… You see, it’s about May Bell.
You can tell that’s ‘er name because it’s stenciled on ‘er, ‘n so is her sound hole trimmin’ stenciled, too — ‘n I won’t lie to ye, we met under dubious circumstances in a thrift store no respectable instrument would be caught dead in.
A course she was all freaked out, poor thing, strung with steels like that an’ lookin’ like she’d already been repaired for the same kinda ign’rant treatment in her past, but I could hear enough that I shelled out most of my tiny stash of available cash on the spot an’ she went home with me.
When I got ‘er there and relaxed an’ comfortable in a set of the nylons she was born to wear, why, she sang out just as pretty as some solid backs I’ve heard. Prettier’n some. Jest the littlest buzz in the base — ‘specially as I am old-old school and tune it down to the D — but not even enough to even be a problem.
‘Course, that was before the pore thang spent the winter with me in a kneeling one-man fabric shelter, though. Now she buzzes real bad. Too bad to play, pretty much.
I got her a nice li’l van to live in now, so she’s protected more from the elements — an’ I promised her I’d bring ‘er in to see the doctor too, soon’s I kin save enough to do so, and am a-writing’ to you, sir, t’git a rough idear of how much that might be.
Much obliged, Ana
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