I was a newspaper boy in North Lewisburg for a number of years, hawking the Columbus Dispatch and delivering it to my many customers. As a result, I became familiar with a great many of the folks who resided in the community. While I did not see all of my customers on a daily basis, I at least had the opportunity to do so every Saturday when I collected for the paper.
This meant that I spent more time on my route on Saturday. I not only delivered that day's edition of the newspaper - I also had to collect the weekly delivery fee so I could forward to the Dispatch offices the amount I owed for the papers I had received to that point.
My customers were very good about "paying on time," so collecting was not a hassle. Many of my customers placed their payments in envelopes, and then affixed them to the front door. Others would be expecting me, and welcome me at the door, payment in hand. Still others would pay a month in advance, making a collection stop unnecessary. And, there were always the very special places where I would "hang out" a little bit longer, savoring the opportunity I had to visit with the customers.
One such place was my weekly visit to the Knotts home. While Mrs. Knotts was generally there to greet me at the door with her payment...and an occasional, hot oatmeal cookie...it was Mr. Knotts whom I most looked forward to seeing. He would call to me from inside the house when Mrs. Knotts opened the door, and tell me to meet him at the east side of the house. There, he had a luxurious garden, planted in early spring, and carefully tended throughout the summer and fall. There were green beans, bell peppers, potatoes, cabbages, lettuce, beets, carrots, squash, cantelopes, cucumbers, radishes, and more. One area of the garden was set aside for Mr. Knotts' precious peanut plants. When he harvested them, he bundled the plants and hung them in a small shed for drying. The interior of the shed was always adorned with the plants and their tubors. And Mr. Knotts knew I had a special fondness for the nuts! So, each Saturday he met me at the side of the house, entered the shed, took down a bundle of those savory peanuts, put them into a paper bag, and handed them to me. I offered up my "Thank you" and we walked just a few yards to a large stump which Mr. Knotts used as a stool in his garden. He sat down on the stump while I usually sat in the dirt nearby. He pulled out a shiny harmonica, or "mouth organ" as he called it, and began to play a selection of songs. I was treated to the sounds of "Old Black Joe," "Amazing Grace," "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain," "I Dream of Jeannie With The Light Brown Hair," or some other nostalgic piece. The minutes flew by as he provided me with those very special concerts. It was soon time to go and to continue on my route.
One very special Saturday, I stopped by the Knotts' home for my customary collection. Mrs. Knotts once again met me at the door, paid the delivery fee, and said Mr. Knotts was in the garden awaiting me. I walked around the front of the house to the garden area. Mr. Knotts was sitting at the stump, "mouth organ" in hand. As I approached, he asked me to take a seat beside the stump. I lowered myself onto the dirt, and got as comfortable as I could. Mr. Knotts sat his harmonica on his lap, and reached into the pocket on the front of his bib overalls. "This is for you," he said as he handed a small case to me. "It's about time you learned."
I opened the maroon-colored case to find a bright, shiny, "Marine Band" harmonica. There was a smile on old Mr. Knotts' face as I took the device from the case and examined it. I put it to my mouth and ran a trill back and forth across the reeds. "Now you need to learn some songs," Mr. Knotts said.
Over the next few minutes he talked to me about the harmonica. He demonstrated how to draw in a big breath of air, and then how to blow out or suck in to change the notes. He talked about tempo, and vibrato, and other musical terms. I'd been playing the trumpet for a number of years, so I was familiar with the terminology and what he was attempting to explain to me.
He then taught me the first song I ever played on the harmonica, an old Black spiritual called "Old Black Joe." He played it for me, then talked me through the process as I practiced the notes and melody. After a few minutes, he appeared to be pleased that I "had got it." He reached for his harmonica again, and nodded for me to join him. There, in the midst of his cherished garden, we played a duet.
As I arose to leave and to continue on my route, Mr. Knotts encouraged me to continue practicing and experimenting with tunes. He stood up, handed me the customary bag of peanuts, and walked with me to the front of his house. I mounted my bicycle and offered up another "Thank you" for the harmonica and peanuts.
In weeks to come, we held impromptu harmonica concerts in that very same garden. My weekly visits to his home were highlights of my paper route days. And they continued all that summer and fall, and then into the new year before his death.
I still have that original "Marine Band" harmonica. It has been supplemented over the years with other "mouth organs" from various manufacturers. Some I purchased, some were given to me by my Aunt Esther after the death of my Uncle Bob Coleman - another harmonica enthusiast.
Sometimes I get out those old musical instruments, select one, and offer up my rendition of "Home, Sweet Home" or one of the other tunes which I learned while listening to Mr. Knotts so many, many years ago.
