“Grits and Maple Syrup”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-07)




Note to Readers: Jay Wright is the author of ‘G. A. S. – Living With Guitar Acquisition Syndrome.’ His book speaks about the need to constantly hoard plectrum instruments to the point of madness. Though Wright is a resident of South Carolina, his perspective is universal. ‘G. A. S.’ is alive in Geauga County, and everywhere!

It was late on a Wednesday night. Liz, my wife, had succumbed to the need for restful bliss. But I was awake, and at the household computer. The darkness offered a gentle cloak for my restless task. I searched for a dose of ecstasy. One random strike of fortune that would illuminate the night with a glow of quiet rapture…
Of course, my hunting ground was eBay!

In the morning, I would be busy preparing for a visit with Jay Wright. But slumber refused my supplication. I could focus on nothing but the chase. It was the perfect moment for conquest.

Entries popped up in a rapid succession. Yet nothing offered the emotional reward I sought. Then, something unique appeared, at last.

A Mosrite ‘Serenade’ acoustic guitar!

I blinked more than once. Such a curious axe had never been on eBay before. It looked authentic, but surreal.

Mosrite instruments were the product of an unconventional fellow named Semie Moseley. He was handsome, personable, and gifted. But flawed as a business director. Moseley first achieved notability by crafting a doubleneck guitar for Country & Western performer Joe Maphis. Later, his company struck a deal with The Ventures that helped promote the brand to legendary status. But deals went wrong. There were counterfeit models, factory fires, and trademark issues.

I’d seen many stylish Mosrite guitars. But never a flat-top acoustic. Still, my need had been satisfied. I was ready to collapse!

On Thursday, Wright and his friend John Geraghty arrived in the area without difficulty. My wife provided directions to our restaurant of choice. There, we joined Dennis & Liz Chandler, the ‘First Couple’ of Northeastern Ohio Rock ‘n’ Roll.

It was a family dinner of sorts – if your blood brothers were Orville Gibson and Leo Fender.

After introducing ourselves, I offered a brief bit of praise for Geauga County, maple syrup, and the Northcoast. Then, the topic of discussion went to pluckable treasures. Wright professed his affinity for G & L guitars. Chandler countered with an endorsement of Gibson, his erstwhile employer. I offered own my predisposition to Fender products, and off-the-wall, budget models. Our conversation echoed throughout the eatery!

I mentioned the uncommon Mosrite. But no one was familiar with its existence.
Eventually, Chandler’s professorial knowledge glowed with integrity. Like students, we peppered him with questions and observations about the craft. Finally, Jay Wright pondered a comparison that I’d mentioned, before.
“How do you think the modern Gibsons stack up against those made at the original factory in Michigan?” he asked.

The veteran artist and instructor considered his answer carefully.
“I would say that guitars from the custom shop are very close,” Chandler reflected. “It is a matter of how long these instruments will last. That question hasn’t been answered, yet.”

We traded raised eyebrows.

“When I worked for the company, they had a Quonset hut full of aged woods,” he explained. “The natural method of drying could take many years. Today, manufacturing often employs the use of artificially processed wood. As a result, we don’t really know how long a guitar will endure. Ten years? Twenty-five? Fifty? There is no answer.”

Everyone nodded. Now, we had grasped the concept!

After the meal, we were invited to join Chandler at home, for a session of authentic guitar abandon. The trip took only a few minutes. Once inside, the best part of out visit began.

I was moved to consider Emerson, Lake and Palmer.

“Welcome back my friends to the show that never ends…”

Wright and Geraghty literally spent hours mumbling unintelligible phrases connoting sheer delight. We were treated to a holiday parade of gold, silver, maple, and mahogany. Guitars of every sort dazzled us with their complex beauty.

Finally, Chandler produced the twang-box I’d anticipated since the evening began. It was his 1908 Gibson L-1.

“RoJo,” his wife said with a smile. The axe looked incredibly similar to one used by blues progenitor Robert Johnson.

Each of us touched the relic with careful glee. It was dark, resonant, and musky. An undeniable ‘vibe’ flowed from its pores.

I felt as if all of us were standing at the proverbial crossroads.

Our night ended with a whisper. We were drained, but happy. I passed out newspaper copies before we disbanded. The cool night cleared my thoughts with a brace of reality. I promised to meet Wright and his friend in the morning, for a tour of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame.

After our lively session in Chandler’s studio, thoughts of the ‘Hall’ felt tame by comparison. Yet the visit was a perfect way to conclude this adventure.

I arrived first, on Friday morning. Key Plaza was bathed in playful reflections of lakeshore sunlight. Humming melodies, I wandered through the forest of oversized guitars that led to the glass pyramid.

Suddenly, a drifter interrupted my tuneful introspection, with a plea for spare change. He was suspiciously well dressed, and held an empty paper cup from Starbucks. It seemed a poor choice for one who was trying to evoke poverty. Still, his candor made me smile.

I couldn't help but flash on the refrain of 'Ain't Too Proud to Beg.'

Mr. Starbucks waved his cup for emphasis. He wore layers of athletic garb, and stylish sunglasses. "Ya'll help a man out, today?"

I brushed him off, politely. But half-an-hour later, my new friends still hadn't arrived. Once again, Mr. Starbucks circled across the plaza. His cup remained empty.

"Ya'll got some spare change?" he implored. "I'll take anything ya got. Help a man out."

This time, I shifted gears.

"Hey, I need some coin myself," I responded. Drama fit the moment. “I don’t punch a time-clock, either.”

He froze. Sunlight smeared electric streaks of color across his shades.

"No, really?" he exclaimed.

"I’m a freelance writer,” I continued.

Mr. Starbucks looked truly puzzled. "How long you been doin’ that?"

"Twenty-five years," I answered. "When I get published, it’s cool. When I don’t, it ain’t."

He smiled. "Well then, I'll pray for you, man. I will pray for… you!"

We parted company with him still promising to petition God on my behalf.

Wright and Geraghty found the venue as I was taking pictures. Our tour of the ‘Hall’ seemed to pass in an instant. I added an autograph to their traveling copy of the
‘G. A. S.’ book, and then it was over. Quietly, I wished for a cold brew, and more time to chat.

Before leaving, Wright showed off his C. P. Thornton axe, made in Turner, Maine. It was exquisite in every sense. An instrument born of joyous craftsmanship, rather than factory production. I was in awe long after the case went closed.

Saturday morning brought a breakfast of fried ham, and grits. While dabbing with my fork, I wondered… did my Southern friend like grits? I hadn’t thought to ask.

It was a topic for future consideration - along with any new Mosrite guitars!