Wayne finally came to my town (or at least it was pretty close to Palm Bay) on March 17, 2001 at the First Baptist church of Melbourne. My wife Cindy and I arrived early and headed for the worship center. As we walked down the hallway, one of the doors opened up, and this familiar looking face looked out.

“James!” I cried out. “James Dillingham.”

To say James was shocked would be putting it mildly. My guess is that he never guessed that anyone would recognize him. So it was “safe” to show his face prior to the concert. Well, the eagle eye of GuitarRon didn’t miss it.

I went to shake his hand, but he declined saying that he didn’t want to give me his cold. We talked for a short moment and soon he remembered who I was.

“Wayne’s going to love hearing that you’re here tonight,” he told me. “I’ll make sure he knows.”

It’s then that I mentioned my request. “Do you think Wayne would mind signing my guitar?”

“Naw. Just meet him after the concert.”

 The concert came and went, with Wayne and James delivering with a sonic perfection. Why, James even broke out his MIDI guitar and had people around me puzzling over the source of the tones. I even later got into an argument with a friend over where the “bass” was coming from. “There’s no way a guitar can play that low,” my friend would insist. “That was James,” I’d explain. “You see, he’s got a MIDI pickup….”  

The concert ended and Wayne soon appeared at the front of the stage, graciously talking with everyone in line. I set my guitar on the front pew and took a place in line.

When it came my turn, he looks me in the eye and says, “Hey, Ron.” (Now isn’t that just the coolest thing? The guy remembered my name!)

 After some short pleasantries, I pop the big question: “Say, Wayne, is there any chance you’d sign my guitar for me?” I turned around, and a friend is holding my Ovation. I took the guitar and handed it toward Wayne.

 “You want me to sign this?” he asked, with a hint of incredulousness in his voice.

“Sure,” I started to explain. “Right here, by the tuners.”

So Wayne grabs the guitar and just starts chording away, playing it.

“Hey, this is nice,” he says, pausing. “You know… I used to have a guitar just like this.”

“Really? What happened to it.”

“It got stolen.”

Wayne contemplating what to write

The crowd around us kind of gives a collective, “Oh.” And at this exact moment, my wife informs him, “Ron did buy this at a pawn shop.”

The crowd goes nuts, and Wayne fixes me with this stare, a twinkle in his eye. “Hmm,” he says. “This does look familiar.” Then he starts looking in the sound hole, and just generally hamming it up.

After a while, he uncaps the sharpie marker and begins to position the guitar to get it at a good angle. Soon I’m shaking his hand again, and putting my guitar away.

 I turned my guitar around, and written on the back is: 

Wayne Watson
Hebrews 13:6   

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