Out of LEFF Field: The Gibson Les Paul Standard that said it all

When my husband, Noah, graduated from law school, I wanted to go above and beyond the typical “Congrats grad!” Hallmark card and a crisp $50 dollar bill. Even a party didn’t feel right for the occasion. This milestone represented four years of incredibly hard work—most of which went unnoticed, humming in the background as he slowly crawled toward the finish line. It deserved something meaningful.

For all four years, I mulled over what I could give him on his graduation day. A briefcase? A watch? High-end shoes? A trip? Going round and round with no firm answers, I caved and asked Noah what he wanted. He presented me with a small but mighty list of guitars.

This gift was out of my range of experience, so I turned to a trusted friend, a huge guitar guy, to ask his advice. He happened to own one of the top electric guitars Noah wanted: a 1950’s style Gibson Les Paul Standard in cherry sunburst, complete with gold knobs and a chrome tailpiece. It was perfect in every way: It was hardly used, perfectly maintained, a classic color, and smooth as butter. And he wanted me to give it to Noah.

It was nearly impossible to keep this secret for a month. I even took Noah guitar shopping “just to make sure” the guitars on his list were really what he wanted. In one shop, I placed the floor model of the guitar I had planned for him in his hands. Guitars are deeply personal, by the way, almost an extension of one’s body. This instrument curved neatly onto his leg and into his hand as he timidly strummed a few notes, which were rich and warm. He fell in love with it. Thank goodness.

The night before Noah’s graduation, my friend and I snuck the guitar into my house in a contractor bag (an undignified entrance for such a gift). Noah was blissfully unaware, resting in the living room as we lugged it right past him. After making it through the pomp and circumstance of the next day—velvet doctoral robes, important speeches, a champagne toast, and way too much food—we collapsed on the couch for approximately five minutes before I brought the case down and shared the guitar’s story with him.

Usually a man ready with a quick joke or suave line, my husband was truly speechless. The guitar was not the physical diploma on a wall. It was not admittance to the Bar Association. It was not a job offer. This was a physical, tangible representation of all the underlying work he accomplished over four years—something to mark the occasion that he could hold and appreciate for years to come. It turns out that sometimes a little playful secrecy can go a long way toward showing someone you care.

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