“A harmonica is easy to carry. Take it out of your hip pocket, knock it against your palm to shake out the dirt and pocket fuzz and bits of tobacco. Now it’s ready.”
—John Steinbeck, “The Grapes of Wrath”
Since the outset of the pandemic, my wife and I have fallen into the habit of taking long walks early every evening, usually around our Northwest Baltimore neighborhood. It’s good for the body, good for the soul, and certainly a lot better than parking yourself in front of a TV, computer or mobile device for countless hours.
Not long ago, we were walking along the city-county border, only a few blocks from where we live, when all of a sudden my wife elbowed me hard in the ribs and said, “Hey, look!”
I glanced over in the direction she was pointing, but only saw an older gentleman in faded blue denim overalls and a knit kippah walking on the sidewalk along Greenspring Avenue. He looked like any Orthodox fellow in our community, albeit overalls are not usually typical of the dress code.
“So what?” I said. “Just some guy. Big deal.”
But then she pointed at him again. I looked over and saw the man place his hands to his mouth and play a few notes on his shiny harmonica.
Now I was transfixed. I walked up behind the man, whom I’d never seen before in my life, reached into the pocket of my shorts and pulled out my own dusty harmonica. I proceeded to play a quick ditty, but he didn’t hear me because of a tractor trailer passing by.
Undeterred, I tried again and blasted a flurry of blues notes, almost like a mating call. This time, the man spun around quickly and stared at me in absolute amazement.
We smiled at each other — we were instantly achim, brothers of the tin sandwich, the hobo harp, the gob iron.
Shaking hands, we laughed and introduced ourselves. He said he lived around the corner and is semi-retired. Been playing the harp for about 50 years.
The man told me he was in a blues band in college. I told him I wish I’d been in a blues band in college.
He showed me his harmonica — a Lee Oskar, one of the best brands on the market. (For the uninformed, Lee Oskar is a Danish-born Jewish harmonica virtuoso and entrepreneur who played for the funky ‘70s band War.) I showed him my harmonica, a cheap Suzuki Folkmaster I keep in my pocket for everyday practice. He just smiled.
We both marveled at how this was the first time either of us had ever run into another person who played the harp in public (well, other than street performers). It all seemed a bit surreal, maybe even preordained. The harmonica gods were smiling upon us.
My wife merely yawned.
The man told me he was inspired to pick up the harmonica after hearing John Mayall’s classic “Room to Move,” a tune he said he’s still never mastered. I told him I knew the song quite well, turned on to it years ago by an old friend with a great vinyl collection.
Without any hesitation or false modesty, I told him I once interviewed Jerry Portnoy, the Jewish harp player for the great bluesman Muddy Waters, as well as Larry Adler, the granddaddy of the mouth organ, a Baltimore-born son of a Jewish plumber who went on to perform in the world’s finest concert halls. (I also once interviewed Adler’s kid brother Jerry, a well-known professional harmonica player in his own right who gave lessons to Jimmy Stewart for a movie role.)
The man seemed impressed.
Or at least faked it well.
My wife continued to listen, no doubt bored stiff. But a good sport and a paragon of patience.
“I play the harmonica. The only way I can play is if I get my car going really fast and stick it out the window.”
–Comedian Steven Wright
At some point, we eased up on all the harmonica schmoozing and started chatting about the neighborhood. “Why do you live here?” he asked earnestly, glancing at our shorts and T-shirts. “This is a very Orthodox area these days.”
We chuckled and explained that when we moved into the community more than two decades ago, it was primarily a non-Orthodox Jewish area. Times change.
Still, I pointed out that my frum neighbors are all friendly, polite and seem to be non-judgmental of my family’s less-than-traditional ways. Plus, our real estate values have skyrocketed since the area “became” Orthodox.
With the sun starting to sink in the distance, the man said he needed to get back home. I still had so much more to discuss with him — such as the mystery of why so many seminal harmonica players were MOTs (members of the tribe) — but held my tongue. My wife appeared more than ready to bid farewell to my new friend and continue our walk.
We all shook hands and offered a rather generic, fleeting farewell of, “See ya ‘round the ‘hood.”
Later that night, I called an out-of-town buddy and informed him about my random run-in with a fellow harmonica enthusiast. He inquired if we exchanged contact information or pledged to jam together sometime soon. I said, alas, no, we were simply two ships passing in the night.
He asked why not keep in touch with the man, to which I responded, only half-jokingly, “Some moments are best left as they are. Preserved as special, pristine, timeless memories.”
Wherever you are my harmonica-blowing landsman, I wish you safe journeys and happy harping. May your tone remain true, your reeds long-lasting and your notes always piercing the darkness.
And hopefully, someday you’ll realize your dream and conquer “Room to Move.” I know I’m still trying.
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