The Hohner Effect

October 26, 2026

Greetings from the slacker,

The instructions were on a tiny piece of paper, folded even smaller to fit into a comb-sized box.  There were some numbers, some letters, and a crude diagram.  It was not a compelling read.

When I was a young teenager, my friends and I decided to go camping. We were just shy of being able to drive, and so we decided to walk to the campground, a journey of about twenty miles. Like most of our outings, the preparation was minor, which left a lot of room for improvising.

So, we set out, weaving through our leafy neighborhood in the early morning, talking in low tones, the smell of the mosquito sprayer still lingering in the damp air. We had a map, and a general idea of where we were going, combined with the same optimism that seemed to solve other adventures we’d taken.

I travelled with two of the people I spent most of my time with in this segment of my life; my friend Tom, and our companion, Big Bird.  Brian was named this in part because of his stature, and perhaps his ungainly gait. He didn’t seem to resent the appellation, in fact when he called my house he would say, “This is Bird.”

On my back was an aluminum frame backpack, which I fantasized would one day accompany me on my trek along the Himalayas, although I could not find those mountains on a map and had only a misty notion of where they were.  Inside was some food, a tent, sleeping bag, a book.  If it was our usual experience, we would discover what we’d forgotten somewhere on the first day.

Within a few blocks we left our neighborhood and began walking out of the city on a busy road, which felt like one long parking lot. Diners and muffler shops, interspersed with topless bars, abandoned carwashes, the edges lined with broken glass and scraps of things people threw out of their car windows.  Traffic was light, but it was far from a pastoral setting.

Among my camping things, I also carried with me a harmonica, a gift I had hoped for when my birthday came around. It was still in the box, which also held a small page that had instructions on how to play music on the harmonica.  I had romantic images of me playing the harmonica as we walked along, riffing sweet jazz songs, like some handsome hobo.  Or sitting by our campfire, perhaps as young teenage girls sat gazing at me admiringly. 

Eventually we reached Dixie Highway, still a busy road, one that could have taken us to Florida if we were ambitious, but at least it was lined with forests, split by the occasional dirt road.  We sang the few songs we knew the words to, Lookin’Out My Back Door.  Well, we knew “…doo doo doo, looking’ out my back door.”

Every once in a while, I would take out the harmonica and try it.  I would hold it like I’ve seen musicians hold theirs in photos of concerts on album covers. I couldn’t be bothered reading the little instruction page, which as simple as it was, looked daunting to me as I trudged along. I tried blowing and drawing, making squeaky noises. Within hours I was feeling the first symptoms of disillusionment, but I kept playing, honking and wheezing.

My friends walked faster, trying to outpace the noise.  They both played musical instruments; Tom the guitar, Big Bird the trombone, neither of which were practical for hiking.  (I will confess I would love to have seen Big Bird playing his horn as we walked along Dort highway.)

We finally made it to the campground, neatly tucked in around a small lake.  After we set up our tents we decided to go swimming. We horsed around in the shallows, skipping rocks, uncovering crawdads, getting sand everywhere.  And then, for inexplicable reasons, I got it in my head I should swim across the lake.

I’d had swimming lessons at Durham pool, which I took only long enough to satisfy, or frustrate, my mother enough to get out of them. I had no interest in learning how to swim, only to be able to do the Australian crawl. In the end, dog paddling seemed sufficient.

And still, I set off to swim across this small lake.  About halfway across the lake I realized I could not pretend to swim much longer. Halfway across is the worst place to learn this. Then I felt my leg go off script in new way, a serious cramp that twisted it so badly I couldn’t kick. I stopped, not knowing what to do and then went under, taking in a big lungful of water as I did.  I fought back up, sputtering lake water and panic.

I screamed “Hellppp!” and my friends waved from shore.  I yelled “CRAAAMP!!” and they laughed and laughed, and waved back at me.  They thought I was saying “CRAB!”, goofing around out there in the middle of lake, trying to make them laugh. Haha, ‘crab’ I’m so funny.

Astute readers will devise that I didn’t ultimately drown. I did, however, get in a good rehearsal for it.

Swimming is no more my forte than playing the harmonica, ironically, for the same reasons.  I was interested, vaguely, in the outcome, but often didn’t have the discipline to turn the idea into reality.  Sometimes it doesn’t matter, sometimes it does. See: swimming vs. harmonica.

One of the great things about the harmonica is that it’s easy to carry around.  I carried mine around for a few years, in my back pocket, in my denim jacket, in my backpack. Carrying the harmonica is not the hard part, and it is not its purpose. The purpose of many things is on just the other side of the hard part.

Harmonicas are also easy to put in a drawer, which is where mine spent most of its existence. If I ever hit a single note on it, it was by accident.

Hope this finds you doing the hard part,

David

This essay was written by the author and does not include Ai content.

Copyright © 2026 David Smith