Daddy's Gibson by Katherine Tandy Brown

Katherine Tandy Brown with her father (1949) Daddy’s Gibson By Katherine Tandy Brown My first musical memories wafted into my playpen when I was probably three years old. The Student Prince, my dad’s favorite classical selection, melded with my mother’s Frank Sinatra hits – like Fly Me to the Moon – to build a strong musical foundation for us kids. But even at that early age, I remember the excitement I felt when Daddy strummed his guitar. I now know this lovely instrument is a Gibson LG-2, crafted the same year I was born. 1947. My ambidextrous father chose a right-handed parlor model, a two-color Sunburst design that still resides in its original chipboard case. Truly a renaissance man, my dad – F. Manning Brown of Hopkinsville, Kentucky – played eight musical instruments, including his beloved Gibson, a wooden flute in a Vermont chamber quartet; the bagpipes, which my mother forbad him to play in our house; and the organ. He found an old pump model of the latter, and much to Mom’s chagrin, drilled a hole in the den floor, hooked it up to a vacuum cleaner motor in the basement, and played rollicking tunes. In addition to singing in a small men’s choral group while at Vanderbilt, he lettered in four college sports and went on to become a doctor with a specialty in internal medicine, following in his father’s medical footsteps. A few peers proclaimed him the best internist in Western Kentucky. Yet he was the sort of person who’d take farm- fresh vegetables as payment when a country house-call patient didn’t have enough cash. Our family lived in a brick bungalow that my other grandfather had built for Mom and my grandmother in 1919 on Main Street. Seeking fresh country air, most Sunday afternoons we’d grab the family dog, hop in Daddy’s 1956 forest green Chrysler and head for my aunt (his sister) and uncle’s property on the outskirts of town. Their Walnut Hill Farm lay on land once traversed by the Cherokee on the Trail of Tears. A retired Navy captain, my uncle led my sister Lindsay and me on long hikes, where we found arrowheads, crude tools and pounding stones on the banks of creek-wide Little River. But most memorable were the warm, sunny days on Aunt Madeline’s screened porch. Our whole family would settle in rattan chairs and sip icy glasses of lemonade. Daddy would hunker down on the chaise lounge, uncase the Gibson, tune ‘er up, and breathe life into those strings. He’d pick around for a bit first, pluck out nonsense songs he’d composed to make us laugh. We always giggled and sang along. Once warmed up, he might launch into a complicated classical piece, leaving his audience spellbound. Then with a little cajoling, my aunt’s alto – and the soprano of a visiting Louisville friend trained in classical opera – would blend with Daddy’s strong, sweet tenor. And the afternoon disappeared. Suddenly the sun was setting, another “concert” had ended, and we sadly watched the farm grow smaller as the Chrysler carried us back to town. When arthritis gnarled my dad’s fingers beyond fretting and strumming capacity, he passed the beautiful Gibson along to me, replacing the Silvertone tenor guitar he’d surprised me with on my twelfth birthday. That Sears’ special had propelled me through a high school folk group and my college years. Though I had to up my abilities from four strings to six, playing such a fine instrument was pure joy. Her reverberations reminded me of my dad and those early days every time I played. The Gibson followed me through time in the Kentucky thoroughbred business, a chilly year in Vermont to learn more about my father from friends who’d made music together in his favorite place, and through travels that have finally landed me on the South Carolina coast, as a writer inspired by the revered Pat Conroy in his favorite place. Several years ago, I took a “refresher” guitar class at the public library. My instructor, a local blues performer who could flat rock the instrument, did a double-take when he saw it. “That’s an old one,” he said. “It’s gorgeous.” He smiled as played it. Daddy’s Gibson had won another fan. So now that my own fingers are crooking a bit, the time has come to find her a new owner who loves her and plays her frequently. Her sound is sweet. I’ll miss her, but as long as she’s landed well, I’ll be happy. Though Daddy passed away years ago, I know he’d feel the same. To purchase this instrument or just to learn more about it, you can visit our shop in person or click on the following web link: https://reverb.com/item/7159346-gibson-lg-2-1947.

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