I need a name for my funny-looking little travel guitar. Any ideas? Here's how it ended up at my house...
I was absolutely certain I knew what I needed. Now, whenever I find myself absolutely certain about anything, I get a little nervous. Experience has taught me that life has an annoying habit of smiling politely while saying, Oh really? Just watch this.
Several years ago, I bought an Ibanez guitar with every intention of learning to play. It was a beautiful instrument. It also spent most of the next several years leaning quietly in the corner, silently judging me.
It wasn't the guitar's fault. I faithfully watched YouTube lessons, practiced until my fingertips felt like I'd been petting porcupines, and waited for those magical calluses every guitar player promises will eventually arrive. Mine must have been shipped UPS and ended up on the wrong porch.
On top of that, the guitar itself was simply too big for me. Reaching around the body wasn't comfortable, and after a while my shoulder started complaining louder than my fingertips. Eventually I admitted defeat. The Ibanez stayed in the corner while I avoided making eye contact every time I walked past it.
After careful research, I diagnosed the problem. I didn't need another guitar. I needed a baritone ukulele. Smaller instrument. Nylon strings. Problem solved.
Or so I thought.
Living in northern New Hampshire changes the way you think about shopping. Around here, a trip to just about any specialty store is about an hour and a half each way. By the time you get home, you've burned enough gasoline to make Amazon Prime look like one of the greatest inventions since indoor plumbing. That's why we rarely head south unless we can combine several errands into one trip.
The nearest music store was in Littleton, about an hour and a half away, so one morning Jim and I headed south. Fortunately, Jim likes driving. I like sleeping. We've each found our niche.
When we arrived, I walked up to the front door only to find a neatly printed sign announcing they would be closed for the entire week. I stood there staring at it for several seconds, hoping maybe it only applied to everyone else. It didn't.
Out came my phone. The next nearest music store was in Plymouth. Another hour and a half away.
I walked back to the truck. "I found another music store."
Jim looked over. "How far?"
"Another hour and a half. You up for that?"
"Fine with me."
That was all I needed to hear. By the time I woke up from my nap, we'd arrived in Plymouth. Jim stayed in the truck while I went inside.
It wasn't a very big store. There couldn't have been more than a dozen guitars hanging on the walls. They looked like a jury, silently watching to see if I'd choose the wrong one, again.
A very young salesman greeted me, and I explained the two problems I'd been having with my Ibanez. He laid the guitar case on the floor, opened it, looked it over, then popped back to his feet in one smooth motion. No groaning. No grabbing one knee. No putting both hands on the floor while deciding whether getting up was really worth the effort. And no crawling over to something else to climb up assisted by his arms. He simply stood up. I remember being able to do that. I don't remember exactly when. But I remember.
He handed the guitar to me and I held it in proper guitar position.
"Yeah," he said. "This guitar's too big for you."
Finally, somebody besides me thought so. I explained that I'd come looking for a baritone ukulele because it was smaller and had nylon strings. He smiled. Then he completely ruined my plan.
He explained that because I liked the lower bass notes of a guitar, I'd probably be disappointed with a baritone ukulele. Yes, it's tuned lower than a regular ukulele, but it still has only four strings—the same notes as the highest four strings on a guitar. The two deep bass strings that give a guitar its rich, full sound are missing.
Well, that was information I could have used before we spent three hours on the road.
Instead, he began handing me one smaller guitar after another. Every one felt a little better than my Ibanez, but none of them felt quite right.
Then he mentioned they even made guitars designed specifically for women. Well, now he had my attention. I immediately pictured a regular guitar with a molded indentation in the back where one of my boobs would fit. Sort of like the little pocket in some men's underwear designed to accommodate the male anatomy. I thought that was a remarkably thoughtful design.
It turns out a ladies' guitar is simply thinner and smaller. Frankly, I liked my idea better. If anyone ever invents one, I'm sure it'll be a best seller.
By about the sixth guitar my shoulder loudly informed me that our audition was over. I didn't even know I had elderly shoulders. Apparently they'd decided not to mention it until that very moment. By then my shoulder felt like I'd spent the afternoon wrestling goats.
The salesman stood there for a minute looking around the room. Then he pointed toward an odd-looking instrument hanging off to one side. "Let's try the funny-looking one."
Funny-looking was an understatement. That's a bit like calling an aardvark "slightly unusual." I'd never seen anything quite like it. It looked like somebody had crossed a guitar with a mandolin, then wandered off before finishing the project.
"It's a travel guitar," he said.
That was fine with me. The only traveling I had planned was from the corner of my bedroom to my recliner.
He handed it to me, and the moment I sat down everything changed. My shoulder relaxed. My arm wasn't stretched halfway to Canada. The neck fit comfortably in my hand. After trying guitar after guitar, I'd almost forgotten what comfortable was supposed to feel like. It just fit. The guitar happened to be there on consignment, so it cost less than buying a new one. Before I left, he replaced the steel strings with nylon strings while I waited.
I walked into that store intending to buy a baritone ukulele. I walked out carrying something I didn't even know existed when I woke up that morning.
Looking back, what impressed me most wasn't the funny-looking little guitar. It was the young salesman. He never tried to sell me what I'd come in to buy. Instead, he listened while I explained the problems I was having and then worked on solving those problems instead of simply handing me what I'd asked for.
Had the music store in Littleton been open, I'd probably own a perfectly nice baritone ukulele today. Instead, I came home with a funny-looking little travel guitar that fits me perfectly. Turns out the funny-looking one was exactly the right one. I suppose there's a lesson in that somewhere... hopefully it won't involve another day on the road to learn it.
(P.S. I'm serious about the name. If I pick yours, you'll forever have bragging rights that you named the guitar in my next stories.)
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