While in Alaska, I was the live-in caretaker for a large church. I cleaned and maintained a church in exchange for rent. It was a hefty part time job, full of quirks. I lived in the attic apartment where the slanted ceilings regularly bruised my head. I'd roam the halls late at night with my guitar, singing in the sunday school rooms. I'd play the grand piano in the sanctuary, and listen to my voice bounce off the pews.
It was a snowy Friday night and there was a break in the storm which allowed me to shovel the bulk before freezing. You don't want it to freeze. Frozen snow on church steps means one of two things: a sore and grumpy caretaker or a sore and grumpy parishioner. I had a duty.
I was listening to Joe Purdy's album "You Can Tell Georgia" for the very first time and "Only Four Seasons" was up.
I could see my breath.
The snow glistening on a mountain across the bay.
The lights blinking on the airport runway.
And then THAT harmonica.
I threw the shovel into the pile and started running across town, falling every couple of steps.
I had to share it with someone.
So I found a friend and plugged it in.
I returned to frozen snow.
view from church steps on a snowless winter dusk