Take heart when it comes to family dysfunction

Have you ever seen the “Saturday Night Live” skit that starts off with a generic family sitting together to celebrate a holiday? It doesn't matter which one. Fourth of July, Thanksgiving…It could be any one in a long line of holidays. The conversation is ambiguous and about nothing in particular.

Tempers flare over vague sentence fragments. One character threatens to leave the room, standing, snapping her napkin in her lap, crinkling her face into a frown.

The others around the table rally together to keep her in the mix. The chorus persuades her and she returns to her seat. When she sits, the whole thing starts again.

How many times have you found yourself in a similar situation? Who hasn't? When it happens to me, I have a hard time letting it roll off my back.

My usual MO is to try and fix things, watching them get bigger and bigger with each attempt. Then, of course, they blowup in my face, regardless of how noble I think my efforts are.

One day, I figured I would get outside of the feedback loop by phoning a friend for advice. Luckily, his input actually was a bolt from the blue.

He read a Thomas Moore quote to me from the book, “Care of the Soul.”


On the reality of family Moore writes: “It always has its shadow, no matter how much we wish otherwise. If we don't grasp this mystery, the soulfulness that family has to offer each of us will be spirited away in hygienic notions of what a family should be."

Moore seemed to be saying that if you are constantly trying to fix your family, you'll miss what it has to offer. I'm always trying to fix things and smooth over rough patches. Leaving them alone? It was a notion that would have never crossed my mind.

How could not fixing things make them better? I wondered.

Picture a family gathering. But picture it before the argument scene depicted in the SNL skit above happens. See your parents, siblings, aunts and uncles coming up the sidewalk to your front door, smiling and waving hello. What are they carrying? Food that they made? Desserts to share? Beer and wine? How do you feel?

I'm usually filled with happiness in these moments. I'm not even thinking of things to say to them or what I'll be serving them. I am just standing in my front door, waving back, peeking out to the cars to see who is getting out.

Moments like this are the reasons I scrub the house and prepare food and they are the reason that I will continue to do it, year after year no matter how much money parties cost, no matter how much cleanup is involved.

Sure, as the party goes on. There will be pressure to please, wrong things will be said. There might even be a dinner scene like the SNL skit. But how do such entanglements happen? Usually our faux pas stem from our expectations, our hopes and concerns. Our pride and the desire to impress gets in the way.

When confusion is in the air and emotions are running high is that the right time to iron things out? Going a step further, do things really need to be ironed out? How much of it is even under our control?

Moore also said: "By 'getting to the root' of present problems in family background, we hope to understand what is going on, and in that understanding we hope to find a cure. But care of the soul doesn't require fixing the family or becoming free of it or interpreting its pathology. We may need simply to recover soul by reflecting deeply on the soul events that have taken place in the crucible of the family."

That is real life.

By trying to make the whole of our experiences into Norman Rockwell-like moments, we are cropping too much out of the picture. What if we were to take pride in our family stories, even the ugly ones?

Might there be less internal conflict and less shame? Would it make it easier for us to share our passions and struggles? Who knows? That is not the way families operate.

But if I didn't run so fast from the less-than-perfect moments, if I didn't put so much energy into smoothing over the rough patches, wouldn't it be easier to at least see things for what they really are?

If you want to buy, I'm your chap!

Unless you are a poetry lover, you’ve likely never heard of a chapbook.

Almanacs, history, myths, stories and folk songs were all preserved in small, crudely made chapbooks.

Those familiar with the term probably have romanticized visions of a duty-bound, literate few from the middle ages peddling their rag paper wares from village to village.

The peddlers weren’t just hucksters. They were disseminating information. They were bettering the lives of people, and not just the upper crust who could afford to have book collections of their own, but also the common man.

In an era when paper was expensive, chapbooks were sold for a penny or ha’penny. They were cheap and they were necessary.

“These old Chap books [sic], sold by the Chapmen, have given us most of our old nursery rhymes, English ballads, folklore and old legends," states the article “Chapbooks and the Nursery Rhyme.” at rhymes.org.uk.

"If you want to buy, I'm your chap,” the chapmen would yell as they went from door-to-door.
Also referred to as "merriments," they were pocket-sized and cheap.

“The Nursery Rhyme began to be printed in England as early as 1570! Chapbooks were also popular with people who could not read as they contained pictures," writes rhymes.org.uk. “The content and material of the Chapbooks expanded in the 1700s to include children's stories like Robinson Crusoe and various versions of Perrault’s Fairy Tales.”

The popularity of chapbooks dwindled in the nineteenth century in the face of competition from newspapers.

Chapbooks are still preserving culture. They are still on the side of the underdog. In today's world, the paupers are the poets and poetry lovers (both in reality and for the sake of this analogy).

Low-cost, low-production chapbooks are one of the few avenues available to the art with the lowest returns—poetry.

Because they are cheap, publishers are more willing to take a chance and produce a book that isn't expected to sell in high quantities.

Readers of this column probably know where I am heading with this. One of my favorite pastimes is writing poetry. And yes, a chapbook of my poems was recently published.
It's called "Twitter Poems and Other Small Gems." It was published by a poetry blog—World Class Poetry Blog—and that seems apropos.

Bloggers work in the true spirit of the chapbook, using the Web as the new rag paper. The book, by the way, is available free at genemyers.com.

Shake whatever your momma gave ya!

What image does bellydancing bring to mind? I used to picture the old Hollywood stereotype of a woman in a veil and skirt entertaining a Sultan in his palace.

My wife, Sarah, loves to bellydance. Through her, I’ve gained a modern day understanding of the craft. Picture women from every background gathered to support each other. Everyone gets cheered on as bellies of all shapes and sizes jiggle about the room.

But what Sarah really loves is the chance to cut the rug like a whirling dervish.

The urge to let loose is something we all can relate to. I remember dancing with my grandparents when they came for Christmas and summer days spent in my cousin’s cool basement just plain going nuts to the J. Geils Band.

Dancing can be silly or serious, just for fun, or an elaborate ritual. Why is dance so important? Egyptian art shows that people have been boogying in one form or another for a long time.

It seems like we take to it naturally when we are young. What kid can resist the opportunity to shake their groove thing? Even though coordination may not come naturally to some of us, the urge to interact with the rhythms around us seems innate.

Life is full of rhythm. Whether it’s the body processes inside (hearts beating, veins pulsing) or the parade of busy things going on around us, there is always a beat and a counter beat.

The syncopation created when one rhythm is added on top of another creates music much the same way that a cell added to another cell makes for a more interesting organism.

My 2-year-old son loves to dance. As we bop him around the living room to Disney Channel videos, you can see the sheer delight in his face. Belly laughs abound as we spin him round and round.

As I got older, self-consciousness escorted me to the dark edges of the dance floor. But when I see the joy that my family gets from it, I think maybe it’s time again for me to join in with wild abandon. Who cares if I move like Bill Cosby in search of a Jell-O Pudding Pop?

Small talk can mean a lot to a little guy

At bedtime, my friends Chris and Melissa do something with their daughter, Sophie, that they call "chitchat." Their idea of chitchat is quality time with an educational twist. They started it when Sophie was a baby. Just before bed, they spent a few minutes talking.

It started simply with things like sounds and letters. As Sophie matured, topics grew in complexity.

They considered numbers. They picked random places on a globe and learned about them together.

Sometimes they used reference books. Sometimes they used the Internet to augment their discussions. (If they were talking about hawks, they would listen to audio and watch video of hawks in action.)

The key, Melissa said, is to keep it to a few minutes. Also, they stick to non-fiction topics.

I am amazed every time I see Sophie. She celebrated her fifth birthday last month. The theme that Sophie picked for her party was "birds of prey."

When I asked her what birds of prey are she replied with casual, conversational ease: "owls and hawks." She is an intelligent kid who can hold a conversation with adults.

My wife and I have a similar ritual with our 2-year-old son, Owen. Each night before bed we read two stories, talk about what he did that day and also what he will be doing the next day.

Then we wind things down with a song or one more story, which is actually a guided meditation that helps put him to sleep.

Unlike Chris and Melissa, our bedtime stories are usually fiction. Thomas the Tank Engine and Dora the Explorer are among his favorites.

While the stories are important, I've noticed another variation taking place in our version of chitchat. These days, the conversations have become more useful to Owen than the stories.

It is during our talks that we are able to put the day's events into perspective for him. This way of processing is so important to Owen that he even requests it during the conversations that I call guided meditations.

He still enjoys picturing himself driving trains while falling asleep, but now he requests that the new people in his life ride on his imaginary train too.

As we talk about the things he did and the people he saw, we put special emphasis on concepts that were new to him and summarize how we think he felt about these things.

We know this routine has helped him with language. He is already starting to use full sentences. He is even starting to grasp trickier concepts like personal pronouns.

But more importantly, I hope it will help him process his feelings and make some sense out of the world.

Choosing to flood my child with joy

You are standing on a train platform. It’s late, and foggy. No one is around. It’s just you and your child at your side.

You hear footsteps at the other end of the platform. They approach steadily.

You crane your neck, squint your eyes as the adrenalin starts pumping. You scan your surroundings as the flight or fight reflexes kick in.

Your child is also anxious and scanning for clues. But it’s not the approaching stranger that’s making them nervous. It’s you.

As adults we take our cues from our surroundings. Our young children however get their information from our faces.

Dr. Stephen Briers uses the example above to open the chapter on mirror neurons in his book, "How Your Child Thinks."

"When presented with an ambiguous or unfamiliar situation, the first place most infants look for further information is in the faces of their caregivers," writes Briers.

While children don’t have life experience to help them assess their surroundings, they master reading faces very early on.

Mirror neurons take reading your face to yet another, deeper level.

These special neurons are what allow us to learn from others by simply watching. Some experts believe that not only do we learn how to jump by watching someone else jump, we also experience the thrill of jumping from watching someone jump.

This is something that I need to keep in mind when I’m tired and grumpy. Inevitably, my 2 year old is following close behind watching everything I do.

Lose my keys in a huff, in a hurry, and he is there. Throw something because I feel like I am going to snap, he is there.

"When we frown at our children, they feel the chill of displeasure; when we smile and laugh, we flood them with the sunlight of their own capacity for joy," writes Briers.

How do we know mirror neurons really do have these effects on our kids? All I have to do is consider the way my son's laughter makes me feel.

When he plays chase, he runs around shrieking and smiling until he drops. By the time he hits the floor, I'm also exhausted. I feel like I could collapse in a fit of happiness. I certainly lighten up from watching him.

Why not return the favor? He doesn't know the world of bills, contracts, narrow windows of opportunity and disappointment. Toddlers don't fill with fear at the sound of a stranger's footsteps on a train platform.

To them, the world is not a harsh place. What they know about emotions, they get from watching Mommy and Daddy's faces.

Ladies and gentlemen, the 'Old Mac Donald' Blues!

I have many harmonicas. There’s a pile of harps that I play and a pile of keepsakes – harmonicas signed by famous blues harp players, like John Sebastian and Charlie Musselwhite.

Whenever my 2 year-old son, Owen, runs into my office, the shelf full of harmonicas is the first place he heads. Maybe they were initially appealing because they were a collection.

Once he found out that the multi-colored plastic cases opened--and each one contained a shiny metal object--the appeal increased. By the time he discovered that the shiny objects made music, there was no stopping him.

Whenever I left my office door open, the little guy with a huge smile would make a mad dash for the harmonica shelf.

"Daddy, open this one," he'd say handing me a red case. "Open this one," he'd say pushing a blue one into my lap.

Big ones, little ones, plastic and metal, he'd grab as many as he could and plop himself down in the middle of the room with the harps scattered around him.

I bought him his own. But the plastic rubber orange harmonica with large holes made for someone his age had an unfortunate characteristic—it was hard to play. Even I had trouble getting sound to come out of it. Instead of letting him get discouraged by the toy, I let him play mine.

I got used to him honking the harmonicas behind me while I clicked away on the computer. He’d blow into the holes and listen. Flip it over and try again.

Eventually, he learned that he could make music in a number of ways: blowing into the holes, sucking air through the holes; he learned that moving up and down the harmonica would change the pitch. I was proud of my blues harp buddy.

Last week, I was sitting and playing harmonica with him and I noticed yet another milestone. He started to sing and play at the same time.

He breathed into the harp and then I heard a quiet voice. I couldn’t make out the words until he repeated them after his next riff: “With a moo moo here…”

He added another riff…

“And a moo moo there!”

He was singing his own blues adaptation of “Old Mac Donald!”

What a moment! I was so proud of him playing harmonica and trying to sing for one of the first times in his life.

The most common comment that I get from readers goes something like this: “Thank you for last week’s column. It reminded me of the love that I have for my child and made me appreciate them again, now that they are teenagers.”

I have to admit that as a newbie father of a boy who is only 2, the level of frustration parents can hit by the time their kids are teenagers is foreign to me. But I do remember being a teenager. I hope Owen is easier on me than I was on my parents.

When that time does come, when I feel like hitting the roof, I hope that I remember this moment--Owen and I jamming the "Old Mac Donald" blues.

I am betting that it will probably be a touchstone that I return to. I can’t imagine the road ahead of us. Was it moments like these that got moms and dads throughout time through the rough spots?

Splashing & laughing vs. litter & yelling

Last week, I wrote about almost coming unhinged by plans to mellow out and take a vacation.

It was after I got back though that I started to see the light.

I don't mean that figuratively. I am referring to the light on the lake near my home. I pass the lake everyday, at least twice a day. On the way to work, on the way home and on the way to most stores, I pass it.

It’s a beautiful lake. If you’re going to take a landmark for granted, it’s a nice one to have.

Sometimes when I drive by, I’ll see service vans, buses and kids’ bikes parked facing it.

Sometimes, I am smart enough not to pass it by.

One day last week, I pulled up to it and parked to wait for my wife and son who were 15 minutes behind me. I thought of my Chicago trip.

Last week’s column detailed the harried details of the trip that I tried to call a vacation.

I was so consumed with the preparations the vacation ended with me wondering, "Did I relax enough? Was I rejuvenated?"

I was still asking myself these questions as I sat parked in front of the lake. I watched the busyness in front of me. Kids were running back and forth to the water--the water splashing. The kids' parents were barely moving in their chairs.

My thoughts slowed down to about the speed of lazy toes in the sand. I felt myself relax a bit.

I backed off of the visual details in front of me. As a way of tamping down my thoughts, I tried to turn the scene into a two-dimensional work of art.

Instead of seeing people--my neighbors--reading books, sipping drinks and watching kids, my mind glossed over them, let them slip into the landscape. In other words, I zoned out.

As the picture in front of me flattened out, I felt myself relaxing a little more. The light quietly dancing on the ripples in the water caught my attention.

Instead of seeing the ice cream sandwich wrappers, beach towels and sunblock strewn across the hot sand, I saw sunbeams in cool water. Instead of parents yelling at their children to stay close, I heard the kids laughing.

Sometimes my wife requests vacations where we do nothing, just sit somewhere with drinks. I argue that I don’t see the point. I always think that sounds like a waste of time.

Now I see the point.

It's a way of letting things even out without you. Taking time to do nothing allows you to disengage, like turning the details of life into scenery. You can extract yourself--even if it's only for a little bit.

Killing myself to have a relaxing vacation

Vacation was on the horizon. I worked myself silly writing and editing so that I could take a week off. I typed away until my fingers went numb.

But I didn't mind. I had high hopes for this vacation. I was heading to Chicago to see a friend get married and I was looking forward to showing my wife around the Windy City.

I had a lot of fun on previous trips: the Chicago Blues Festival, deep dish pizza, the impressive "L" (an elevated train that rides above the streets), the House of Blues, the Navy Pier...

The typing started to wear me out, so I added another agenda item to the week. I banned myself from typing. I type when I am at work and I type in my spare time for fun.

Besides this column, I write music articles, have five blogs and I run a literary magazine. My favorite pastime is writing poetry. And did I mention the daily tweeting on Twitter?

My hands needed a break. On top of all of that I had one more goal for the week. It was the most important one. I wanted to make a point of spending time with my wife.

My parents were going to watch our son. That made the trip a rare opportunity for my wife and me to focus on each other for a change. So that is what I had in mind for Chicago.

With all of that squared away, I was going to be light and breezy for the week—not the overdriven perfectionist that usually huffs around my house wearing my clothes. I was going to prove that I could be freewheeling.

However, the only way that I was going to be able to mellow out was if I had a clean house to come back to. So, there was a cleaning frenzy.

By the time the house, cars and yard were all in shipshape and all of my last minute tasks were checked off, I was running to make the plane.

That's OK, I thought. For the rest of vacation, I'll be taking it easy.

Of course, that would be after we found a rental car, stopped at a local store for more supplies and unpacked.

The whirlwind would surely calm down once we successfully juggled time to meet up with my wife's friends and mine. Next thing I knew, the wheels of our return flight were hitting the ground in Newark.

Did I miss something? We had a great time—went to the blues festival and had great pizza. I showed my wife the “L” from below but the Pier would have to wait until next time. The wedding was fantastic. The dance music at the reception seemed to match the pace at which I was vibrating.

Did I feel refreshed? I wondered as I headed back to work. I didn't have time to dig too deeply for the answer though. The first week back at work would be like the week leading up to vacation—I'd have to be moving at a breakneck pace.

For more of The Joy of Life, visit thejoyoflifeblog.com.

Listing 10 things that make me happy

Last week, I wrote about the thrill of negotiating and how much I was looking forward to car shopping. Of course that was followed by a week of car shopping. While showrooms are like toy stores to me and cars are the ultimate toys, there is also the dark side.

Writing last week's column through rose-colored glasses, I must admit that I forgot about the stare-downs, the deadlines, the ambiguity of option packages.

Memorial Day weekend car shopping got tense.

To regroup I tried a trick found in Barbara Ann Kipfer's book, "Field Guide to Happiness," which features many quick fixes for whenever your happy meter is running low.

The first exercise suggested in the book is listing 10 things that make you happy. A simple idea, and after a weekend of finagling, simple's exactly what I needed.

1) A job in journalism that seems pretty secure: Everyone knows that many papers are sinking fast. Luckily, the paper where I am the features editor -- Suburban Trends -- is in the black. So, I get to continue to do what I love while a lot of my colleagues are having a much harder time.

2) Time alone with my 2-year-old son Owen: Mommy had to work on Saturday last weekend. That meant that Daddy (me) and Owen had an entire day of guy fun, which included playing with cars, playing piano (we have a red plastic toddler piano next to our Yamaha) and mopping. (I am a bit of a neat-freak and I'm happy to report that so is my boy!)

3) Barbeque at my parents to start the summer: I love going to my parents' house. It always feels like a holiday to me. Dad at the grill means summertime.

4) Test driving cars--is there a guy out there who doesn't think test driving cars is fun?

5) Seeing Owen at his neighbor Thunder's house: Thunder is the dog next-door. Owen is eternally curious about the gray terrier he hears through his bedroom window. If he doesn't hear Thunder barking, he runs over to his window and stands on his tippy-toes, "Thunder sleeping? Thunder eating? Maybe Thunder inside?" he'll ask with a shrug. Up close, Thunder's a little scary to Owen. But being perched between Mommy and Daddy at a picnic table at "Thunder's house" was an adventure.

6) Sitting at a neighbor's for yet another barbeque: you can never have too many barbecues on Memorial Day weekend.

7) The opening of the near-by lake

8) The mysterious flowers my wife planted that deer pass up and have neighbors scratching their heads: there are many, many deer in my town and my wife has managed to plant these tall purple flowers that remain in tact while other gardens get chewed down.

9) The three day weekend

10) Hearing Owen suffer a kiss attack from my wife in his room as I type in my office: If Owen stands in "the kissing corner" in his room, it means one thing -- a "kiss attack." I know it sounds corny, but oh how it makes him cackle!

Kipfer suggests making your list soothing and paying attention to moments of awareness -- things that are a little deeper than finding money on the sidewalk.

Throughout much of Memorial Day weekend, what really made me smile was how much my son loves me. While car shopping he wore a slouch hat because I wear slouch hats.

Sometimes, he gives my wife and my mom a hard time making them squirm as he picks at his food when they want nothing more than to see him fill his belly with a substantial meal.

But if I make a turkey and cheese sandwich for myself and make an extra one and put it on a plate next to mine and sit him in a "big boy chair" -- he'll eat the whole thing. No muss, no fuss.

I'm not sure who enjoys that more, him or me...

Do people ask for miracles these days?

"When was the last time you asked for a miracle?" I asked friends and family a couple of weeks ago.

I was curious how they'd respond.

Putting religious interpretations of miracles aside as well as scientific, historical or cultural vantage points, I was more curious about people's expectations.

What does modern man, scratch that, post-post-modern man expect from his world? Past the age of reason, past the enlightenment, have we become disenchanted thanks to our focus on facts?

In general, I think the answer is yes. To me, it seems that beyond the half-hearted attempt of Santa Claus, we have painted ourselves into a corner.

What corner? The idea that anything could happen to me in this great big, mysterious world is what excited me as a child.

That excitement translated into dreams and those dreams nourished a desire to be the first one out the door everyday. Every plane that hung from the sky, every car that whizzed by populated my world with possibilities.

Outside of the realm of religion, the purpose of miracles has a lot to do with our expectations. Does it sound over the top if I say that I expect my life to be miraculous?

Out of the dozen or so people that I surveyed, only three had given any thought to asking for a miracle as an adult. What do we lose in our rational preference for proof?

If you don't ask, you don't get, as the saying goes.

Years ago, in my previous career, a co-worker who was more successful at what he did than I was, walked me through an intriguing exercise. It went something like this:

"Picture yourself down the road, years from now," he said. "Let's say you're 30. How much money do you want to be making by then?"

I replied, "$30,000."

"OK, now that you have that in your head," he said, "you'll figure it out."

I thought it was an absurdly brief and arbitrary exercise. I picked that number to be my future salary because it sounded like a lot of money at the time. As it turned out, the goal wasn't a hard one to achieve.

My friend's method worked. It sounded like a shot in the dark to me at the time. How would I go from making $24,000 to $30,000 in just a few years, especially since I found my way into that company as a temp?

The path forward was unknown to me. Without the aid of facts, it was a leap. But it was a leap that I believed was possible. And what if I chose to be a realist?

The odds that a temp, who knew nothing about the field in which he landed, would be able to almost double his salary in such a short time seemed low. (I actually overshot my goal by a lot!)

A realest might have assessed himself at the bottom of the totem-pole and thought lower expectations would be prudent.

"If it is something you can receive by asking is it a miracle?" my mother-in-law, Ann asked.

That is the key point here. Many times, what you believe determines the outcome.

"Are hoping and asking the same?" Ann continued. "Is a miracle bigger than a hope?"

Are people's hopes big enough these days?

My dad once offered advice that would fit well here.

"There are many reasons why you can't do things in life, but if you can think of one reason why you can, go for it," he said.

Shooting down the possibility of miracles in your life takes away that reason. This is the corner we should avoid painting ourselves into.

When was the last time you asked for a miracle? Is there one that you wish were possible?

For more of The Joy of Life, visit genemyers.com.

The joy of playing the blues

Harmonica player Charlie Musselwhite was born in Mississippi, went to high school in Memphis and started his blues career in Chicago. He’s played with Little Walter, John Lee Hooker and Sonny Boy Williamson – to name a few.

If it has to do with the blues, Musselwhite has been there and done it with the people who started it.

At 65, he is going strong. He still loves to play and finds inspiration everywhere he goes.

Gene: What got you interested in playing harmonica?

Charlie: They were always around. Harmonicas are kind of a common toy for kids. I liked the sound. It sounds so real. It sounds like a voice. Playing the blues on harmonica is like singing without words.

Gene: What is the hardest part of playing harmonica?

Charlie: There are things about the harmonica that are very different than other instruments. It's the only instrument that you can't see what you are doing. You also can't see what anybody else is doing on it either. It's also the only instrument that you breathe in and out of. Since you can't see what you are doing, you have to have a mental image of what you are playing. You can't watch your fingers.

Gene: Did you have a teacher?

Charlie: Since you can't really see anything it's hard to have a teacher. You can talk about it with somebody. And you can listen, be influenced, and soak it up by osmosis. In that sense I had many teachers, especially in Memphis. I knew Will Shade in Memphis. He was a harmonica player. I learned some stuff from him.

Gene: I've tried to play harmonica. I can play single notes and I understand how the instrument's structured, but I can't bend notes. Any tips?

Charlie: One way to think about it is this: When you are talking, you use your tongue to form vowels. With the harmonica, if you think of pronouncing "OY," like in bOY, if you are drawing on a note [sucking in] and you act like you are pronouncing OY with your tongue at the same time, you will notice that the sound changes. That is the beginning of bending. Just keep concentrating on that and you will learn how to bend [notes].

Gene: Do you play a $20 Marine Band [harmonica] now?

Charlie: What I like is the Seydel. That is the oldest harmonica company that there is. It's older than Hohner. Out of the box, it's the best harmonica that you can buy. It's handmade in Germany. All of the Hohners are mass-produced in China now. [Hohner harmonicas used to be handmade in Germany as well.] These are still made the old-fashioned way.

Gene: What advantages do harmonica players have over other musicians?

Charlie: You can carry it in your pocket!

Gene: Do you have any favorite harmonica solos?

Charlie: I like the solo that Big Walter played on "Walking by Myself" by Jimmy Rogers. I like the solo that Will Shade played on "Kansas City Blues.”

Gene: Are you still learning new tricks on the harmonica?

Charlie: It's endless. I'm still learning. The more I learn the more I see there is to learn. The smarter I get, the dumber I feel (laughs).

Gene: What inspires you?

Charlie: Life (laughs). Blues is about life. There is a lot of inspiration all around if you are tuned into it. Let it speak to you.

Gene: How do you let it speak to you?

Charlie: By staying alive. Keep your mind open and stay active.

Gene: You've played with a lot of great musicians over the years, from Gus Cannon to Tom Waits, are there moments in your career that stand out as favorites for you?

Charlie: There are so many: Sitting in with Muddy Waters or playing Radio City Music Hall with Tom Waits and playing the Harp Battle with Mark Hummel and Kim Wilson, that's a lot of fun!