The Lucille Gibson Guitar - BA 5

The Lucille Gibson Guitar

As I sat in the dining room playing my $1200 base, I was lost in the music that surrounded the room. I was playing “I’ll be there” by Michael Jackson, to honor his reputation and legacy. I played with my eyes closed and thought of the sweet memories we had of Michael Jackson. Oh, how I missed him, it’s hard to lose a fellow king in the music business. I sang from my heart as I recalled those memories, blues style.

“You and I should make a pact (Oh make a pact), Oh we should bring sweet salvation back. Where there is love, (oh baby where is love), I’ll be there, (baby I’ll be there).”

As I fed off the sweet aura of the blues, I was interrupted by the chaotic noise of rapid footsteps across the floor. I stopped playing my base, and opened my eyes to see my grandson running with a long object in his hand. He looked as though he was struggling to hold that thing.

“Hey boy,” I called.

My grandson froze and entered the dining room. I swear being 83 years old has it’s trade-offs, my grandson was right in front of me and I still couldn’t see what was in his hand. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my glasses. I looked again, he was holding my Lucille Gibson Guitar.

“Boy bring your jive little butt over here.”

He did as told and walked over to me with a sad face on. I took the guitar away from him, and checked it for scratches fingerprints or coloring pictures.

“I’m sowy granddady, I juice wanted to play wit tit,” he said in baby talk.

“It’s okay, but this is not a toy son, this is very important to me.”

“Why?”

“You want to tell you a little story?”

My grandson’s face nearly turned white as he rushed to the couch to get a pillow. He sat the pillow on the floor in front of me, and sat.

“In 1942 I bought this guitar with the little money I had from my tractor job. Every day I’d go on that field with the tractor and work my butt off like a slave. My boss was always talking like he owned something, he barely owned that farmed I worked on. One day I ran over a rock and broke the tractor, and I knew if the farmer found out about I’d be as good as dead.”

My grandson jumped back in fear.

“How you get out there alive,” he said.

“I packed my stuff and moved to Memphis. There I got an apartment and made money off the change I got from playing on the corner, with this same guitar I’m holding right now.”

My grandson looked at the guitar and got sad again, because he thought what would’ve happened if he broken this guitar, bless his heart.

“But that’s not all. In the mid 1950’s one day I played at this dance in Twist, Arkansas. Oh, how the black culture rose in that mother snapper. But while I wasn’t looking these two grown men got into a fight over this girl named Lucille. One of them knocked over a kerosene stove, and caused a fire in the hall.”

My grandson, being the drama king cuffed his mouth and gasped as he was scared of the story.

“We all scurried our butts on out there, but I didn’t even make it the sidewalk as I remembered that I forgot my guitar inside the building. I rushed and pushed every body out the way in the crowd. I was making my way back into the burning building to retrieve my baby.”

My grandson literally shed a tear as the story went on.

“I went in ducking and dodging the flames of satin I quickly grabbed my guitar and ran back out there. Everyone hugged and kissed as they were worried about me. And because of that fire, I named my guitar Lucille to remind me to never to do something crazy like fight over a girl.”

My grandson’s face lit up.

“Now every time they call my name. (And now I give you B.B. King) I come out with my leather suit and sit on my stool playing my Lucille Gibson guitar.”

My grandson jumped and cheered and laughed. He came over and gave me a kiss on my sagging face.

“Granddady?”

“Hmm?”

“Can you a song pwetty please.”

“Sure.”

I adjusted my hands and played the power chords to my number one hit “Three O’clock Blues.

Well now it’s three o’clock in the morning
And I can’t even close my eyes
Three o’clock in the morning baby
And I can’t even close my eyes
Can’t find my baby
And I can’t be satisfied…