A New Custodian for an Old Guitar

Test driving a relationship to weathered wood and wire is a delicate dance

Jun 05, 2025

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As I stepped into the stranger’s house, I peeked at the guitar in a case to my left. It was the only reason why I was there and I was hiding my excitement. It wasn’t often a beautiful vintage instrument came up for sale within driving distance of my home.

The sunlight shone brightly through a window and lit up the old guitar’s sunburst colours. Like a kid who wasn’t yet allowed to see gifts under the Christmas tree, I glanced at it quickly and thought I caught a hint of cherry red. I also noticed the strings shimmering in the sunlight, which indicated they had recently been changed in the same way a used car salesman applied wax. That old trick, I thought to myself. My brain made notes of these first little points of a more thorough inspection about to begin. But being a polite guest, I didn’t rush to business before salutations and small-talk pleasantries.

Politeness aside, the stranger and I were both eager to get on with it.

“Well, it comes with a story,” the man with the long white beard said as he whirred his electric wheelchair around to face me. His leather vest was covered in motorcycle patches that seemed as vintage as the old guitar to my left.

“The story is about a friend of mine,” he added with a warm smile. “A friend I’ve known since I was a kid.”

He spun his wheelchair and carefully reached for a little stool before placing it in the centre of the room. The chair whirred again as he slowly backed up, putting a bit more distance between him and the seat he’d placed on the floor.

“Go ahead, grab it,” he said, pointing to the guitar and then to the stool. “And sit here.”

I reached for the old instrument, carefully extracting it from its case as I sat down in front of the stranger like a student preparing for a music lesson. I gently cradled the guitar in my lap and wondered if I might be in the presence of something special. The old wood made my hands tingle as I resisted the urge to strum it. I wanted to hear the story the man was eager to share about the guitar and his childhood friend. Plus, the provenance of the instrument was very important to me.

“My friend was a bit of a collector,” he said. “Collected lots of different things. He fell in love with guitars at a young age. He had a few himself and learned to play really well. We would often play together. I still play guitar myself and have a few of my own. But I can’t afford to keep this one.”

He took off his circular Lennon glasses and began wiping them with a handkerchief he pulled from his vest pocket.

“Anyway, when he was still a kid, he had a bad viral infection that affected his eyes. Doctors told him he would go blind and eventually he did. But he kept up his playing and his love of guitars.”

The old man replaced his glasses on his face and whirred his electric wheelchair again to get a more comfortable position looking right at me. His eyes were friendly and sincere as he told me about his blind, guitar playing friend.

“I looked out for him for many years and we still keep in close touch. I check in on him regularly. He’s been my pal for a very long time.

“Anyway, one day he wandered into his local Unitarian church,” the man continued. “Because he was blind, the ladies at the church often took care of him and made him food. This one day, one of the ladies told him she had an old guitar and wondered if he would like to have it. She told him it had a Gibson logo.

“When she brought it to him, it was wrapped in an old pink towel covered in dust.”

The old man smiled at me and pointed to the guitar on my lap.

“That’s it there,” he said, matter of fact.

I looked down at the beautiful sunburst colours I’d only peeked at when I entered the room and studied the weathered checking on the old finish. I ran my fingers over the top and neck, feeling the pock marks and play wear earned from years of use. The top had a slight indent around the sound hole, meaning repairs were certainly required. I also noticed two of the tuners were slightly bent and like a wise salesman, the old guy picked up on me noticing that detail during my inspection.

“Yes, those are the original tuners and they work perfectly, even though two of them aren’t quite straight.”

I nodded while I touched the spot where some of the finish had worn off below the sound hole. This was where the player would strike the strings and the pick would follow through across the wood, hammering the top of the guitar with each eager strum, while missing the pick guard completely. Judging by the wear, this old guitar had seen a lot of picks, sang a lot of songs and had its fair share of stories to tell.

“Apparently it belonged to a music teacher who donated the guitar to the church a long time ago,” the old fella said. “The ladies knew it was stored there for quite some time, but didn’t know what to do with it.” I could tell the man was enjoying telling me about the guitar’s history and wanted to spare no detail.

“When my friend got the guitar, we took it to a luthier in Montreal to have it checked out,” the man continued. “The luthier was well known and worked with the Montreal Symphony Orchestra, so he knew his stuff. He said this is a great old guitar and really solid too. He also said those tuners have a lot more mileage in them.”

I noted he brought up the tuners again in a subtle effort to allay any fears.

“Give it a strum, see what you think!”

I smiled at the man as I formed a basic G chord on the sturdy neck with my left hand and with my right, dug out an orange Cat Tongue pick from my jeans pocket. The old man went quiet in anticipation and I held my breath for this moment that I was eager to absorb. I let the silence hang there for a moment. I wanted to love the voice I was about to hear. I wanted it to be something special, something irresistible. I wanted it to be something I couldn’t live without. But I knew this was a unique and highly personal moment I was about to experience. And in reality, my feelings about the sound and playability of the old guitar could go either way.

I gently let my right hand fall across the strings in one slow, full strum, so they came together in the mighty G cowboy chord. The old guitar rang out beautifully and resonated through my core. I could feel it tremble as it sang out the chord for the enthusiastic audience of two, sitting in the middle of the sunlit room.

The last of the chord notes dissolved before the old man spoke again.

“My friend has had this guitar for many years,” he said, his voice taking on a sombre tone. “But sadly he’s in failing health now and looking to sell it. He needs the money for renovations on his house, so I’m helping him find a new home for the guitar.”

I nodded and strummed the guitar once again, this time pulling my left hand up the neck and trying a few of my own personal guitar moves. I didn’t have many, but my reliable riffs were solid reference points in a moment like this, which amounted to a crossroads of sorts.

I focused hard on the vibe of the old guitar in my lap. Was it speaking to me? Could I feel it deeply? Did it inspire me? Were there unknown songs hidden inside the large sound hole, tucked into the upper bout, hiding among the braces just waiting to be let loose on my command?

I know from experience you can have the most expensive and beautiful vintage instrument in your hands, but that doesn’t always mean synergy with the player. You have to feel an inexplicable cosmic energy that goes along with this wood-and-wire-to-human relationship. It all means nothing if you don’t feel that magic.

The old man changed the subject ever so slightly, possibly sensing that I was unsure as I sat there carefully studying the guitar. In that moment I realized his gentle storytelling was much more appealing to me than a cold, hard sales pitch. But in reality, it was also distracting. I started to wonder if this was the stranger’s intention all along.

“My friend also restored old bikes,” he said as I held tightly to the guitar, focusing hard, now wishing I could be alone with it. “He had over 100 of them and tinkered with them as a hobby. He became quite well known for his bicycles and some of them ended up in a museum in Ottawa. He came to be known at the the ‘Blind Bike Builder’ and made quite a name for himself. Imagine that…a blind guitar playing guy who also builds bikes!”

I nodded politely, not looking up while toying with the idea of making an offer. I was a sucker for old vintage guitars and loved Gibson acoustics above all, but I was trying to not let that influence me too much. Though I could certainly feel some electricity between me and the guitar, it wasn’t quite as obvious as I had experienced in the past. Perhaps we just needed a bit more time together. Some quiet, alone time.

I slowly stood up from the stool, walked over the window and gently set the guitar back into its case. I paused as I looked down at it. The crossroads begged for an answer: which direction will I go? I turned back to the old man, dipped into my pocket and made him a fair offer which he quickly accepted.

“I do love that it comes with these stories,” I admitted as I handed over the cash. “You rarely get to hear about the adventures these old guitars have had. I’m glad you told me about some of them.”

“I’m sure there are a lot more,” he said, gesturing to the case by the window. “Now you can create your own stories with it.” The man smiled as he tucked the folded bills into his vest pocket and whirred backwards a bit, like he wanted to slip away now the deal was done.

“I’m aware that we’re only temporary custodians of these old beautiful instruments,” I said to the stranger as I thanked him, picked up the guitar and started toward the door.

“That we are,” he agreed. “They will outlive us all.”

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