​Grandpa and The Blues Harp

I can’t recall the exact date. The best I can figure, it must have been somewhere around the middle of June back in 1967 or there abouts. I was eight years old at the time, spending the summer months with Granny and Grandpa Tharpe. As I recall it was a pretty morning. The sky was a beautiful deep blue, almost cobalt; and there were soft cotton ball clouds floating in it. I remember it like it was yesterday for some reason. I also remember what I was doing at the time. I was standing in between my Grandpa and Granny in front of Grant’s department store in Panama City, Florida throwing a world class fit. Eight year olds have a gift for such things you know.

I had plenty of them, fits I mean, hysterics were one of my best things. For the most part, I can’t remember what set me off; but I do recall the genesis of this particular outburst. Of all things it was a Hohner Blues Harp in the key of E, and it was as shiny as a brand new penny.

At the time of my ill-tempered outburst, it was displayed in a glass case just inside the front door and a little to the left near the jewelry counter, and I wanted it. I wanted it bad.
​
For those of you unversed in the subject, a Hohner Blues Harp is a harmonica, or French harp or mouth organ depending upon the region from which you hail.

I could go into the difference between a chromatic model or diatonic model, but there’s no need. If you blow air through the thing, it makes music, check that, sometimes it just makes noise.   
 
My desperate desire for this particular instrument at this particular time in my life stems from a couple of things. In the early summer of 1967 “Branded Man” by Merle Haggard had just hit the charts, and along with that a fella by the name of Charlie McCoy had just released his first album. These days they would call it a CD or MP3 or STP or something like that, but back then it was an album, a black vinyl platter with grooves cut in it for the needle to ride along in. The sound wasn’t perfect, but then again what is?
  
Charlie McCoy was the best harmonica player to ever come down the pike, bar none, and Merle Haggard, God rest his soul, was created by God above to write and sing country music.

In the summer of `67, my young heart fell in love with two things: a little blond girl down the street by the name of Brenda and country music. I have no idea what ever happen to Brenda, but Country Music, real Country Music that is, not today’s stuff but the real McCoy, remains a love of mine.

At eight years of age my fingers were not long enough to wrap around a banjo’s neck much less a guitar’s and I hated taking piano lessons. So I figured, why not get an orchestra that fits in your pocket.

I wanted to learn how to play the harmonica like Charlie, and I needed that Blues Harp to make it happen. I wanted it enough to fight for it, to demand it, to throw myself on the floor for it. After all I was a budding superstar, and I needed it.

I figured Granny and Grandpa would see the amazing potential within me and just buy it for me. After all, I was their favorite, Granny said so; and on account of that, I figured I deserved it. I was entitled; but in a shocking turn of events my Grandpa looked down at me with unwavering eyes and a note of finality in his voice and simply said “No”. At that my ranting and raving began.

It was in the midst of my tirade when I experienced something that I had never experienced before, and I vowed to never experience again. My soft spoken and tender Grandpa spoke harshly to me.

He looked down at his woe begotten grandson, listened intently to my ever increasing pity party, and said the following; gently, of course, as was his manner,  but with just enough steel in his voice to make me shut my mouth and tremble.

He said: “Son, do you think I owe you something? If you are thinking that then you are way off base. If you want that thing, then you will have to earn it.”

Six weeks later, three days before I was to head back up to Utica and Mom and Dad, after what seemed like a mountain of chores, I was once again standing in front of Grant’s Department Store with my Grandpa on another beautiful summer’s morning.

He stopped me right before we went into the store, stooped down and gave me the money I had earned to buy that harmonica. He didn’t even go inside. He let me buy it all on my own.

I have to tell you, I was the proudest eight year old boy in all of the deep South that morning, not because of the brand new Blues Harp in the key of E that lay in my pocket, but because I had earned it. I had been given the gift of anticipating it, and I did it all by myself.

Now friends, that is how to teach a life lesson.

As Father’s Day approaches, I urge you young and you more experienced Dads out there to resist the world’s misguided teaching and foolish ways. Teach your children the value of hard work, patience, personal achievement and excellence. Let them work for their dreams. If you don’t, then you will steal their dreams from them. Dreams are made of anticipation, not immediate gratification.

Fathers, Christ has given you a formidable task; the task of raising godly men and women in an ungodly world. Teach them to have confidence in themselves, in their abilities and their intellect; but over and above that, teach them of Jesus Christ, of His love for them and His pride in them. Give them all the support you can, and then give them the firm foundation of a relationship with Jesus Christ; and they will be blessed beyond measure by you.
​
Happy Father’s Day 
Pastor Tony
  
 

---