As a boy, I remember riding in the 1959 Chevy wagon to the barbershop where men from town gathered to gossip, even though they called it "town business. "Along the way, we passed empty factories that had once been booming with jobs for those who wanted them. Dad said the war claimed many men, and their wives took their place in factories making fighter jets and other military hardware. But once the war was over, things just changed. That's all he said in a whisper. Things just change.
Up ahead was the old train depot, once alive with people waiting for the train that linked the city with small whistle stops, but now weeds grow between the tracks, and the tap-tap of the telegraph office is silent, replaced with telephones. I strained my eyes looking for Mr. Sam, the harmonica man who Dad told me is one of the last veterans alive from the big war. Some say that a long time ago, he waited at the depot for his soon-to-be wife, who was a mail-order bride. Dad said it was common in those days, as women from Europe who lost their husbands sought out a new life in America.
Mr. Sam came to the old depot every day for years, playing his harmonica and singing the blues. At the barber shop, some said he had lost his mind, but he was just a harmless, lonely old man, wishing on a star that his bride-to-be would show up on the platform, her suitcase in hand. Town folks would toss loose change into his upturned hat, which he always received with a smile.
He passed away a couple of years later when I was 17 years of age, and it was I who came upon his lifeless body tucked away in a corner, his hat upturned and his harmonica in his hand. The town gave him a veteran's burial, and I suggested his hat and harmonica be put in the historical museum along with his story. I visit that museum whenever I'm in town, looking at the displays of fallen soldiers and brave men and women who had an impact on the small town. But I spend most of my time in front of a glass case displaying two items from Mr. Sam, the harmonica man. a turned-up hat, and his harmonica, and I can still close my eyes and hear him play the lonely blues from his heart, a reminder to his mail-order bride that he will be waiting on the platform until it's just dust beneath his feet, and the blues go silent.
Mr. Sam came to the old depot every day for years, playing his harmonica and singing the blues. At the barber shop, some said he had lost his mind, but he was just a harmless, lonely old man, wishing on a star that his bride-to-be would show up on the platform, her suitcase in hand. Town folks would toss loose change into his upturned hat, which he always received with a smile.
He passed away a couple of years later when I was 17 years of age, and it was I who came upon his lifeless body tucked away in a corner, his hat upturned and his harmonica in his hand. The town gave him a veteran's burial, and I suggested his hat and harmonica be put in the historical museum along with his story. I visit that museum whenever I'm in town, looking at the displays of fallen soldiers and brave men and women who had an impact on the small town. But I spend most of my time in front of a glass case displaying two items from Mr. Sam, the harmonica man. a turned-up hat, and his harmonica, and I can still close my eyes and hear him play the lonely blues from his heart, a reminder to his mail-order bride that he will be waiting on the platform until it's just dust beneath his feet, and the blues go silent.
Mike 2026
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