Neither Fiddle Nor Guitar

Neither Fiddle Nor Guitar

       by Goud Rymer

the day the music died

the day the prof got fried

the day the cliffs were spied

the day the car was buyed

the day my mom got pie-eyed

My guitar plays the most beautiful music even in the hands of a novice. It rings like unto bullion. This loveliness of tone one purchases. None with a three hundred dollar Yamaha derives, ever, such sweetness from wood. Closeness of growth ring in the spruce top makes much of the difference, but most depends on the thinness of the finish; seven to twelve layers of a special varnish applied with extreme care as to evenness and sparseness give a quality stringed instrument its cadre. Such a guitar (and I speak with circumspection so none will suspect the true worth of my "precious"), surprise informed me, values in at nearly ten thousand dollars. But leave money matters for the peasant. I love simply to play this wonder and not to estimate its worth in coinage.

       I speak as if my guitar still lives. A story of sad consequence involving this most voluptuous of my belongings occurred one day some time ago. I work at an used office supplies depot now and then, when too long ensconcement in my home becomes wearisome. Employment diverts me. I despise steady employment for reasons that I have no wish to divulge at the moment but you may rest assured that they have nothing in common with indolence, nor do they derive from an aversion to supporting myself. I am fully kept already by a legacy from the institute for the blind. By "legacy" I betray my own rampant imagination, which prefers to rename vulgar things. Sex becomes intimacy. Murder becomes crime. Cancer equals incurable illness. And thus I live more happily, unburdened as I feel with the sadness that saddles much of the working world. The institute pays my groceries and modest monthly expenses as well as provides a small regular dolance for incidentals and treats and on this small dispensation I live without fear or hardship.

       Now, on one of the mornings when I walked to work--a Tuesday it was--I gladly opened the door and just as willingly took up my white cane from its place inside the door. I tipped my hat to no one in particular and strode off down Grier. When the grocer shuffled by I greeted him. The petite woman who sells kindness on a corner near my apartments said no word to me in return for my spry salutation as I passed her. And others, too, seemed unusually reserved for a lovely fall morning. But I would have been of similar moodiness had I known what was to transpire within the next little while during my absence from the apartment. I came back the same way I had left some six hours later and unlocked my door. Immediately I knew that something had happened the moment I stepped inside. I ran to my music stand and reached for the familiar neck only to find it not there. Feeling my way about the room I finally came upon it crumpled in a corner. The top had been stepped through. The sound hole was now twice its proper size. The neck lay in two pieces. My beloved was ruined. No Erasmus of luthiers could have repaired or ever would repair it. My life wrecked, my hopes and joys permanently dashed, I promised never to play a guitar again. I have for the past six years kept that vow, untempted by lute or mandolin, fiddle or guitar.