I spent a few minutes last week looking through my building in search of an item or two for a job I was doing. In the meantime, I found a lost treasure: the original tuners for my 1939 Gibson guitar.

The guitar had been in a less-than-playable state for about three or four years, every since the bridge developed a long crack across one end. In a crunch for money last year, I even considered selling it. I’m thankful now that I didn’t.

At a chance meeting with a friend, I happened to discuss my Gibson’s problem while chatting at the Alleghany County Fiddler’s Convention. He agreed to take a look at it. I was a little nervous to start with, but my worries were unfounded.

He agreed to come to Sparta and pick up the instrument and take it to his shop in southern Alleghany. He had a little piece of wire with a mirror on it that allowed me to look inside the guitar for the first time. He said the bridge plate, which is under the bridge, was not broken. That was a relief, since he would have had to disassemble the instrument to fix that.

He took it home and called me up about a week later. He had repaired the split, which was right about where the strings went through the bridge. I couldn’t even tell where the damage had been.

He also replaced the pit guard on the guitar and re-glued a brace, finishing all the work for a very reasonable price. While we were talking, he said he noticed that I had installed after-market tuning keys and asked me why. I noted that an earlier repair had replaced the frets when I first got the instrument and updated the tuning keys. The original keys crumbled with age.

He informed me that he could repair the originals and put them back on the instrument, so I told him to also order those parts at his convenience. I don’t like replacement parts, but at the time they were installed, I didn’t realize I had an option. But first I needed to remember where I had stored them; which is just what happened last week.

The guitar is painted in a sunburst pattern, still with the original finish. The finish is noticeable aged, but there aren’t many chips or dings I can see. People used to take better care of their instruments than they do these days. I think the top is made from mahogany, but I’m not really sure. The sides of the neck have been worn down by frequent use and the finish is mostly gone on the upper part, where it was played the most.

The finger board is also pitted and worn, almost as if the notes have been marked for ease of use. It is easy to see where the strings have bitten into the wood over time, each chord leaving its mark over the last 65 years.

I traded for the instrument many years ago, swapping a .22 rifle and a handful of money for it. Since then, I have had it repaired twice and only managed to play it about six months total. It had been played and used for more than 50 years when I got it; then left alone in a closet in a battered cardboard case finished with a faux alligator motif.

Inside with it were a package of Belle Strings, a woven piece of string once used as a strap and a couple of old picks.

The story I got with the guitar was that it was purchased by its original owner at Porter’s Furniture in Galax, Va. just before World War II. That individual, whose name I lack, apparently was smitten by age and arthritis and was left unable to use his beloved instrument. He traded it off, but I don’t know what he got out of it. I know the price

I paid for it seemed reasonable to me, so I gather he didn’t get much. As for now, I can say I feel part of the instrument’s heritage every time I pick it up. I wonder how many times he picked bluegrass and gospel on his front porch, his fingers flying over the familiar frets like two old friends meeting? I’ll never know. I can tell that There are more valuable instruments out there, some not as old, but the Gibson’s mellow sound pleases me just fine.

Of course, the Martin is better appreciated by many in the traditional genres because of its volume, but I usually play alone these days.

There’s really not much need for volume on the porch or sitting around a camp fire quietly, or even not-so-quietly, singing the words to a few familiar songs.

I like the smell of the instrument, too. The smell of old wood and dust, the smell of age and quality, memories of a time when instruments were handmade in the United States instead of Korea or China. How many instruments made now will last 70 years? Some aren’t be fit to play 70 songs.

At least I can hold on to my little part, hearing the same sounds that reverberated through this old guitar for a lifetime — much longer than my lifetime. Who knows, maybe whoever ends up with it after I’m gone will wonder about me and see the little grooves in the fretboard that my fingers have left.

In fact, I can’t imagine a finer place for a simple man to leave his mark in the world.

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