The Traveling Gibson

Tony Polecastro December 12, 2025

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How one guitar carried a family’s music across generations

by Tammi Rubert

This story begins in 1962 with the purchase of a beautiful Gibson guitar. Coincidentally, 1962 was also the year I was born—and the year my father formed his band, Norm Nolan and the Northern Lights. Can’t you just hear “Six Days on the Road”?

My dad is the reason I play guitar.

I would sit for hours listening to him practice. When I was old enough, I’d write out the lyrics to his favorite country western songs so he could rehearse. He is, and always has been, my hero. From a very young age, he let me play his Gibson.

The first time I really picked it up was in 1970, when my dad was the lighthouse keeper at Fort Worden in Port Townsend, Washington. That’s where my guitar journey truly began.

I was a Coast Guard brat, which meant we moved every two years. It’s a lonely way to grow up—you’re always the new kid, just starting to make friends when it’s time to pack up again. But wherever we went, music came with us.

My dad’s last duty station was Kodiak, Alaska. One night at a gig, someone tipped over his amplifier and crushed the side of his Gibson. I was devastated. The man who caused the accident bought my dad a new Fender—and my dad duct-taped the Gibson and handed it to me.

I didn’t care about the duct tape.
The Gibson was mine.

I played that guitar for decades just like that.

When my dad retired, he and my mom decided to move back to Port Townsend—they’d loved it so much in the ’70s. Once again, I was the new kid. But I had my guitar. And this time, someone was able to repair it properly. I was so happy to see it whole again.

Music has always marked the big moments in our family—births, reunions, losses. When my daughter was born, a close family friend walked into the hospital with a ukulele and sang “Thank God for Little Girls.”

One of my favorite childhood memories is Christmas at my grandma’s house in East Wenatchee, Washington. No matter where we were stationed, we’d end up there. I’d lie on the couch under my great-grandmother’s handmade quilt, listening to the elders talk, play guitars, and sing. It was the best way a kid could fall asleep.

In many ways, this story isn’t just about me. It’s about my family—and how music brought so much good into my life.

The Gibson has always been my true friend. I can’t fully explain it, but when I pick it up, I feel warmth. Home. Love. Contentment. I can’t imagine my world without it.

My dad is 89 now and doesn’t play much anymore, but whenever I can, I ask him to show me “Johnny B. Goode” one more time. I can tell it takes him back to the good old days. It takes me there too.

I’m 63 now. Which means the Gibson is also 63.

We’re both a little arthritic. A little banged up. Considered classics.
But we still play well together.

The beat goes on. My son is learning to play guitar now. And someday, the traveling Gibson will be his.

Just not yet.

Categories: Guitar Stories

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