
A group of young men in flannel shirts and tightly clenched jackets gather close to the fire burning outside. They shrug their shoulders and clench their fists trying to contend with the cold January air. I usually prefer the fire pit crowd, but today it feels good to step inside and out of the cold. There are a few brews on tap and live music churning out of the four piece band in the corner. Guitar and lead vocals, bass, electric guitar, drums. The band plays a funky classic rock mix - heavy on the wah wah pedal. I like that I live in a world where such a thing as a “wah wah pedal” exists. Three of the four band members wear a hat - drums and bass wear knit beanies while the front man wears a heather gray peaky blinders kind of number. He gets away with it.
Rough hand hewn logs make up the interior of this barn like structure. It’s not an old building per se, but the elements are all authentic historic pieces that were cobbled back together to make a cozy experience. It’s borrowed authenticity, but it’s charming. I appreciate the sour frothy brew in my hand and the leather top stool on which I am perched. I live here now; among the strangers and the sound.
The collective sway on their bar stools and nod their heads as the reverberations echo in the timber brew hall chamber. All of us together and yet alone in the solitary comfort of our own minds. Part of us here and part of us letting the rhythm guitar invite us to a trance-like state; retreating more and more into the corners of our psyche.
Our crew walked in the door at the midpoint of the set. A comfortable pace already established and held together by the rhythm section. In walking through the door we enter a context. Retired tools from yesteryear hang suspended on display throughout the establishment. My eyes wander as I imagine the objects in their former life and use. Oyster tongs, a wooden rake, several hand saws, a jack, horse bridle and sleigh bells. A testament to the days in which humanity lived a harder condition in some very specific ways and perhaps a better life in others. I sigh a heavy breath that no one will hear because of the volume that insulates us all in the moment.
A man in a sturdy flannel shirt is introduced by the lead singer in the snappy newsboy cap. He’s an old friend to the man behind the mic and the lead singer steps aside as he speaks of the accolades of the one invited to join them - jazz festivals, blues festivals, a few runs at the big time. I expect him to sing, but instead see a flash of metal as he pulls a harmonica out from his pocket. He takes a deep determined breath as the band kicks into the next song.
There is a moment.
Almost as if he is deciding.
As if he is in conversation with himself.
There is an almost imperceptible nod to the conviction needed for the journey now embarking.
A heaving breath.
His hands shake.
In a way that speaks of a physical condition and not of nerves.
My guess is Parkinson’s.
And all at once I am locked in. Totally invested. Devastatingly so.
Neck deep and swimming in this heroic moment playing out in this humble setting. I really want this for him now; this moment in the sun. Musical glory at the front of the band.
Go Buddy, Go.
Give it all you’ve got.
And he does.
He delivers like it was a promise.
Foretold by the ancients.
The harmonica aches and wails and expands and retreats with every inhale and matching exhale. He’s going for it. He is battling. And in the fight we are invited to lean in a few degrees more. It’s so much more than a cover song in a reclaimed barn. It's for all the days he played in the past and for all the days he still wants ahead of him.
It’s for all of us-
who love something and know we might lose it.
It is hard to say-
why some blessings are given and some things are taken away. Mystery surrounds us in this life. Why songs are summoned and melodies are conjured and sung. Why things are essential and useful and then one day are hung on the wall and never used again. A prop and a remembrance to what used to be so necessary and real. Why change happens over time or like a thunderclap all at once.
The song ends.
I snap back from my sideways reverie.
The applause is punched up a few notches for our harmonica hero in flannel. He smiles good naturedly and waves us off. He sits back down at his table a few feet from the front and braces himself as he steadies his hands on the tabletop. The lead singer tells the precious crowd assembled that they might bring him back up for one more song - he says he needs a few minutes.
The set carries on and the moment suspends a bit further. I marvel at the layers of decoration even on top of the retired and rusted tools. Sparkling metallic pink and red Valentine hearts hang on top of Christmas decorations. One holiday stacked on top of another. Little plastic snowflakes taped to the windows. The resulting aesthetic should be tacky, but it is wholesome and endearing. As if the employees know that humanity needs more than just twinkling lights, garland, bows, and hearts. It needs all of it all at once.
A few more songs flow from the speakers and our harmonica hero waves and nods at his friends in the band as they continue to play. He shrugs on his coat and makes his way to the door.
He’s done with the set.
I watch him as he goes.
He’s out the door silently. I wish him well in my mind. Thanks, man. Thanks for sharing what you have to offer. It is more than enough. I lose sight of him as he dips to the right around the corner, but then I catch him again in the front windows.
He strides confidently into the early dusk.
As he walks he pulls the harmonica out of his pocket. He cradles the instrument in his palms and brings it to his lips. I can’t hear him, but the motion is perfect and obvious. He plays with gusto and walks away.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Step.
Step.
I look up at the tool and tack - the many implements that lie in state on the walls - memorialized in history and dismissed to decoration.
But not the harmonica, my dear friends.
Not today.
And hopefully, not for a long time.
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