Pluck, Pluck, Plucking Away

My name is Melanie Sue Gladstone and I live in a friendly, stuck-in-time small town, sort of like Mayberry with a local barber shop and friendly city sheriff. The local newspaper is very popular and incredibly it manages to put out a weekly edition every Thursday. Full of local news and events, obituaries, high school sports and Aunt Doris' Recipes for rhubarb pie and S'mores. The cobblestone streets are lined with huge elm trees and every other front yard is meticulously manicured and boasts a white picket fence. My next door neighbor to the left is the illustrious Mr. Jarret J. Windom. He is an amazing man- handsome, funny, athletic and filthy rich, rich, rich. Brought up by his doting grandparents who farmed wheat and dry land corn over in Mossheim county after his jet-setting parents were tragically lost in an airplane crash while enroute to the rugged mountain terrain of Argentina. Always smiling and approachable, he has friends from all walks of life. We share a neighbor, his to the left next door neighbor and my to the right neighbor is Garrison Bert the local mailman who eats an early breakfast with Jarret every Sunday along with Abraham Donovan Milstead, our local feed and grain dealer. Then, like clockwork Billy Joe Donaldson, used car and tractor dealer buys him a greasy cheeseburger, onion rings and a beer every Friday night. Jarret chose to live alone, oblivious to the flirtatious females who yearned to spend a few of his well-guarded greenbacks. But he seems to be attracted to his musician friends, the ones who know every song in the vintage jukebox donated by a friend in his Last Will and Testament. Whether Bach, Beethoven or George Strait, his foot would tap his custom made cowboy boots to the rhythm and he'd escape into another world. So I wasn't really surprised when he announced he was going to actually learn how to play an instrument. Of course I expected him to say piano lessons as he has a gorgeous Steinway in his quiet solarium. But no, nothing as ordinary as simple piano lessons. His instrument of choice was a harp. Really Jarret? Who plays a harp? Maybe an angel here and there , come on where do you even find a harp or someone to give harp lessons? Sure that this is just a bored rich kid , I ignore it. But then, hey, he's at my door early on a Saturday morning, hollering at me to get up and throw some clothes on. Oh yeah, sure, we're going harp shopping! Then he has his cell phone out, googling away like a mad man. Please, I tell myself, dont let him find anything. I'm just not up to a day of harp shopping. Then as he lets out a high pitched squeal, I realize I'm defeated. Seems he has located a harp dealer only 300 miles away. Sighing, my fate is sealed and we're hitting the road to Sassy's String City over in Bull's Gap. I'm growling like the grump I am as I throw a few things into my bag and head for the door. Jarret is grinning like a Cheshire cat and as irritated as I am, how can I resist that enthusiasm? It's contagious, there is no vaccine known to man. His smile is known around the world, it's on the cover if every gossip magazine in the country. As I climb into his convertible sports car and buckle up, he again pushes the envelope of friendship. "I knew you'd come. I'm irresistible ". What could I say, he's right, he is irresistible to the nth degree. I struggle to shut out his lively chatter and focus on the tunes coming from the CD player, counting cows as we race along thru farm country. Nothing but miles and miles of wooden fence posts and barbed wire. He courteously offers me a handful of nutty snacks and a chilled bottle of water but I decline even though my throat is so dry I can barely swallow. I will remain strong, intent on my black mood. After what seems like an eternity, we drive into town. Sassy's is at 413 South Main Street, a colorful rainbow banner blowing in the breeze. There is not a soul in sight as we slowly disembark and stroll up to the little store. Opening the door, we can barely make out the interior as the lighting is a mix of faint rosy shadows from the string of holiday lights. The smell of burning incense completes the scene. We are greeted by a rather large woman, Sassy I presume. But then, surprised by a deep bass "Hello", I realize Sassy is a husky man completely comfortable in his silky turquoise kimono. Regaining my usually calm demeanor, I explain our mission, explain that we are the last of the harp-hunters. Assured that we have indeed come to the right place, we follow him as he strides toward the back of the shop. And there, against all odds, we find not one or two but a plethora of harps, harps of all shapes and sizes, and all colors. And of course, all prices. Jarret in all his glory, goes from harp to harp, mumbling to himself. Then suddenly he stops. Even I have to admit, this instrument is absolutely amazing. Intricate carvings, a maze of well-honed accents and hues. As he starts to ask about its history, Sassy seems uncomfortable. Seems that the harp has a story of its own. Its maker was hung, sentenced to death. The infamous Angelo Andreas, the harp string killer. Guessing correctly, the price was gruesome. Determined, we work out the details and arrange for delivery. Part one completed, part two promises to be difficult. A harp teacher? In our metropolis? Why not? Nowadays seems you can Google just about anything. Typing into my phone, I hit search. Then lo' and behold, I see a list of possible choices! Letting my fingers do the walking, the choice is made as I make the call. Miss Bettie Sue Livingston, harp teacher extraordinaire.