I was made by Socorro Zalapa Negrete, an artisan in Paracho, Michoacan, Mexico. He was pleased with me, but after I stayed in his shop for several weeks without selling, he decided to take me to Morelia, to the busy Saturday market. Once there, he polished my wood, tuned my strings and put me on a stand alongside other guitars from his shop.
A young
man approached the booth, hand extended, dark moustache stretched tight above
his smile. “Hola, Señor Negrete. Remember me, Roberto Loeza? The instrument you
made for me has served me well and beautifully.” He bobbed his head in respect.
Socorro
bowed as he shook Señor Loeza‘s hand. “What a pleasure to see you again, Señor.
How may I be of service?”
Roberto
turned, gesturing toward a blonde woman who towered behind him. “This lady is a
guest in my home from California, here in Morelia to study Spanish. She wants a
guitar as a gift for her daughter. I told her I knew the best maker with the
best prices. Señor Negrete may I present Señora Juana.”
The
three exchanged pleasantries. Socorro made a sweeping gesture with his arm,
taking in all the guitars. “Please, Señora, feel free to try the instruments.”
The
lady lowered her eyes. “Roberto, I know nothing about choosing a guitar. Can
you advise me?”
Roberto
and Juana circled the booth, surveying all the instruments. Roberto picked up
the guitar next to me, strummed and tuned it with minute turns of the keys,
inclining his head to listen to the tone. After playing a few notes of
classical music, he repeated the process with three other guitars before
grasping my neck and strumming my strings. I sang my best. I longed to go to
California with this beautiful gringa. I wanted to be her daughter‘s present.
Juana rewarded
me with a smile. “I love the way this one sounds. Such rich bass notes.”
Roberto
agreed and began to haggle with Socorro over the price. “Besides this guitar
and a case, Juana wants an extra case for her son, who already has a guitar.
What is the very best you can do for her? Can’t you go lower than 75 American
dollars? That’s over 116 pesos. Make it 100.”
Señor
Negrete loved making guitars but hated selling them. With a frown, he picked me
up and strummed my strings. I knew I’d never feel my back against his chest
again. I sang with a mix of nostalgia and anticipation. I was going to
California! He seemed to be on the verge of lowering his price, but Juana
stepped forward. “Señor, $75 is a good price. Thank you.”
Socorro
put me in my comfortable leather case with its red felt lining for the short
journey to Roberto’s house. That evening, Juana asked Roberto to play me for
his wife Laura, their two young sons, Mauricio and Robertito and three other
gringos from the Spanish program who’d come to a dinner party at the Loezas’.
Everyone agreed that I was a beautiful instrument with a rich tone.
* * *
The
next time I was taken from my case, slender fingers lifted, tuned and strummed
me with a light, nimble touch. A young version of Juana smiled broadly as she
lovingly turned and stroked my wood. “Thank you, Mom. It’s beautiful and I love
it.” She kept playing, trying all the chords she knew, strumming intricate
patterns with the fingers of her right
hand.
Juana
breathed what seemed to be a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like it, Suzy.”
I’d
passed the most important test of my short life. Suzy liked me.
When
Suzy played me, I could feel the beat of her heart, a blissful experience. But
occasionally her heart would race until it seemed it would burst from her
chest. Despite her ragged breathing, she’d put me down carefully. As she went
into a seizure, the scream that tore from her throat felt like it might blast
us both apart. The attacks left her weak and pale. They left me resonating with
compassion, hoping she could go on playing so I could console her.
One
night when I was left in the corner of the living room, I heard Juana crying as
she told Fred, Suzy’s dad, that a counselor from the college had called her at
work. “He said if Suzy’s seizures can’t be better controlled, she can’t continue
classes. The college administration is worried about liability. I don‘t know
what she’ll do if she can‘t go to school.”
The
counselor for handicapped students was able to smooth the way for Suzy to stay
in school. After she graduated from Porterville College, she and I went on a
trip to Los Angeles, where she tried to sell some of the ballads she‘d written
with my help. I thought she was very courageous to try, though she didn’t
succeed.
For a
time, I was with Suzanne in Sacramento State before she transferred to San
Francisco State. It was there that she finally found a good neurologist at
U.C.S.F. hospital. For months she took tests to prepare for surgery to remove
the seizure focus area from her brain, even as she kept going to classes. Still,
she found time to tune me and caress my strings. I like to believe that singing
along with me enabled her to live alone in the large city, study for her degree
in cultural anthropology and prepare to undergo surgery.
After
surgery, we were elated as the seizures stopped. She finished her degree and
was employed as a caregiver. Sometimes she played me and sang to the old lady
she took care of. When the old lady died, Suzy had a hard time finding another
job.
She
didn't like taking the new psychiatric medicine prescribed for her after
surgery. "I hate the way it makes
me feel," she whispered, strumming my strings. "I'm going to stop
taking it."
Without those drugs, she wasn’t sure of her
own perceptions. She heard things that no one else could hear. I felt her fear
when she played. Her friends suggested that she go back to be near her family
for support.
Living
with her in her late grandmother’s old house was hard. She strummed me in a
state of fear and delusion, from a different reality. She heard rocks talking
to her. The hum of the refrigerator so disturbed her that she unplugged it and
used ice chests to store her food. She no longer wanted to be called Suzy. She
was now Suzanne, always worried and afraid. My resonance comforted her,
drowning out the auditory demons. I was glad of that, but missed my fun-loving
girl.
Twelve
years after surgery, the seizures returned. Suzy came back with them, free from
the dreadful delusions. She was serene and content most of the time. When her
heart raced, warning of a coming attack, she would calmly put me down, stretch
out and wait for the horrible storm in her brain to pass. Afterwards, she
calmly dealt with the resulting wounds, such as bites in the lining of her
mouth or bruises from thrashing around.
She
reached the age her mother was when she brought me from Mexico. Her musical
laugh rang out on her birthday. “I never thought I’d live to be 40. Now I’m
even older.”
She
took guitar lessons and spent happy hours practicing new techniques. I felt
ecstatic. Then, three years after the seizures returned, a last fearful attack
stilled her precious heart and the music in her fingers. I took refuge in the
darkness of my case.
In the
time since then, Juana occasionally lifted me out and clumsily tried to play
me. But it made us both sad and lonely.
Then, a
few days ago, Juana took me out and placed me in the hands of another loving
mother, Nancy Wills. “I want to donate Suzy’s guitar for a raffle to raise
funds: half for your high school guitar students to go to the state meet and
half for the Lindsay Art Association. We can do the raffle at the concert next
Saturday night.”
Hearing
this, I vibrated with joy. Perhaps my long dark days were over.
Nancy
strummed and tuned me. I’d never been held with such expertise. “Oh, my, it has
a wonderful tone.” She frowned. “It’s not holding the tune, though”
“I
haven’t replaced the strings. Suzanne’s been gone for more than ten years.”
Juana’s voice trembled. She was smiling through tears brought on by my voice.
“That’s
probably the problem. I’ll restring it. Also, it might just be nervous after
being in the case so long.”
How
right she was. After she restrung me, she let one of her advanced students,
Saul, play me. “I knew you were looking for a guitar. Try this. It’s from
Paracho.”
Saul
looked a little regretful. “I do like it, but I just bought another one.”
The
eight boys in her honors class all played me and loved the way I sounded. The
only girl was last. She played a few chords and then went into a flamenco riff
that thrilled everyone, especially me. Her fingers felt just right.
The
girl turned to Nancy and said, “Oh, Mom. I love this guitar. Can we buy it?”
Nancy
gave her a brilliant smile. “We’ll see, Kathrynne.”
* * *
Nestled
in Kathrynne’s arms, I saw Juana enter the Museum/Gallery for the Saturday
night concert. I knew she was anxious to learn what Nancy had decided about my
value as a fund-raising item. Nancy didn’t keep her waiting.
“If
it’s all right with you, I’d like to buy the guitar for my daughter, Kathrynne,
rather than raffling it off. I don’t
think we’d raise more than $300 with a raffle. I know the guitar is worth more,
but that is all I can afford. Would that be satisfactory?”
Juana’s
smile broadened. “That would be fine. I can’t tell you how happy I am that it
will be with you and your daughter. It belongs with a girl. May I take a
picture of Kathrynne with it?”
It was
a wonderful evening as my strings happily rang out in an ensemble of expert
young musicians, feeling Kathrynne’s nimble fingers and beating heart. As
planned, Kathrynne handed me to a young man as he walked to the soloist’s
chair, settled in and introduced his piece. “My name is Joseph. A couple of
years ago, I was very sad about losing someone in my life. But I was very happy
at the same time. I struggled for weeks as I sat with my guitar and wrote music
to express my feelings. I’m going to play part of that music now. I call it Acceptance.
As
Joseph played his beautiful composition, I could feel Juana’s heart expanding
from across the room, tears flowing down her face. Suzy seemed to hover near.
Just as Jose said, I was sad and joyous at the same time. My rich vibrations
mingled with Juana’s feelings Acceptance
healing us both.
