When I took up the flute,
I became a flutist,
So I took up the lute,
But I was not a lutist.
Instead, I was a lautenist!
Why wasn't I a flautenist?
I think
I'll just
Play harmonica.
The poem celebrating one of the vagaries of the English language is original, and although I do not play the lute, I can at least manage Christmas carols on the flute. As for the harmonica, it or an earlier version nearly always travelled with me when I was planning to spend any length of time in the backcountry, off trail and far, far away from anyone I might offend. My repertoire is eclectic, including such all-time favorites as "The Purple People Eater," "Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms," "St. James Infirmary Blues" and "Big Rock Candy Mountain." I play for two purposes, the first being my own enjoyment and the second being to shift the elk over to the next valley so they don't trip over my tent lines in the night. In either case, the old saw holds true: "if you can't play good, play loud."
The harmonica is an instrument which begs to be used out-of-doors. It wants space and the aroma of a campfire and the chuckle of a stream as an accompaniment. It wants to tell you stories of cowboys and station hands and down-and-outers. It wants its music to be served up with coffee in a tincup and flapjacks fried on a cast-iron skillet. It wants to make memories in one place, and then bundle them up in a bedroll to move to the next camp down the line. It does not ask for an audience or applause. It wants only to be a faithful offsider to you as you wait for the billy to boil. A harmonica is a friend who does not disparage your lack of talent or skill but instead joins you at the close of day in acknowledgement of labour or miles, offering a companiable congratulation for having endured. "Good on ya, mate," it says, no matter how you play it. "Let's have another song."
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