One man, Lars, who was bald and had a clean-shaven pink face, he was always telling jokes about men screwing women who weren’t their wives. Sometimes he’d tease a punch as Leo passed the table on his way to the fridge and he’d say: “Hey Einstein, tell your pop to play some white music for a change.” Leo would smile and raise his Coke in a mock toast, then go out to the parlor where Jim was bluesing it with Leo’s Uncle Ryder. That’s what he liked Leo to call him, though he wasn’t really his uncle. One night Lars said to Ryder: “You’re so skinny I can smell the shit in you, Stillwell.” And Ryder was skinny. He also favored his left leg a little bit when he walked, and every day he wore his fake lizard-skin cowboy boots, even to the mill. But Wednesday nights he played the most wonderful instrument Leo could imagine on this earth: a German-made, M. Hohner Marine Band harmonica; The Harp of the Blues, Ryder called it.

He owned nine of them he kept in a wide leather harness around his waist. Most of these were in different keys though Leo knew four were in C, a bluesman’s standard. When Ryder played he liked to stand and he never opened his eyes at all, just cupped that silver mouth harp in his two hands, the left never moving, the right opening and closing, or staying still depending on the effect he was trying for. When Leo’s dad sang a train song, Ryder’s harp sounded like a freight liner chugging down the rails. He’d suck out a long wah-wah whistle like you imagine hearing after midnight when a diesel’s pulling through town with no one to appreciate it unless it makes some noise. Then when Jim picked and sang a Saturday night special like “Whoopin’ the Blues” or “Sittin’ on Top of the World,” Ryder would rock back and forth on his feet and put both lungs to work with trills and flutters, throat pops and hand smacks, all the while staying in perfect time with Jim’s guitar.

On songs like that, loud Lars and the other men would come in from the kitchen with their beers and smoking cigars. They’d tap their feet and let out a holler or two, and Jim and Ryder showed their appreciation by quickly sliding into two or three more room-movers. But with the blues, Leo noticed, you couldn’t go too long without coming back to a slow one that either made you sweetly downhearted, or else reminded you of when you were. After one or two of those, Don’t-Mistreat-Me or All-Alone-Blues, Lars and the others would either go back into the bright smokey kitchen to finish their game, or else stub out their cigars, drain their beers, and call it a night.