By Patricia McClellan
Guitars make strange bedfellows. But there I was in a hotel room in the heart of Alabama with a vintage Gibson tucked under the covers beside me hanging on to it like I was personally responsible for preserving country music history.
The guitar belonged to my husband’s daddy, and by the time it landed in my custody, I was more nervous than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
I had driven all the way to Alabama to bring the instrument home, and somewhere between the state line and the hotel parking lot, I became convinced that every thief, tornado or every struggling country singer with their sights set on Nashville was coming for that Gibson.
I wasn’t just protecting a guitar, I was guarding a piece of our family whose wood had soaked up a lifetime of music and memories.
The guitar was passed on to a family member after my father-in-law died and it eventually ended up with a family friend who understood what it meant to us. He didn’t play himself, but for years he kept it safely tucked away in a closet.
So many of my husband’s childhood memories carried the sound of that Gibson in the background. His daddy, a preacher, bought it to play at church. Many happy memories were made as the family gathered to sing while that old guitar hummed the tune of familiar hymns.
Over the years, my husband often talked about wanting to bring it back someday. Not because it was valuable, but because it carried pieces of his daddy inside it.
A work bonus finally gave me enough money to buy it back. The family friend agreed to sell it to me for exactly what was owed on it.
Suddenly, the impossible part wasn’t buying the guitar. It was figuring out how to drive to Alabama, retrieve a piece of my husband’s childhood, and somehow sneak it back home as a surprise.
Apparently, I had watched enough crime shows to believe I was fully qualified to carry out a highly covert mission.
I told my husband I was headed to Alabama for a girls’ weekend. I left Friday afternoon, met the man, and bought the guitar.
The problem with carrying somebody else’s memories is that you become terrified of dropping them. Every time I stopped for gas, I checked the backseat before I paid at the pump. At the hotel, I carried that guitar case inside like a newborn baby while trying to look casual in front of strangers.
Once the guitar and I made it safely home, it was time for the big reveal. I called my husband out onto the porch and sat on the swing with the guitar tucked safely out of sight.
“Honey, I have a confession to make,” I said. “I did not go to Alabama for a girls’ weekend. I went to see a man.”
There was a long pause, and then he dragged out a cautious, “Okay…” like he was waiting for the rest of the story to drop on his head.
I sat in silence a full thirty seconds, biting the inside of my cheek and trying not to laugh. Then I leaned forward, pulled the guitar into view, and said, “Yes… I went to see a man—to bring this home where it belongs.”
And I laid the gift of his boyhood memories in his lap.
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