One of my best lifetime pals, albeit inanimate, is my Martin guitar. Purchased in 1951, just after I finished my second year at Morris Harvey College, I saw the Martin in the Galperin Music Store in downtown Charleston. The sales people knew me; I was in the store often, visiting with friends who played on local dance bands, as I did. So the sales manager agreed to sell me the Martin on time, at no interest. The cost was $80.00. The Martin, a “double-aught 17,” formally a model 00-17, was built in 1948. Incidentally, the 00-17 has been a great seller, and is still made by Martin.
With excitement, I told Kenny that we were now in business. At the time I owned an $8.00 guitar — “Stella,” which was virtually unplayable, but I had been whacking at it as Kenny and I sang duets. Now, this new instrument gave us what we needed: a nice-sounding accompaniment. Kenny was in town for the summer from college at the University of Cincinnati, where he was an engineering major, so we were both free in the evenings after work. In his dad’s car, we would ride out to Little Coal River, not far from town, to an isolated spot to swim and make music. Hot weather. We’d first jump in the river, splash for a few minutes, get out and dry off. Then sing country favorites like “Bury Me Beneath the Willow,” “An Acre of Diamonds,” and so forth. It all came together with the Martin, playing rhythm and chords.
From there, we began going to the local drive-in restaurant, The Parkette, in downtown Charleston. We’d roll the windows down, order a grilled cheese and coffee — probably about 30 cents, tune the Martin, and sing. It happened often enough that we would see other customers who were familiar with our routine, and even pull up close to us to listen. (More recently, having told the drive-in tale to someone, we are now known as the “Parkette Brothers.”)
From there, the Martin was with me on every camping trip, or virtually so, during the next sixty years. The sad news: I mistreated the Martin badly, because I had never bought a case. So after years of leaning against a tree overnight, lying on its back in the tent, it became weather-worn, scratched, and finally with a serious crack in the box. But play on I did. At some juncture, all that stopped, and the guitar went to the front closet.
Then, Leslie became really interested in playing and I gladly gave here the Martin to take home and use. She took it on herself to have it overhauled/rebuilt, and it is now as good as new. The company that did the work was fascinated by the guitar, and especially interested in the name “Galperin Music” at the top of the neck, still readable with a logo. Nowadays, when Leslie and I attend our annual Bluegrass Camp in N.C., the Martin is one of the main items of interest.
About the sound: this guitar is easy on the fingers, perfectly playable, with a sound that is neither aggressive nor timid — just lovely and confident. Beyond these words you’d simply have to hear it. Everyone who has ever played it has commented on the lasting quality of the instrument.
A scary event: Leslie, Sherwood and Hannah have a “music room” in their house, just the right size to hold a baby grand, cello, three guitars and sound system. Shortly after Leslie returned home with the Martin, they were out one evening and upon returning home found that the house had been broken into. What was missing? The Martin. Leslie became a sleuth: working with law enforcement, going to pawn shops, the works. Then: a break. The intruder had hocked the guitar, and it was returned to Leslie. This is a very short version of a very numbing event. It’s hard to imagine that guitar ever being in any family but mine. Of course, the Martin will belong to Leslie someday — perhaps sooner than later, depending on how much longer I want to bang on it.
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