41 Guitars He Never Played

Tony Polecastro October 31, 2025

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He thought he was just helping his father-in-law sell a collection. Instead, he uncovered a passion and a part of himself he didn’t know was waiting.

By Daniel Fish

I never thought 41 guitars would change my life.

Two years ago, my father-in-law, Dick Wall, inherited them after his brother Kenny passed away. Vintage Fenders, rare B.C.Rich’s, Gibsons with worn-in fretboards—the kind you only see behind glass at guitar shops. Dick didn’t play a note. He was a classic New Englander—no-nonsense, a little curmudgeonly, and the kind of man who always had something to say and a firm opinion to back it up. But he knew I had an interest in learning guitar. So, he handed me two Gibson Les Pauls and said, “These are yours. I think you’ll do something with them.”

It was one of the most generous gifts I’ve ever received.

That summer, I threw myself into the world of guitars. I researched serial numbers, studied tonewoods, learned about pickup configurations, figured out fair pricing, and slowly began selling the collection online for Dick. I had never sold anything of real value before, but I worked all summer—photographing, listing, shipping, negotiating—all of it.

And then, in May of 2024, everything stopped.

Dick died. Suddenly. No warning, no long goodbye.

Our house—his house—fell quiet in a way I had never experienced before. My wife was unmoored. My kids felt the shift even before they could articulate it. For seventeen years, he had been the steady presence under this roof—the guy who would shovel the driveway before anyone else was awake, fix a leaking pipe without complaint, or whip up an oversized roast on a random Tuesday just because he felt like feeding people.

And now, he was gone.

I found myself floating through the days, trying to keep it together for everyone else, feeling a deep ache I didn’t quite know how to name.

One night, I picked up the Les Paul.

I didn’t sit down to play something fancy. I didn’t even really know what I was doing. I just needed to make a sound that wasn’t the silence in the house. Somehow my hands found the opening chords to “Silence” by Jars of Clay—a song of grief, of longing. I kept playing it, again and again, until it started to feel like prayer.

That became my ritual. Each night, once the house had settled and the kids were asleep, I’d pick up the guitar. I taught myself slowly—fumbling, rewinding YouTube videos, figuring out what each finger needed to do. When I learned to play “When the Rain Comes,” a Third Day song, something in me softened. The house still felt different, but a thread had been stitched back into the fabric.

The guitar became the thing I reached for every day. It still is.

And even though Dick never played a note, somehow it feels like he’s still here—just around the corner, probably shaking his head at how slowly I’m learning chords, but proud just the same. It’s strange to say, but in picking up the guitar, I picked up a connection I didn’t know I needed—a way to keep his presence near, to process the loss, and to find peace in the sound of six vibrating strings.

Categories: Guitar Stories

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