A month or so ago a young lady in my church came up to me after watching me play my Kay 12 string guitar. She was asking about the difference between playing a six string guitar and a 12 string. I explained that the real difference was not in playing but in tuning.
"With the 12 string" I explained, "each finger holds down two strings that are close together at the same time. If you are just getting started your fingers may experience a bit more pain, but the full sound of a well tuned 12 string is worth it."
Speaking of tuning a 12 string . . . now, that's a different story all together. To tune a 12 string, one of those new fangled Intelli IMT-500 tuners comes in real handy.
I do digress . . .
The next week, she came to me after music practice with an excited look on her face that you rarely see on the face of anyone over the age of, say, eighteen. There was news that she wanted, almost needed to tell me.
"My neighbor gave me a 12 string guitar," she announced to me without so much as a 'hi' or 'how are you?' "Well,” she continued, “I guess you would say it's an 11 string and I think it needs some work."
She was beaming as much as my daughter had when, at eighteen, she told me that she had found the “car of her dreams.” No matter that it had a blown engine and the tires on that 1972 Super Beetle were completely dry rotted from sitting. It was "perfect!”
There I go again . . . digressing.
I couldn't resist her excitement. "Bring it with you next Sunday and I'll check it out for you."
On the following Sunday, there was that smiling face again. She was holding her 11 string Yamaha FG-260. When she handed it to me, I went into evaluation mode.
The guitar had been loved by someone. Loved nearly to death. Around the pick guard the finish was embossed into the grain of the spruce top from enthusiastic strumming. There were various and sundry scratches and gouges. The frets were well-worn at least three quarters of the way up the neck. The string slots on the nut had been cut almost to the wood of the fingerboard in an attempt to lower the action. The dotted bridge pins had been removed numerous times with the aid of what must have been electricians' pliers. That was just the front. A quick look down both sides of the fingerboard revealed a slight twist and a bit of a bow in the neck that I hoped a few turns on the truss rod would help. (It would never be straight, but it could certainly be better. Just above the neck on the top side of the guitar, there was a small hole where a strap button had been added, and the screw had subsequently pulled out of the thin plywood. (Not a good place to add a strap button.) The rear strap button, a round plastic tapered one, had been jammed into the body to the point that one could no longer put a strap on it. A chrome button had been screwed right into the end of it. On the back of the neck was a gash 3/16" deep and 1” long that looked like it might have been the result of an encounter with a Ginsu knife. Finally, the white plastic was missing from the sixth tuning peg and another was cracked on the seventh.
"Can I take it with me and bring it back to you next Sunday?" I asked.
The girl looked puzzled. "Do you work on guitars?"
"A little. I think I can do something with it."
She indicated to me that she didn't have any money to spend on it with college coming up. I told her not to worry about it and we parted.
At home, I removed the eleven strings, tossed the sad looking bridge pins into the trash, and removed the metal strap button. After marking the plastic one with a pencil where it met the body, I pulled it out with a pair of pliers. Finally, I located the furniture oil and a soft cloth and started on an hour-long cleaning project. With that finished, it was off to 84 Lumber and then DJ's Music Shop. At 84 Lumber, I picked up some mahogany colored wood filler and a spray can of polyurethane. At DJ's Music the search was on through a large box of used hardware for some Yamaha tuning heads. I found four, all chrome. No matter, chrome would have to do; nothing else seems to fit Yamaha but Yamaha. Next 13 bridge pins . . . gotta have at least one extra. Two aluminum strap buttons, a set of Elixir strings, and an inexpensive gig bag.
The nut: it needed to be raised about .015" to get the strings up off the frets. I popped it loose and put a small bead of Gorilla Glue under it then taped it back in place letting the glue raise it off the neck the desired amount. (Gorilla Glue expands as it dries.) After it was completely dry, I used my pocket knife to carefully trim away the glue where it had expanded out around the nut.
The Screw hole: a little mahogany colored wood filler. Not a perfect match, but not bad.
The gash in the neck: some amazing expanding Gorilla Glue fixed that. After it was dry, a little work with some fine sandpaper to get rid of the excess and to smooth out some rough spots on the back of the neck. After that, I cleaned the back of the neck with rubbing alcohol to prep it for a couple of coats of polyurethane.
Next, a couple of twists of the truss rod . . . much better.
I cut the plastic strap button off at the pencil line and put a little Gorilla Glue on it and stuck it back in its hole. When the glue was dry, I took one of the new aluminum strap buttons and screwed it directly into the center of the old one. The other button was then added to the end of the neck heel.
Even though they were Yamaha parts, the gears on the tuning heads didn't mesh with the gears on the new pegs, so they had to be replaced as well.
My mom, who is an excellent seamstress, made a custom heavy denim strap with the girl's name on it. A nice touch.
With a little polish, new strings and bridge pins, the 12 string had a whole new future. I zipped it into the gig bag and took it back to church on Sunday.
Total cost of guitar face-lift: insignificant. Smile on teenager's face: priceless.
Every time I try to salvage an old guitar, I learn something new. I will probably never become a luthier, but I sure have fun!
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
A life lesson from Gene Pritchard
The boss, Gene Pritchard was a big man who leaned forward a little when he walked and when he was behind the wheel of a vehicle. It was as though he was leaning into his next moment, ahead of himself, and if not ahead of himself, at least ahead of those around him. Though he owned the company and had several crews of men working for him, he could generally be found working with one of the crews.
Gene hired me to do siding work right out of high school. After my first two full days of work he stopped by the house I was working on. After a thorough examination of the work I had done he called me to him and said, “Your work looks good but you’re not getting enough done.” He then went on to say, “If I were paying you piece work, you would starve to death, but since I’m paying you by the hour, I might starve to death.”
So there I was the next morning at 6:00 am loading the truck. I would be working with the boss in Dover today. Not doing siding, but hot roofing on apartment buildings. Since I was too slow at aluminum siding he was going to make a “pot man” out of me. After I had loaded the back of the flatbed truck to the limit with cylindrical tubes full of solidified black roofing tar weighing 80 lbs. each, Gene emerged from the office and said, “That should be enough.” As we headed for Dover he explained to me what my duties for the day would be. “Keep the pot full of hot tar all the time so that when we need it on the roof, we won’t be waiting on you. Keep your area cleaned up, and don’t get burned.” It all seemed simple enough.
The evening before, one of the fellows in the yard had advised, “If you’re going to be a ‘pot man’ you should probably take something to read. You are going to get bored.”
When we arrived, the rest of the crew was already there and the pot was hot, but half empty. Gene fired out orders to me. “Get some of that tar unloaded and keep that pot full!” I unloaded around ten tubes and began peeling off the paper wrapping, breaking them up with a hatchet and adding the chunks of tar to the pot. After the pot was full and the tar melted, I began picking up the paper wrappers that I had peeled off the tubes of tar. Periodically someone would come to the edge of the three-story apartment building and yell, “Hot Stuff!” This was my queue to start the gasoline powered pump that pumped the tar up to the roof. Then they would yell, “OK!” which meant ‘shut the pump off, we have all the tar we can use for now.’
This was going to prove to be a great job. The pot was full. My area was cleaned up and they were calling for tar about every fifteen minutes. About twenty feet from the pot, in the shade of the big apartment building, was a skid of plywood. I took out my book, went and sat on the plywood and began to read. Gene came to the edge of the roof and yelled down, “Are you all caught up?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good – Hot Stuff!”
I turned on the pump. In a few minutes he yelled “OK!” He watched me as I replenished the pot with chunks of solidified tar and then started back toward the skid of plywood and my book. As I picked up the book, he yelled down to me, “Unload the truck!” I looked up at him, puzzled by his request. I was sure I had already unloaded enough tar to last for the rest of the day. “Put that tar over here against the building!” The truck was at least thirty feet from the building and the terrain was too rough to get it any closer. So, I unloaded the twenty plus tubes of tar and carried them one at a time to the spot that Gene had indicated while intermittently getting calls for ‘Hot Stuff,’ keeping the pot full and the paper cleaned up. When the last tube of tar had been stacked neatly against the building, dripping with sweat, I sat down on the skid of plywood and opened my book. As I did, Gene appeared at the edge of the roof. “Load the truck!” he yelled down to me.
“What do you want in the truck?” I asked, very puzzled.
“All the unused tubes of tar. We’re done here.”
“But…”
“Get moving. We need to be ready to go in an hour.”
I was loading the last few tubes of tar when the rest of the crew came down off the roof. Gene backed the truck up to the pot, connected the hitch and we were headed back toward Elkton. I was too exhausted and angry to speak so we rode in silence for about a half an hour. Finally I said, “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me unload and then reload all that tar on the truck.
“I own the company, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“We are just the roofers on this project. If the general contractor sees that I can afford to pay a man to sit and read a book on the job, he is going to think that he is paying me too much for the job.”
“But…”
“While you are working for me, if you are not busy, at least look busy. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.” I replied. I did understand and from then until now, whenever I’m tempted to take it easy on the job, I think of how much my muscles ached that next morning.
Thank you Gene Pritchard for a life lesson well learned.
Gene hired me to do siding work right out of high school. After my first two full days of work he stopped by the house I was working on. After a thorough examination of the work I had done he called me to him and said, “Your work looks good but you’re not getting enough done.” He then went on to say, “If I were paying you piece work, you would starve to death, but since I’m paying you by the hour, I might starve to death.”
So there I was the next morning at 6:00 am loading the truck. I would be working with the boss in Dover today. Not doing siding, but hot roofing on apartment buildings. Since I was too slow at aluminum siding he was going to make a “pot man” out of me. After I had loaded the back of the flatbed truck to the limit with cylindrical tubes full of solidified black roofing tar weighing 80 lbs. each, Gene emerged from the office and said, “That should be enough.” As we headed for Dover he explained to me what my duties for the day would be. “Keep the pot full of hot tar all the time so that when we need it on the roof, we won’t be waiting on you. Keep your area cleaned up, and don’t get burned.” It all seemed simple enough.
The evening before, one of the fellows in the yard had advised, “If you’re going to be a ‘pot man’ you should probably take something to read. You are going to get bored.”
When we arrived, the rest of the crew was already there and the pot was hot, but half empty. Gene fired out orders to me. “Get some of that tar unloaded and keep that pot full!” I unloaded around ten tubes and began peeling off the paper wrapping, breaking them up with a hatchet and adding the chunks of tar to the pot. After the pot was full and the tar melted, I began picking up the paper wrappers that I had peeled off the tubes of tar. Periodically someone would come to the edge of the three-story apartment building and yell, “Hot Stuff!” This was my queue to start the gasoline powered pump that pumped the tar up to the roof. Then they would yell, “OK!” which meant ‘shut the pump off, we have all the tar we can use for now.’
This was going to prove to be a great job. The pot was full. My area was cleaned up and they were calling for tar about every fifteen minutes. About twenty feet from the pot, in the shade of the big apartment building, was a skid of plywood. I took out my book, went and sat on the plywood and began to read. Gene came to the edge of the roof and yelled down, “Are you all caught up?”
“Yes sir!”
“Good – Hot Stuff!”
I turned on the pump. In a few minutes he yelled “OK!” He watched me as I replenished the pot with chunks of solidified tar and then started back toward the skid of plywood and my book. As I picked up the book, he yelled down to me, “Unload the truck!” I looked up at him, puzzled by his request. I was sure I had already unloaded enough tar to last for the rest of the day. “Put that tar over here against the building!” The truck was at least thirty feet from the building and the terrain was too rough to get it any closer. So, I unloaded the twenty plus tubes of tar and carried them one at a time to the spot that Gene had indicated while intermittently getting calls for ‘Hot Stuff,’ keeping the pot full and the paper cleaned up. When the last tube of tar had been stacked neatly against the building, dripping with sweat, I sat down on the skid of plywood and opened my book. As I did, Gene appeared at the edge of the roof. “Load the truck!” he yelled down to me.
“What do you want in the truck?” I asked, very puzzled.
“All the unused tubes of tar. We’re done here.”
“But…”
“Get moving. We need to be ready to go in an hour.”
I was loading the last few tubes of tar when the rest of the crew came down off the roof. Gene backed the truck up to the pot, connected the hitch and we were headed back toward Elkton. I was too exhausted and angry to speak so we rode in silence for about a half an hour. Finally I said, “Why did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Make me unload and then reload all that tar on the truck.
“I own the company, right?”
“Yes sir.”
“We are just the roofers on this project. If the general contractor sees that I can afford to pay a man to sit and read a book on the job, he is going to think that he is paying me too much for the job.”
“But…”
“While you are working for me, if you are not busy, at least look busy. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir.” I replied. I did understand and from then until now, whenever I’m tempted to take it easy on the job, I think of how much my muscles ached that next morning.
Thank you Gene Pritchard for a life lesson well learned.
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