The Harmonica in the Glove Box

My father kept a harmonica in the glove box of his car for as long as I can remember. On long road trips, when we were stuck in traffic, he'd take it out and play.

He wasn't good. He knew about four songs, and he played them all slightly wrong. "Oh! Susanna." "Red River Valley." "When the Saints Go Marching In." Something he called "the train song," which was just him making train noises.

My sister and I would beg him to stop, and then beg him to play more. My mother would roll her eyes and sing along anyway.

This year, my father gave me his old car. I opened the glove box, and the harmonica was still there. I took my own kids on a road trip in July and, stuck in traffic outside Chicago, I took it out and played "the train song." They begged me to stop. Then they begged me to play more.