Backstory: when Dad was around 12, his mother decided he should learn to play the guitar. Dad didn't want to learn, but Grandma bought him a guitar and booked him lessons. After a couple months where it was painfully obvious Dad wasn't practicing, his teacher quit.
Dad's guitar stayed at Grandma's house until she died when I was three. Then his sister sent it to him. For some reason Dad kept moving that guitar around with us.
I actually don't remember why Dad gave it to me a couple years ago. Maybe I mentioned how much I hated piano lessons as a kid and wished I'd learned the guitar. Maybe someone told him how many hours I put into guitar hero. But I became the second owner of a '62 Fender Musicmaster. It looks like it hasn't been out of its case for 50 years, because it hasn't.
So I took it to the shop tonight. The first guy to look at it was shocked. He called the others over. "I've never seen one this clean!" "I thought it was a reissue, but you can tell it's original because the paint on the tuning pegs is yellowing just a little." They forgot about me and admired it for probably ten minutes. I'm glad it's in good hands for the weekend.