Essays, Art and Plays by Dan

I’m seventy-four, still on Santa’s naughty list—embarrassing, really. You’d think age earns leniency, but Santa does not enjoy my harmonica playing. My midnight blues riffs drifting through the house, the impromptu bathroom concerts and the Fort Hunt Park serenades for unsuspecting joggers must get on Santa’s nerves.

Yet the crows gather whenever I play at Fort Hunt Park, thank you my black-feathered fans! I keep practicing, breath bending into brass, but passion isn’t skill, and Santa grades by ear. If enthusiasm were virtue, I’d be canonized.

So this Christmas, I expect a book titled How to Actually Play Harmonica, and perhaps—if Santa’s merciful—tasty snacks for the crows who listen faithfully. Bless their loyalty; they answer with encouraging caws while Santa keeps his pen poised over my name.