I Don't Play the Harmonica

           Whenever the holidays approach, I’m filled with dread. Not the dread that spills from your heart when your boss tells you to clean out your desk. Or the dread that’s a heavy weight that chomps away at your soul when your doctor insists you give up fast food or else you’ll die. No. I’m talking about something far worse—holiday dread. Yearly celebrations which include an orchestra of gleaming instruments—compliments of an overbearing but musically inclined family—fueled by a mixture of booze, bravado, and battling instruments. Just thinking of it makes my head pound.

           So, I’m not surprised when I received the next invitation. Resisting the urge to rip the envelope in half, my heart cries in familiar protest and agony; the words “no, no, no” burst from my chest and slam against the walls before sliding to the floor where they form a toxic puddle. Shaking, my hands act on their own to rip open the lavender envelope. A matching lavender sheet slides out. I wince as the sheet mocks me with clipart of pastel-color Easter eggs, dole-eye bunnies, and purple text in at least a size 18 font. The invite shouts that this Easter, we celebrate at Uncle Ed’s, who, along with my father, complete the duo of family harmonica players. But, wait. What is this? Below a chorus of dancing bunnies are three words. Bring. Your. Harmonica.

           I don’t play the harmonica.

           Pacing back and forth in the hallway between my den to the kitchen, I dial my mother’s cell phone; she answers on the first ring.

           “Jo! I’m so glad you called. I was just thinking about you,” Mom’s voice fades in and out as the sound of running water fills the air. Of course. She’s making coffee. Every hour, on the hour, 8 a.m. until 11, Mom makes coffee. Four cups at a time prepared the old-fashion way—with a percolator she inherited from her great-aunt. Four cups always because no matter that she only drinks only one cup, she likes to say, “What if company drops by?” They never do.

           Her voice rises several octaves, and I brace for impact. “Did you get Uncle Ed’s invite for Easter? It’ll be so lovely to see everyone so soon after Christmas.” As if sensing something that only a mother can sense, she asks, “You are going. Right?”

           I run one hand through my short dark hair—a nervous habit that’s followed me from fourth grade. “That’s what I’m calling you about, Mom. I’m not going.”

           “But, honey …” Her words are an electric shock, a stun gun of short words that reach their mark. “You have to go! What will the family think? And besides, you need to bring your harmonica.”

           Has she lost it? I plop down on a wooden chair at the kitchen table and wonder if I could remove the burn mark stain from a too-hot skillet. “Mom. I’ve never, ever played the harmonica.”

           “Yes, you have! Don’t you remember?”

           My eyes travel from the burn mark to the walls I painted yellow just last week. I decide the color is all wrong.

           Mom mistakes my silence for confusion. “We gave you that beautiful harmonic for Christmas when you were ten. Remember? It was a Hohner 64 Chromonica, the same one Stevie Wonder used. You watched him play on some television show, and that’s all it took. Made first place on your Christmas list.”

           Yes, I remember, but I don’t tell her that.  

           “Well, really, Jo. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten!” Mom’s voice shakes. “It’s been your father’s dream that you play the harmonica like he and Uncle Ed. It’s a tradition he’d love to pass on to you before he gets too old.”

           I do an eye roll.

           Her voice softens. “But to be honest, I’d much rather have you play the piano, like me. Just think of the duets we could play at our family gatherings. Everyone would be so impressed! I wish you had kept on with some of the music lessons I gave you when you were young. To think you’ve thrown away your musical talent pains me more than I can say.”  

           Musical talent? How laughable. Every time Mom taught me something, she’d complain about my lack of rhythm or accuse me of being tone deaf. 

           I almost laugh. “Look, Mom, I’m almost 30 years old. If I want to play the harmonica, or the violin, or even the Bongo drum, then I will. But, I don’t. I have no skill. No desire. No need. I’m an artist. Not a musician. And, there is no way I’m going to Uncle Ed’s. Now, I’m hanging up because I’ve got better things to do than argue, like repaint my kitchen.”

           Right when I’m poised to hang up, she screeches. “Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart Jones!” She pauses before reaching our surname of Jones, a trait I find rather amusing. Only my mother—a high school music teacher and Mozart enthusiast—would name me after Mozart. And not just one of his names, but the whole group of them.

           For several seconds, I forget to breathe because my mother has only called me by Mozart’s full name three times during my lifetime. Once in kindergarten when I buried my plastic flute in her vegetable garden; the second time at age 10 when ditched my harmonica for a soccer ball; and, as a high schooler who refused to learn anything musical. I mean, to be a student in your mother’s class meant high expectations and whispers of nepotism, neither which any high school kid needs or wants. Am I right?

           “Music is in your blood,” she says. “I know you don’t believe it, but it’s true. All your relatives play instruments or compose music. The problem is, Johannes, is that you don’t possess enough confidence.”

           “Oh. My. Gosh. Mother.” My words drop from my mouth like heavy stones. “I go by Jo Jones. You know that. Nothing more. Nothing less. Besides, Johannes is a boy’s name, and in case you don’t remember, I’m a girl.” Before she says another word, I tap the red off button, and for good measure, turn the phone off.

           After making myself a cup of coffee and nibbling on a stale donut, I wander down the long hallway to my den. My hand finds the light switch, and after the room brightens, I stand in the doorway of the largest room in my house. Two open windows usher in the lavender scent from a row of bushes. A wall-to-ceiling bookcase bulges from stacks and rows of reading material. Oil paintings of crumbling castles, secretive forests, and abandoned, dilapidated barns wave me inside, and I follow the wall to admire my work. When I finish, I turn around.

           “I hope you don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”  

           Of course, I get no answer, only the prod of my mind that chastises my absence. Inhaling the room, I sit down, flex my fingers, and adjust the musical sheet that reads, Alla Turca, or Piano Sonata No. 11., believed to be Mozart’s most famous piano piece.

           And I play.