UNCLE JOE’S GUITAR

A story about a “found” guitar, and the final, difficult passage of a life on this earth. While sad, it is also true, and in some ways, very happy. A lesson to all who take the time to read, here we go………

My father had but one brother, one of my only two wonderful uncles, Uncle Joe. A civil engineer who built some big buildings in the heyday of New York City construction in the 1950’s and 1960’s, Joe was a charming man who worked very hard and played very little. That was his nature. He was always very good to me and I still miss him a lot. This is the story of his final days, my involvement, and of his guitar.

In late 1979 my new wife Kathy (Taffy) and I moved into our first home in Port Washington, on the North Shore of Long Island, NY. Joe and my aunt Marie lived in Plandome, a small upscale town next door to “Port”. One winter night, shortly after moving in, we had Joe and Marie and my parents over for dinner; two newlywed 23 year olds and the generation above in their fifties, a nice evening.

All of a sudden, the conversation turned to guitars. I was still a fledgling player, having taken lessons in college after buying my first guitar in high school. The day I bought my first guitar, a mass produced classical nylon thing that I liked, my father came home and seeing it said “What’s this?” “I want to learn guitar” I said after my grandmother, May Gillen having heard of my aspirations and economic shortfall, had given me $100 to go buy it earlier that day. $100, a big tab back then. “You should have told me, I have a guitar” he said and related his attempt to learn as a young man. After he changed, he went up into the attic and returned with some old, somewhat scratched, unlikely thing I thought was very uncool. But hey, it was my first day as a guitar player and I had two guitars. Nice start! (That guitar turned out to be a 1920’s Gibson F-hole steel string that I treasure to this day, what luck! Really!)

So here we were in our place, and little did I know Joe had also become a player. His social world was a slightly snooty moneyed circle, so when he took it up he got a fancy “North Shore” classical teacher and, a fancy classical guitar – unbeknownst to me. That night, in the middle of our evening he unexpectedly drove home, got his guitar, came back and played for us. And then I did. Not bad, the typical exercises of beginning players who really were not very musical on a guitar that did not impress anyone much. Ok though, made the night interesting. End of story, so I thought.

Twenty five years later, after millions of dollars had passed through his hands, in most cases spent frivolously, Joe was sick, very sick. With no relatives other than an estranged son, and us, he needed help. So I, my brother and my sons were ready, to our disappointment and dismay, to assist. Seems that after my father had loaned him money to assist with Marie’s terminal illness and demise, Joe went to a neighbor and borrowed so much more money that when he could not pay it back, the neighbor, a lifelong friend, was forced to foreclose on the mortgage that had secured the debt, and evicted Uncle Joe from his large, fine home of 40 years. A depressing horror show to see.

With no place to live, this proud man who had just lost his wife and had no one else to turn to, was welcomed into the home of his sons ex-wife and his 11 year old granddaughter. Allie welcomed him, as he had welcomed her as a young woman into his home with Marie as their daughter when she was in trouble and had been at great odds with her own parents. She had married their son, divorced him, but she never forgot their generousness and reciprocated in his last days when Joe was in trouble himself. What goes around sometimes really does come around. Allie was very, very generous.

So it was bad, really bad,  and he had a rollaway dumpster delivered to his driveway, and for 6 weeks, my crew, (whoever was available on a given day), diligently arrived weekend mornings to empty the contents of Joe’s house into the dumpster, all day long as it was a big house (and a heartbreaking job.) Joe sat on a folding chair, unable to help, watching a lifetime of possessions head for the land fill. Gentleman that he was, he endeavored to leave the house empty to spare his friend the expense of cleaning it as he liquidated the house, and Joe grudgingly enlisted us to do the work. He had no choice of other volunteers. We were it.

The days of labor were emotionally tough, carrying out all the stuff of a lifetime in a continuous parade past poor Joe as he, in pain, watched it all reverberate while dropped in the metal cavern on his driveway. It was heart wrenching, picture it. Three or four times a day he’d say “not that” as an item, particularly precious only to him passed by and we would instead put it in the vehicle of transit. At the end of the day, we’d deliver him to Allie’s house and empty the few things he could not part with into her garage which was brimming with things of no economic value that meant something to him from prior weekends. The garage had become overfilled with stuff, Joe had become overfilled with illness, and we were fortunately near the end of the house cleaning as I wondered how much more could he, or we, could take.

And now also, Joe was financially broke. Totally. Completely.

He lived from US Navy pension check to another and rarely a week went by that he, my father, or Allie did not receive a threatening call from a bill collector. He was at the end of everything. It was really sad for a man whose life had been one of accomplishment and class, who, contributed to – no caused his own financial demise at life’s end, as he had always lived beyond his financial means. Leverage is a killer when the cash flow stops.

Then, on the last day of the project, I got into Joe’s bedroom closet. Marie’s nightgowns and many other of their very personal items were still stored, as if they were still in the prime of their lives. On one of my last trips I discovered a guitar case, way in back, buried deep, and quickly I opened it. The nice, slightly worn classical guitar, last seen by me in 1979 was inside. I carried it down, and, had he not called out a “not that”, this baby was not going in the dumpster no matter what (hey I’d actually become a serious guitar player during the interim.) But he did, and it went in the car for delivery to the Allie garage storage chamber at day’s end.

Upon arrival at Allies, exhausted and sad as usual, we walked Joe to the door. As we carried the few “not that” things to the garage he saw the guitar going in. “Wait,” he said to me. “You take the guitar, you love to play, and I can’t use it. Think of me when you play it, please!” What could I say? I had over the years made playing my passion, my favorite free time thing. He knew it was too. A beautiful guitar is the most wonderful gift, but especially from him, especially like this. So I took it home with my boys. Tearfully. Damn!!

That night I uncased it and played it for the second time. An amazing instrument I thought. But, being a Martin steel string and electric player, I was not versed in the gem I had in my hands. But it was special, at least I thought. I put on new strings, polished it up, and a few days later, I brought it to a guitar lesson and my teacher, a professional guitar guy got real excited, real fast. “This is serious my friend” he said, and told me to get it checked out by an expert. Stan Jay took a look and immediately told me he’d be happy to give me or get $8,000 for it. What? It was a signed Manual Velasquez Bearclaw wood beauty, and a prize to those who treasure such works of art. (Since then I’ve learned of the great value, both monetary and more importantly instrumentally of these wonderful musical instruments.)

So I called Uncle Joe right away and told him of his new found luck. The $8,000 to him at that point was like many multiples of that to a younger healthy working person, or anyone not in the grave debt and misfortune that he had arrived at, desperately in need of money. It took him about 3 seconds to acknowledge his great luck, and about ½ a second more to clear his throat and say….

“You keep the guitar, it’s yours, I gave it to you, and I really I want you to keep it.” And he really did mean it, really. We argued a little, and a little more, but beyond my protest he was adamant and lovingly convinced me to keep it, for me, and for him. I had no choice.

And I did exactly as we agreed, and I still do. That guitar, among those others I’ve been so fortunate to enjoy is very special. The most special. As was my Uncle Joe. The guitar will stay with me for the rest of my life, along with the memories, amplified by the guitar, of that amazing guy, my wonderful Uncle Joe.