Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
I cannot remember a day without ever having a guitar to play. It all began when I was
around four or five, and I fell in love with a neighbor's old guitar. I would just love the
sounds of the strings being plucked. Later, Gavin and I made an oil can guitar whose design
we copied from some of the local black gardeners. It was a simple instrument made by us-
ing a square oil can, cutting a hole on the flat surface and mounting a piece of wood for the
neck. Tuners were made from bits of wood cut in a crude wedge shape, similar to those of a
violin to tune the gut strings, which in turn were attached to bent up cuts made at the other
end of the can. Crude but effective.
My dear old dad must have realized I was serious about playing and soon purchased for
me an old Gallo “el cheapo” guitar which I loved and played all the time, although it was a
very hard guitar to play. I cut more than my teeth on that old clunker. When I was twelve,
my mother asked me to play her a song one afternoon as we sat on the swinging sofa under
the weeping willow trees in the back garden. She felt it was time for an upgrade, and the
next week she dressed up in her Sunday best, complete with flower hat and matching shoes,
and I had put on my smartest clothes. She marched us off to the bus stop. We caught one of
those red and cream municipal buses into the busy hustle-bustle of the gold mining town of
Johannesburg.
With my hand in hers, we walked to Magnet's Music Supplies down on Plein Street. Mr.
Magnet was there behind the counter. He was a tall and terrifying image to me. He had a
sunken, harsh face and dark, penetrating eyes on either side of a fierce hook nose and a
shock of silver white hair that fell onto his shoulders. My mother said that he was “such a
refined gentleman.”
“Well young man, what type of guitar are you looking for?” he demanded of me when my
mother had told him of our purpose.
I pointed to a beautiful, nylon string, classic guitar behind a glass showcase. He rumbled
with laughter and, humoring me, turned the key and brought it gently out. I held it as if in a
dream, strumming the magic strings. It was like a harp in heaven. Mr. Magnet turned to my
mother and told her the price. With a quick shake of her head, he briskly pried my fingers
off the gem and carefully replaced the masterpiece.
He walked over to the line of classics that were hanging along the wall at the back of
the shop. “Hm, this one might do you,” he said, bringing it back. He placed it in my lap.
I looked at it in wonder and couldn't tell the difference from the previous one. It was a
shining example of a seventies production, nylon string guitar. I loved the honey colored,
spruce top with the yellow grain. The intricate marquetry design around the sound hole was
mesmerizing, and it came in a hard shell case. I wanted it, and my dearest mother handed
over most of her savings. Thank you mom!
