How therapy, trauma, and one brilliant tuning got me playing harp again

When I was 14, I worked under the table at a car wash owned by my great uncle. The pay sucked, but hey, it was tax-free. Most days, excluding Sundays (holy shit, the queue of sedans owned by the after church crowd), there’d be long lulls between cars. It gave me a lot of time to learn a new instrument. I chose the diatonic harmonica. Ten holes and damn …