A long drive, a big party, an old guitar, a rebirth
The instrument is a C.F. Martin guitar. In its 30-plus years, it has been in many different hands.

It was purchased in 1971 by a man in Texas who wrote beautiful, haunting country songs that few people ever heard. It rang its notes at many family sing-alongs, but didn't get out much beyond that.

About 15 years later, he gave it to his sister, many years younger, who sang many of his songs -- and beautiful, haunting songs of her own -- to appreciative, if small, crowds in coffeehouses and county fairs throughout Texas.

The sister became dissatisfied with this guitar after many years, many songs, a CD and many appreciative, if small, crowds. She bought a new Martin and relegated this one to a dark corner of the closet.

The instrument became dangerously close to becoming garage-sale fodder before it was intercepted by a man whose musical heart hadn't beaten for many years. He was a man who wrote perfectly average country songs that nobody ever heard. His skills were minimal, but the Martin gave this man its best -- like it had for the musicians who previously bared their souls through this instrument. The sister gave this man her blessing, and the Martin. Soon, this man's musical heart was resuscitated.

It's a long way from early-'70s Texas to a summer night in 2003 in South Carolina, when the Martin made an appearance during the waning hours of an amazing gathering of people. The Martin was flanked by a man with an Alvarez and a man with a cheap but game Epiphone. In a cathartic session that lasted from 1 a.m. until well past 4, the music poured out, bringing friends and family together in the way only music can.

Honestly, I have no idea how we sounded, and it didn't matter because it just felt so good. We were being treated like stars. People were singing along. People were shouting out requests. Cousin Otis played a few of his original songs, which, um, celebrated his college years. The fellow to my right, a guy none of us had met before that night, was playing like he'd been playing with us for years. His way-above-average skill brought out the very best in the cheap guitar he had borrowed. Every once in a while, a trio of shots would magically appear, further fueling the musical fire.

Cousin Otis and I come from a large, close and musical family. We bore witness to many family sing-a-longs, but by the time we were old enough to participate ourselves, our paths had diverged. We had played together a few times -- most recently in about 1991, when I was 22 and just married and he was 17 and a junior in high school. We talked about getting together many times after that, but it didn't happen until last weekend. It damn sure better not take 12 years for it to happen again.

Last weekend's gathering was a party Cousin Otis throws every year to celebrate, well, to celebrate himself and his friends. There was much to celebrate. Otis' brother, Beaker, is now offically Dr. Beaker. Otis and his wife endured a professional shitstorm at work that week; it was mentioned at the gathering, but only by the 30 or so co-workers who came to them to express their unconditional support. The crowd at its peak was estimated at about 70, representing seven states and the District of Columbia.

It wasn't the perfect weekend -- The Wife couldn't be there, because weekend-length babysitters aren't easy to come by -- but if she had been there, it would have been.

Over a 54-hour period beginning at 7 a.m. last Saturday, I spent 18 hours driving, 12 drinking, 3 with the Martin, probably 7 of them sleeping and all of them meeting wonderful new people and celebrating life. I came home feeling renewed, feeling much better about the world around me, and plotting ways to find one of those weekend-length babysitters in time for next year's event.