Devil's Own Blues Harp

The Magnolia Line bus made an unscheduled and final stop between towns on Highway 32. Something came loose half a mile back and was dragging the blacktop leaving a trail of sparks. Some folks didn’t care; they stood at the roadside smoking as they waited for assistance. Others were less pleased about it and stood at the roadside grumbling amongst themselves. And of course there’s always someone who is irate because they have somewhere to be and they will sue the company for all they’re worth if they fail to get them there on time. Steven Renshaw was perfectly okay about it. In fact, he was going to seize the opportunity which fate had provided.

His journey began a few days earlier when he left his hometown of Zale, Indiana and took the Greyhound as far as he could towards backwoods blues country. Upon arrival in Sayville, Mississippi, he bought a ticket on the Magnolia Line which should have got him the rest of the way but, after a blow-out cost an hour and now the transmission trouble, he decided to get his bag and his guitar and see where his feet would take him.

“Burnett is about ten miles that way” the driver told him, pointing south, “you’ll probably find a road just up ahead, might even catch a ride. There’s a couple of places between here and there. Sign this baggage receipt, please.”

“And I can resume my journey later?” Steven asked.

“Oh yeah, so long as you have your ticket. My apologies for the break downs,” the driver said with a frown, “happy trails.”

“Ten miles,” Stevie said to the driver, “are southern miles the same as northern miles?”

“No,” the driver replied with a wink, “they’re longer…but easier.”

And with that he was on his way, straight ahead and after only 200 yards he found the south bound road he was looking for; signposted, but otherwise inconspicuous.

‘Burnett 11 miles’

It was a ‘journey of enlightenment’ he had told people back home. He’d been playing guitar since the age of 16, over 7 years now. He was very good, but felt he had gone as far as he could with good ears and a passion for blues and R&B. He needed to be among some real players; some authentic, seasoned musicians who knew the stuff they don’t teach in a YouTube video. That’s what he hoped would happen. It might not be that simple; they might close off and be unwilling to share the knowledge. He might not even get a foot in the door. He was a 17 looking 23 year old and that could be a challenge at times. They might tell him to ‘go back home and let your mamma change your diaper’, that would be humiliating. But, he was willing to risk a bit of humiliation for a chance to improve as a player. If they just listened to him play for a few minutes they would give him a chance. That’s all he needed and then it would be onward and upward for ‘Stevie D. Renshaw’.

It was a nice late afternoon for a walk, even a long walk. The road ran straight ahead as far as he could see, bordered by occasional trees and farmland, no people or cars so far but, he reckoned even without a lift he could be there in another 3 hours. It was sunny and thankfully not too warm for mid spring in the south, although, as the road made a gradual climb and he began to feel the weight of his cargo, Stevie wished he’d travelled a little bit lighter. The crest of the rise was more densely populated with trees and just before the top he took 5 in the shade for a can of grape soda.

When the pop was all gone he put the can on the ground and began kicking it along in front of him, amusing himself for 10 minutes as he came down the other side of the hill, until, he noticed that the road surface had decayed and was now patchy asphalt. He walked on still kicking the can and became aware of its sound. It was different. The loud clanking of metal hitting the road and rolling was gone, it was now the quieter, dampened sound of metal hitting the dirt. He was on the same long, straight road (he believed) but it was now a long, straight dirt road.

He stood still for a moment and looked around. Nothing but flat fields in all directions, a few trees here and there, no homes, no people and it no longer seemed like Tuesday, in fact, it didn’t feel like any day in particular. He estimated he was about halfway to Burnett and there didn’t seem much chance of catching a ride. He kicked the can to the side of the road and kept walking.

The road was dry and dusty and soon became wearisome. The sun was sinking lower to his right and he lamented his decision not to rent a car in Sayville, but then, as the road veered right, he saw the most glorious sunset behind a lone poplar tree and quickly took out his phone. Coming closer he saw that the tree stood to the west of a four way intersection and that its shadow cut straight through the crossroads, diagonally. He was losing the best light and quickly snapped a couple of pictures on his phone.

As Stevie looked at the two photos he noticed a glint of light on the first one, just a slight sparkle in the dirt road beyond the tree shadow. He looked ahead but saw nothing with the naked eye and so went closer, but still, couldn’t see anything that would have produced the glint. He continued to advance carefully, comparing the photo with the shadow on the road and finally, he found it, right at his feet. If he’d taken one more step he would have missed it, whatever it was?

All he could make out was about a square inch of shiny metal. He knelt down and brushed away the dirt and then, picking it up, was amazed to see a blues harp; a shiny, 10 hole, major diatonic harmonica.

“Wow” Stevie exclaimed “what a beauty!” He’d seen plenty of them before, even owned a couple, but none of them like this. This one was a very nice, good quality instrument. Although in good condition it looked old fashioned; there was no brand name on the casing, just some nice scroll work engraved and….no key label. ‘That’s strange’ he thought, checking it again carefully. He blew it clean of dust and then ventured a test, bringing it up close to his lips and there he stopped for some reason. He wondered why? Was it the germaphobe in him? Or was it the self conscious thought ‘I can’t even play one of these things back home, never mind in Mississippi’ that was gnawing at him? Or something else?

He didn’t know, but he was supposed to be out here on an adventure and so he became adventurous. He took a deep breath and blew a few notes and, to his great surprise, they sounded good. No, they sounded really good, in fact, there was as much passion in those few low end notes as any sound he could squeeze out of his guitar. He tried a couple of draw notes and was again astonished at how good they sounded…and the air he sucked in through those reeds was chilled, indeed the instrument itself was certainly not warm. It had been in his hands for more than a minute now and when he put it to his face it felt almost like he’d had it in the fridge. Stevie held it down and gazed at it.

“How long have you been in the damp, cold dirt?”

He smiled with great satisfaction and put it in his pocket “Finders keepers.”