Was just cogitating over some of my old harmonicas. Was gonna stick one in my haversack to play when out in the woods. Taught myself to play one over 50 years ago ( insert boomer joke here! 🤣)Found one I had still in the box that I had purchased back in the late 70’s. A Hohner # 365 in G. Still had a price tag on box of $8.50. 🤣🤣🤣. Looked up current price, $99 bucks!!
I suppose there isn’t much demand for them anymore.
Got two or three chronomatics that all need some form of repair. One was given to me by my old Company Gunny. He got it when they were shipping out to Lebanon in ‘56!!!! . Man. Gotta float a loan to get a new one of them l! 😁
Last edited by kaywoodie; 07/17/21.
Founder Ancient Order of the 1895 Winchester
"Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored."
Somebody posted me playing "Old Black ( can I say that?) Joe" one evening while we were at a Armijo Spgs doings. Can’t remember who!
I used to experience the wrath of the Gunny when he’d mention Lebanon. When I’d say " hey gunny! I was born in 56!" There would always be one of those poop details awaiting me somewhere! 🤣
Founder Ancient Order of the 1895 Winchester
"Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored."
I suppose no one reads poetry anymore either. I’m a hopeless romantic boomer.
Ballads of a Cheechako
by Robert W. Service The Song of the Mouth-Organ
(With apologies to the singer of the "Song of the Banjo".)
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone; I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost; I haven't got a "vox humana" tone, And a dime or two will satisfy my cost. I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights; I am more or less uncertain on the key; But I tell you, boys, there's lots and lots of nights When you've taken mighty comfort out of me.
I weigh an ounce or two, and I'm so small You can pack me in the pocket of your vest; And when at night so wearily you crawl Into your bunk and stretch your limbs to rest, You take me out and play me soft and low, The simple songs that trouble your heartstrings; The tunes you used to fancy long ago, Before you made a rotten mess of things.
Then a dreamy look will come into your eyes, And you break off in the middle of a note; And then, with just the dreariest of sighs, You drop me in the pocket of your coat. But somehow I have bucked you up a bit; And, as you turn around and face the wall, You don't feel quite so spineless and unfit-- You're not so bad a fellow after all.
Do you recollect the bitter Arctic night; Your camp beside the canyon on the trail; Your tent a tiny square of orange light; The moon above consumptive-like and pale; Your supper cooked, your little stove aglow; You tired, but snug and happy as a child? Then 'twas "Turkey in the Straw" till your lips were nearly raw, And you hurled your bold defiance at the Wild.
Do you recollect the flashing, lashing pain; The gulf of humid blackness overhead; The lightning making rapiers of the rain; The cattle-horns like candles of the dead You sitting on your bronco there alone, In your slicker, saddle-sore and sick with cold? Do you think the silent herd did not hear "The Mocking Bird", Or relish "Silver Threads among the Gold"?
Do you recollect the wild Magellan coast; The head-winds and the icy, roaring seas; The nights you thought that everything was lost; The days you toiled in water to your knees; The frozen ratlines shrieking in the gale; The hissing steeps and gulfs of livid foam: When you cheered your messmates nine with "Ben Bolt" and "Clementine", And "Dixie Land" and "Seeing Nellie Home"?
Let the jammy banjo voice the Younger Son, Who waits for his remittance to arrive; I represent the grimy, gritty one, Who sweats his bones to keep himself alive; Who's up against the real thing from his birth; Whose heritage is hard and bitter toil; I voice the weary, smeary ones of earth, The helots of the sea and of the soil.
I'm the Steinway of strange mischief and mischance; I'm the Stradivarius of blank defeat; In the down-world, when the devil leads the dance, I am simply and symbolically meet; I'm the irrepressive spirit of mankind; I'm the small boy playing knuckle down with Death; At the end of all things known, where God's rubbish-heap is thrown, I shrill impudent triumph at a breath.
I'm a humble little bit of tin and horn; I'm a byword, I'm a plaything, I'm a jest; The virtuoso looks on me with scorn; But there's times when I am better than the best. Ask the stoker and the sailor of the sea; Ask the mucker and the hewer of the pine; Ask the herder of the plain, ask the gleaner of the grain-- There's a lowly, loving kingdom--and it's mine.
Founder Ancient Order of the 1895 Winchester
"Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored."
What would likely help, you probably already did. Expose him to some good harmonica music. My Dad used to get his out once in a while and I loved hearing him play. With encouragement and patience, Dad could have taught me. Like so many things, there were many other priorities and distractions. That reminds me that I should do the same for church. We used to have a pianist and uke.
kaywoodie, I'll call your ballad and raise ya a bag of gold...
The Spell of the Yukon BY ROBERT W. SERVICE I wanted the gold, and I sought it; I scrabbled and mucked like a slave. Was it famine or scurvy—I fought it; I hurled my youth into a grave. I wanted the gold, and I got it— Came out with a fortune last fall,— Yet somehow life’s not what I thought it, And somehow the gold isn’t all.
No! There’s the land. (Have you seen it?) It’s the cussedest land that I know, From the big, dizzy mountains that screen it To the deep, deathlike valleys below. Some say God was tired when He made it; Some say it’s a fine land to shun; Maybe; but there’s some as would trade it For no land on earth—and I’m one.
You come to get rich (damned good reason); You feel like an exile at first; You hate it like hell for a season, And then you are worse than the worst. It grips you like some kinds of sinning; It twists you from foe to a friend; It seems it’s been since the beginning; It seems it will be to the end.
I’ve stood in some mighty-mouthed hollow That’s plumb-full of hush to the brim; I’ve watched the big, husky sun wallow In crimson and gold, and grow dim, Till the moon set the pearly peaks gleaming, And the stars tumbled out, neck and crop; And I’ve thought that I surely was dreaming, With the peace o’ the world piled on top.
The summer—no sweeter was ever; The sunshiny woods all athrill; The grayling aleap in the river, The bighorn asleep on the hill. The strong life that never knows harness; The wilds where the caribou call; The freshness, the freedom, the farness— O God! how I’m stuck on it all.
The winter! the brightness that blinds you, The white land locked tight as a drum, The cold fear that follows and finds you, The silence that bludgeons you dumb. The snows that are older than history, The woods where the weird shadows slant; The stillness, the moonlight, the mystery, I’ve bade ’em good-by—but I can’t.
There’s a land where the mountains are nameless, And the rivers all run God knows where; There are lives that are erring and aimless, And deaths that just hang by a hair; There are hardships that nobody reckons; There are valleys unpeopled and still; There’s a land—oh, it beckons and beckons, And I want to go back—and I will.
They’re making my money diminish; I’m sick of the taste of champagne. Thank God! when I’m skinned to a finish I’ll pike to the Yukon again. I’ll fight—and you bet it’s no sham-fight; It’s hell!—but I’ve been there before; And it’s better than this by a damsite— So me for the Yukon once more.
There’s gold, and it’s haunting and haunting; It’s luring me on as of old; Yet it isn’t the gold that I’m wanting So much as just finding the gold. It’s the great, big, broad land ’way up yonder, It’s the forests where silence has lease; It’s the beauty that thrills me with wonder, It’s the stillness that fills me with peace.
Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other the person to die ......
"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me."
Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other the person to die ......
"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me."
I play a bit of harmonica as well... been collecting since about 77 and have several that my grandfather and grandmother use to play...
Holding onto anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other the person to die ......
"When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, "I used everything you gave me."
I have never played one but have always been intrigued by friends of mine who would show up to the bar ( The old Lariat Saloon, or the old Foghorn,(Grumpy's) or the Little Bear and start jamming with any band on stage at the time. Pretty impressive!
"Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored."
I have never played one but have always been intrigued by friends of mine who would show up to the bar ( The old Lariat Saloon, or the old Foghorn,(Grumpy's) or the Little Bear and start jamming with any band on stage at the time. Pretty impressive!
I know them places Troublesome! 😉
Founder Ancient Order of the 1895 Winchester
"Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored."
