Harmonicannot

I have a couple of the greatest parents ever. Growing up they were supportive and encouraging and trusting and forgiving, all around A+ parents. I had a wonderful childhood and I was never in want of anything. Except…

I never learned to play an instrument. I was never forced to take piano lessons or pick up a violin or pluck a stand-up bass (even though I wouldn’t have needed to stand on a chair like that one kid in orchestra had to).

While up at the cabin this summer, languishing in the last minutes of the afternoon sun on the deck, Eric pulled out his harmonica. He played along with some tablature for some new songs. And then, perhaps sensing my envy, he handed over the harmonica and showed me how to place my fingers. I looked down at the small instrument in my hands. It fit perfectly.

“What if…what if I’m a virtuoso on the harmonica?” I thought to myself. “What if I put it up to my mouth and without so much as trying I belted out a kick ass version of When the Saints Come Marching In? What if I was born to do this one thing? What if I’ve wasted the last 33 years not playing the harmonica? What if? What if? What if?”

I slowly brought the harmonica to my mouth and blew confidently against the tiny holes.

Nope.



You’re safe, for now, John Popper.
gretch