As I sit here tonight I can see my guitar in full view next to the tv. It’s a medium brown wood color with a large flat plastic pick guard just below the sound hole. It’s a Martin guitar from the orchestra series. I’ve played it in hundreds of places, my dad bought it for me when I graduated from college. It cost about $1500 in 1995.

When I hold it up to my face and take a whiff, there is a strong smell of wood … like firewood in a snowed in cabin. The neck is thin and the rosewood fretboard smooth when I travel up and down forming chords. It has a leather strap fastened with a black shoestring I bought years ago just for that purpose. As my eyes travel down I see a sad reality, the place where the guitar was broken. It’s put back together with packing tape and an American flag bumper sticker. Sort of the poor man’s fix-it job. The look of it reminds me of punk rock I listened to in high school.  But it still strums melodic like an angel’s harp.

This guitar is like an old friend. I’ve written some of my best songs on it. It has a Baggs pickup that lets me plug in to any sound system and have volume. Sometimes I disappear into my garage and play for hours. Other times I just sit draped over with my arms resting on it and I just think. It’s a part of me, and it will continue to be all my life.