When I was a kid, I was loaned a guitar by my grandmother. It was a nasty old nylon-six-string, with a slightly curved neck and it wouldn't keep its tune great, and it buzzed something awful on the sixth string.
Her name was Bertha.
I loved that guitar - yeah, it was a piece of crap, but it was just what I needed as a younger and mid-teenager. I wrote music all the time, both lyrics and melodies, and it was just what I needed. It was a necessary release from the strain of classical piano training and practicing, homework that loomed, and the stupidity and idiocy of teenage friends.
She and I spent a lot of time together. But eventually I got tired of her.
For Christmas my senior year my parents got me a new guitar. And Ibanez Artwood. It was a beautiful guitar, and I fell in love with her. She replaced Bertha without problem.
Her name was Ivy.
She and I were together through a lot of great times, and lot of new, more challenging and more rewarding music. She was my first long (instrument) love. And how I loved her.
I took her to college with me, and got even more play out of her.
Then I left on my mission, leaving Ivy in the capable hands of my father. I thought that I could survive two years without laying my hands on a guitar, but I couldn't. Within three months of becoming a missionary, I bought a new guitar. Another classical. She was cheap, but she was a nice little guitar.
Her name was Leticia.
We spent the next twenty months together, happy as clams. Things were awesome. But shipping a classical guitar is tough, so I gave her to another missionary before I left for home. She had been a wonderful guitar, but we parted ways.
I miss her sometimes.
When I got home, I discovered that my father had gone guitar-crazy. He now owned five guitars, all by different (expensive) hand-built companies. But he had one that he just didn't really like. It was a beautiful guitar, perfectly crafted and painstakingly built by one man. It was by Nowland guitars. It was a model called the Big Smooch. There's two of them in the world, one cutaway, and one normal body. And there my dad was, with a one-of-a-kind gorgeous hand-built guitar that he didn't like. So, rather than sell it, he gave it to me.
She wouldn't tell me her name for awhile.
When I returned to school, I took a class in classical guitar. Thus, it became necessary to purchase a classical guitar. So I did. It's an Ibanez classical. She was great during the class, and I continue to play her when I want to fingerpick on the wide fretboard.
Her name was Daniella.
She remains with me until this day, nestled in her case right next to Ivy.
Finally, the Nowland decided on a title.
Her name was Rebecca. Yeah, of Sunnybrook Farms.
This last Christmas, I finally got an acoustic bass guitar. I've wanted one for ages, and it was wonderful to finally get a bass. It's a beautiful creature, and has splendid tone.
Her name was Isabelle.
And then, three weeks ago, Musician's Friend (in their "Stupid Deal of the Day") had an awesome twelve-string on sale. so I ponied up and bought it.
Yeah, it's guitar number five for me.
She has yet to tell me her name.
But it doesn't stop there - yesterday, I ordered a travel guitar - a Washburn Rover, transparent red. It will be here in four days.
I'm excited for her to tell me her name.
She will be number six.
My father, much like me (but with much, much more expensive tastes - one of his guitars costs more than all of mine but the Nowland combined), has seven.
Is that considered obsession?