cramped. It appeared a probable neck re-set was in the wings, so the guitar mostly sat in the case for a year.
I thought a couple of times I’d sell it and be done with it. I probably would have done just that had it not been for the lingering memory of the man’s story. The experience had strangely left me feeling like I had something like a commitment and connection to this guitar, which seemed strange since I hadn’t really been able to play it satisfactorily. So I held on to it.
I had a trip coming up to Rochester New York where I’d once lived, so I thought I’d take the guitar to my long-time Rochester luthier Bernie Lehmann and see what he could do. If anyone could get this problem child in shape, Bernie could.
Bernie did a re-fret and tweaked the truss rod. He said he didn’t think it needed a neck reset quite yet.
The guitar played wonderfully in Bernie’s shop, but by the time I drove it 1000 miles home where the summer temperature was 30 degrees hotter, it buzzed up the neck. As I put it back in the case, I again reminded myself this was why I didn’t buy guitars that needed work.
As it happened I needed to travel back to Rochester six months later so I took the guitar back to Bernie. In 10 minutes while I stood by he filed the saddle and had the guitar playing perfectly. This time it stayed that way.
It took two years, two 1000-mile drives, some expense and, worst of all, periodic bouts of self-doubt and frustration, but I’ll say the F-30 now is one of best sounding and playing guitars I’ve come across in my 30+ years of playing. It’s almost eerily so.
I play it now almost exclusively. I have a lot of guitars, including very old and costly Gibsons and Martins (and Guilds), but they have little or nothing on this guitar, the instrument that, when new, caught the eye of a young Pennsylvania man 52 years ago… back before his life changed forever.
I just retired and this will probably be the last guitar I’ll buy. I glad my last is this one. I’m grateful that a chance encounter with a man and his story brought this guitar into my life — rather against the odds. I’m honored to own it. It’s a special, even magical, guitar. I love its contours, finish, playability and bell-like sound, of course, but perhaps above all I treasure its provenance and story.
A couple of years ago a Craigslist seller had a Guild F-112 I checked out. The seller was an elderly, clearly infirm, older man; his son was with him. There were some serious issues with the guitar, so I politely passed.
As I was leaving, the son said they had another guitar for sale. He pulled a case from behind the couch. Inside was a sunburst Guild F-30. The label indicated a Hoboken origin. Cosmetically and structurally the guitar seemed to be in excellent condition except it had very high action. Given the goodly amount of saddle left, however, I thought I might be able get the guitar in playable condition were I inclined to mess with it — which I really wasn’t.
I’ve seldom bought guitars that needed repairs. I don’t have the skills, tools or the patience that repairs require. Plus, I’ve little faith in the luthiers in my area. I’ve destroyed very expensive guitars shipping them, so I hate to do that. Even under the best of circumstances major repairs are a bother and expensive and there are usually very long awaits involved—as we all know, and sometimes uncertain results. My personal preference has been to spend more and buy a guitar that is where I want it to be.
So I prepared to pass on this one too. Then the older man began to talk—or try to. His jumbled words came haltingly and with difficulty. He told me he was a Vietnam vet who had been exposed to Agent Orange and, as a result, he had developed Parkinson’s Disease. This had left him in his current condition and, of course, unable to play guitar.
He told me in 1967 as a very young man he’d bought the guitar new in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania just before he went into the Army. (A later check of the serial number confirmed the guitar was from that year.) It was his first “good guitar.” He told me after he got out of the war, which hadn’t gone well for him, he’d played the guitar as a form of self-therapy through the years.
By this time in the man’s story, I had the guitar tuned about as good as I was going to get it given its condition. I played a little something and the man began to cry. Through his tears he said that it was good to hear the guitar again and that he hoped someone would enjoy it as much as he had.
Some background: my brother had been a walking casualty of Vietnam before his early death. Another close friend had been an Army medic through several tours and developed bone cancer (that he’d also claimed was from Agent Orange exposure), a horrendous condition that plagued him until he drank himself to death at 50.
Given that several key older men in my life had fallen victim to the war, the man’s story touched me. Now almost in tears myself, I waved my usual practice of walking away from guitars in need of TLC and gave the man his price (which included the original hang-tags, care instructions and warranty card) without haggling.
On the drive home buyers’ remorse began to creep in. The last thing I needed was another 6-string. Not only that, but this guitar was going to probably need substantial repairs. I felt I had let my emotions get out in front of me on this one.
Once I got it home, I was able to get the guitar somewhat playable. But the action was still high and it left my hand cramped. It appeared a probable neck re-set was in the wings, so the guitar mostly sat in the case for a year.
I thought a couple of times I’d sell it and be done with it. I probably would have done just that had it not been for the lingering memory of the man’s story. The experience had strangely left me feeling like I had something like a commitment and connection to this guitar, which seemed strange since I hadn’t really been able to play it satisfactorily. So I held on to it.
I had a trip coming up to Rochester New York where I’d once lived, so I thought I’d take the guitar to my long-time Rochester luthier Bernie Lehmann and see what he could do. If anyone could get this problem child in shape, Bernie could.
Bernie did a re-fret and tweaked the truss rod. He said he didn’t think it needed a neck reset quite yet.
The guitar played wonderfully in Bernie’s shop, but by the time I drove it 1000 miles home where the summer temperature was 30 degrees hotter, it buzzed up the neck. As I put it back in the case, I again reminded myself this was why I didn’t buy guitars that needed work.
As it happened I needed to travel back to Rochester six months later so I took the guitar back to Bernie. In 10 minutes while I stood by he filed the saddle and had the guitar playing perfectly. This time it stayed that way.
It took two years, two 1000-mile drives, some expense and, worst of all, periodic bouts of self-doubt and frustration, but I’ll say the F-30 now is one of best sounding and playing guitars I’ve come across in my 30+ years of playing. It’s almost eerily so.
I play it now almost exclusively. I have a lot of guitars, including very old and costly Gibsons and Martins (and Guilds), but they have little or nothing on this guitar, the instrument that, when new, caught the eye of a young Pennsylvania man 52 years ago… back before his life changed forever.
I just retired and this will probably be the last guitar I’ll buy. I glad my last is this one. I’m grateful that a chance encounter with a man and his story brought this guitar into my life — rather against the odds. I’m honored to own it. It’s a special, even magical, guitar. I love its contours, finish, playability and bell-like sound, of course, but perhaps above all I treasure its provenance and story.