Sad but meaningful story here.
I first met Don 25 years ago, when he showed up to take my mom on a date. I was 14. He had a shock of half-gray hair, a beret, a leather jacket, and was smoking a Marlboro red. He later said "You should have seen your face when you opened the door."
He and my mom only lasted a couple years but, by then, he was cemented in my life as a role model and father figure. Professional musician, mostly bar singer, mostly acoustic and solo act. Great relationships with the crowds, easygoing, never overbearing. Spectacular guitarist.
The Marlboros added up and his lungs eventually gave out on him for singing. In the past couple years they've given out so bad he can't even sustain the effort of playing.
Three years ago my mom floated to me that he said he was going to will his Martin D-28, his only guitar for 45+ years of playing, to me. That set a fire under me to get my own playing and singing to a level that he might deem worthy for passing the torch.
This past Saturday I drove to Pittsburgh, where he now lives, and where I used to live, and played a bar gig for a whole crowd of friends and family. I actually choked pretty bad, disoriented by the PAs and lack of monitor, but it was good enough I guess. Next morning we had breakfast and he handed over this treasure. (Along with his also-beat-to-tatters Tele and some other goodies).
I like pretty guitars and I have a small collection of them. It's amazing to see this rough, real, guitar, played for half a century by an amazing pro, hanging among the namby-pamby just-for-show pretty-boy shelf-queens. I doubt I'll play any of them for a while.
I've gotten choked up plenty of times picking up his guitar in the past few days. Means a lot to share.
