Thirty-seven years ago, I was involved in an arts project working with kids from rural Vermont and New York City. the city kids were from Harlem, Bedford-Stuyvesant, and other primarily African-American districts. I bought ten inexpensive classical Gianninis which I kept in the room where the kids learned basic chords and sang folksongs with me. They all played easily, sounded decent, and survived the summer camp environment remarkably well.
    One day, as I was over in the dining hall for a mid-afternnon cup of coffee, the (African-American) director of the project, came rushing up to me: "I just went by your music room! I heard guitars being played! You can't leave the kids in there without supervision, they'll destroy everything!" I replied with the equivalent of a polite "horseshit," and went to the room. All ten guitars were being played by kids, black and white, from about 12 to 15 years old, with the smallest of the bunch (black) standing up on a table leading the rest of them in "He's got the whole world in his hands" (it required only two chords to strum that one, so it was one of the first songs we shared). They were happily strumming along, singing their gorgeous heads off, and the guitars were not so much as scratched.
    For me, that says they were dandy instruments (and dandy kids).
    Sandy