For three days and three nights last week, the little people in my house formed a kindergarten jam band. They played a mix of Appalachian instruments and homegrown noise, creating a perfectly imperfect and off-key soundtrack for any family with two people still riding in booster seats.
Like all jam bands, this one seemed to never end. Between bites of Cheerios, our kids huffed and puffed on their harmonicas, lathered with skim milk, trying to blow the house down. Around lunch, they snapped strings on the banjo. On the front porch steps, they slapped their legs and chest in hambone style as the sun began to set.
The dog hid. Neighbors shut their windows. I felt like I’d hopped a freight-car full of hobos.
“How long will this song last?” I asked.
Clinching his harmonica in his teeth, my little Woody Guthrie mumbled an answer.