The one that got away...

This past Saturday I spent a couple of hours at the guitar store with my wife "perusing". I use this in the proper sense of the word, meaning I spent a great deal of time examining different instruments, evaluating their playability, action, tone, and construction. I must say, I was very pleased with the Ovation 'Ballad' acoustic model--only $680.00 and you get the hardshell case with it. I currently own an Alvarez 12-string acoustic which I enjoy, but honestly, I don't play a 12-string for all it's worth. There's a good deal of subtlety needed, and I'm usually to0 focused on trying to play the chords properly or on remembering what I wrote to nail it down. What I'm looking for is a well-made, rich sounding 6-string upon which to create some timeless folk classics on par with 'Fire and Rain' and 'America'. I realize it is likely that no such instrument exists, and that no amount of money could be employed to create such a one, but you don't go after the grail like it was a bag of Tostitos...you vizualize it and spend your life trying to make it real. Oh, I also want a classical guitar, because they are just so darn soothing. I found a nice Yamaha for half the price of the Ovation that I may likely get. Sturdy, lightweight, easy action, perfect for late night practice when the wife is trying to sleep and only needs one tinny excuse to cut you off from your hobbies. Nylon strings being picked and strummed are like aural nyquil--they put you down. Every time I pick up a classical guitar, it reminds me of a story. Like to hear it? Here it go...
It was the summer after I left college (not the summer after I graduated; that was the year before. For whatever reason I just couldn't pull myself away). I took a road trip to Atlanta, and on the way, I stopped to visit a friend in Louisville. While there, I visited an instrument shop on Bardstown Road. In the back room, I found hanging on the wall a 1965 handmade Hermann Hauser classical guitar. This was something from Solomon's temple, you understand, like being a violin enthusiast and finding a Strad. Anyway, I can't say for sure if it was Hermann himself, as he may well have been dead or at least retired by that time, but it was quite possibly made by one of his children, or proteges, however he worked it out. Needless to say, I became great for the duration of time that I played that instrument. That's a good way to judge, incidentally, if an instrument is truly great--you will immediately begin composing new and fabulous melodies, struck with inspiration by the sheer magnificence of the piece. Well, long story short, it cost my savings, and I decided to take the road to Atlanta while I made my decision. Two or three weeks later, I started North on 75, having decided that I would in fact make the purchase. I'm terribly frugal, so this was a bit frightening, but I also felt empowered as I headed down Bardstown Road, feeling the nearness of both genius and poverty. I felt that way as I reached the shop, and I continued to feel that way as I depressed the brake pedal and continued at the same pace right past it. By the time I had coasted into an auto shop, I had begun to feel something different--the frustration of suddenly changed plans jabbed cruelly by the shards of my broken dream and shadowed, faintly, by the grim spectre of loss. The brake repair claimed a substantial portion of my savings, leaving very little left to play with. For all I know, that guitar still hangs on the wall on Bardstown, calling to young enthusiasts like a siren, luring them to automotive and financial ruin, never leaving her wood-paneled niche. It makes me think of something my grandmother wrote to me in a letter just the other day: 'You want to know how to make God laugh? Tell him your plans!". My guess is, that day, God's jaw ached.