Sam loved guitars.
Guitars filled his living room, lounging in the comfy chairs, happy by the hearth, his 'chil-ren' he would say.
His chil-ren needed to be out and appreciated and played.
It's true, although you might doubt it if you don't play a guitar.
Guitars are mysterious creatures and if you ever fall in love with one you will know first hand how they are far more than wood and wire.
They have distinct personalities and voices, a place of birth, a creator, and a history they carry with them.
They beam at you. They speak to you. They are cross if you don't let them breathe.
You can tell if a guitar has been loved or is capable of love.
I know this thoroughly after my time with Sam. He was always handing me different guitars to play. "It's important," he would say. "These are your brush strokes."
One time he was very excited to show me a new acquisition, a 1948 Gibson with a real rattlesnake tail inside.
"Can you feel the Mojo coming off this one, KD?" he asks, with a chuckle.
My hair is blowing back with the Mojo coming off this guitar. I just keep saying Wow. Wow.
Sam is pleased that I understand that there are guitars, and there are guitars.
While Sam appreciated expensive guitars, I think he enjoyed finding the diamonds in the rough best of all and many of his chil-ren were like pound dogs that he rescued and revitalized because they had that certain something, that sound, that potential to accept Mojo. Sam had a knack for seeing this in guitars and people, too.
When I look back and see Sam's many friends from his last years: We all have something in common. We were characters and many of us were pound dogs too.
Thank you Sam.
