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Published on 09/08/1999 All articles from this issue

The voiceless guitar

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By Donna L. Semelmaker

Other Voices

This morning, white wallowing in a miasma of self-pity about ulcers on my vocal chords which have left me speechless, for some obscure reason I am compelled to retrieve my guitar from its hiding place in the guest-room closet.

Once a beautiful instrument of inlaid woods, it too is voiceless. Strings are missing; those in place are out of tune. I gave up restringing it when I noticed a crack all the way through the top fret.

That was nine years ago. I haven't been able to sing since 1990, so why bother fixing the guitar?

In the guitar case, in a small box that holds my picks and capos, is a silver cup with the engraving "NCMA Eastern Conference 1989."

My eyes mist when I look at it and I remember the December 5th luncheon in Washington, D.C., when four fast friends received a standing ovation from 500 Government and Industry procurement professionals.

We were contracting officers from the NASA-Ames Research Center, and had just finished a set of five satirical songs about our careers. The videotape captured the moment: Beaming, guitar and tambourine held aloft, on an adrenaline high from clean harmonies and appreciated lyrics, we held hands as we took our bows.

That was the last time we sang together, the last time I played or sang alone. Two weeks after the concert, I succumbed to a long bout of illness and then developed asthma.

Our friendship also fell victim to disease: professional rivalries of the ugliest sort. All harmony between us was distorted, made atonal and jarring. The total disintegration of our friendship would take several more years, but the music stopped immediately.

I discovered the damage to my guitar about a year later, the next time I took it out of its case to practice. Even without my friends singing with me, I still wanted the joy of song in my life. I was upset at seeing my instrument in such poor condition, but didn't think repair would cost much.

I opened my mouth to sing a cappella. A bare whisper issued forth. I had no wind for the notes to waft forward on. Distraught, in tears, I put the guitar back in the case. The wood, once so shiny and glistening, seemed dull and lifeless.

The guitar has stood in the closet ever since. I don't know why I brought it out this morning. Perhaps I was hoping for a miracle - that the strings were strung and tuned, the crack in the fret repaired, the woodwork shined and glistening.

I'd bring the guitar onto my lap, put my fingers in the A-minor chord position, strum downward, open my mouth - and song would return. Vocal chords healed, speaking and singing voices intact and flexible, the prognosis of my overall health as yet unrevealed.

I wanted when I opened my guitar case this morning - oh, how desperately - I wanted it to be right after the NCMA luncheon concert in Washington, D.C., when four fast friends, at the height of their careers, stood basking in the glow of camaraderie and the harmony in their lives.

Voiceless, I closed the guitar case and returned my dream songs to the closet.

Donna L. Semelmaker, whose voice has returned, is a free-lance writer and copy editor for the Los Altos Town Crier.