During 30 years of playing the harp professionally, I had (spoiler alert) never missed a gig. From lake effect snowstorms in Cleveland to blizzard conditions in Michigan to monsoon season in Houston, neither rain, nor sleet, nor gloom of another holiday office party could stay me from arriving, usually early, at my appointed destination.
One Sunday in early December a few years back, I awoke to a typical harpist’s agenda: morning church service followed by a holiday party at 4:00 p.m. Child’s play. Having loaded all my equipment and music for both gigs into the car the night before, I dressed in Sunday-morning orchestra black figuring I had plenty of time to come home for lunch and don fancier attire for the party. The forecast was calling for light snow so I threw in a pair of boots in case the harp moving turned messy. Little did I know how useful they would turn out to be.
After a quick stop at Starbucks, I arrived at the church with time to spare. The skies were clear and not a flake had begun to fall. But by the end of the service, the ground was covered and the snow was coming down. I pulled out my iPhone to check the traffic. Sure enough, the freeway was a red parking lot—aided in part by Eagles game traffic—but the local cross-town route was all green so I headed in that direction. Cue ominous music…
The side streets quickly became a skating rink and I found myself at the bottom of a hill stuck behind a line of cars unable to get up the other side. As minutes turned into hours it became clear I wouldn’t have time to change before the second gig, but no worries as I still looked professional and had my music and everything else I needed. Hours became more hours until the reality sunk in that I was not going to make the second gig, at all, which fortunately ended up being canceled since none of the guests could make it either.
But the story doesn’t end there. I was still stuck at the bottom of the giant hill. With nary a salt truck in sight, no one was going anywhere, and it was beginning to get dark. I was confronted with every harpist’s worst choice: sit in a freezing car for who knew how long, or leave the car with the harp in it and make my way home another way.
I managed to park on a sketchy side street and walk a mile to the train, which thankfully had not been affected by the weather. Another hike from the central station and finally I was home. After a sleepless night worrying about my harp, a kind friend drove me back the next day where I found everything as I had left it.
The moral of this story is threefold: always pack snow boots; pack everything the night before; and there’s always time to stop at Starbucks. You just may find that you need that cup for a different purpose when nature calls. •
