When Mom was recovering from some lung / back surgery that further impaired her iron-lung-weakened pulmonary system, she bought a harmonica. She thought it would help her exercise her lungs, especially since it came with a neck rack that let her use it hands-free. Because you know, her arms do not have great range since the polio. (See: T-Rex, Mom’s resemblance to.)
At any rate, Mom and the harmonica did not take to each other, and now that I have gained a little musical confidence with the guitar I appropriated Mom’s harmonica (which she still had after twenty years, and she knew where it was, and the neck rack, and the booklet AND the instructional tape, because she rocks).
Soon I was lying on my back in bed and sucking and blowing away ,and making a variety of noise the pamphlet swore was “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.”
At one point I felt I was getting the hang of it, when the harmonica stopped making noise. Then it started just making intermittent burbly noises. I stopped and peered at it when A DROP OF WATER FELL OUT OF IT AND INTO MY EYE.
“Hey, how did that water get — ewwwww.”
So, off to the Internet to find out how to keep the spit out of my harmonica.
3 responses to “Birth of the Blues”
And that was with you lying on your BACK!? Drool much?
It’s a harmonica, man. You’re gonna get spit in it.
Aha, you who know little of the ways of the harmonica! I consulted the Internet Oracles and they say I blow too hard.