…his father was a carpenter (or so I’m told). Did he come to redeem the world? When fully grown he travelled across lands and oceans until he stopped at my doorstep and I let him in. His name is….Martin.
Yes, my mail order Martin guitar arrived in the post all the way from Nazareth Pensylvania in perfect condition and exceeding all my expectations. There is a lovely smell like pepper and tobacco emanating from the sound hole, it’s the freshly cut Indian rosewood of the back and sides. If this isn’t a guitar for life I don’t know what is. This kind of luthiership is not just a production of time and money, it’s love, and tradition.
All I have to do now is learn to play it.