Sometimes, You Fix a Tape by Playing the Harmonica

Last week, the elegant Italian lady returned with three more MiniDV tapes—numbers 15, 16, and 17.

While handing them to me, she smiled and said she had been busy taking care of her mother.

"My mother is very old now."

I nodded.

"One day, all of us will be."

Then she told me something happier.

"My daughter is coming to stay with me for a while."

And, as often happens in our little print shop, the conversation quietly drifted toward children, parents, and the strange rhythm of generations.

While waiting, she noticed my novel, Nonimportantech.

"I love reading," she said. "I'd like to buy your book."

But she had already spent all the cash she had on transferring the first three MiniDV tapes.

So I handed her the book anyway.

"Take it home," I said. "You can pay me next time."

Some stories deserve to begin before the transaction is finished.

Yesterday I started digitizing her tapes.

Then I discovered something worrying.

One of them was broken.

The magnetic tape had snapped inside the cassette.

Normally that wouldn't be too difficult—except this particular MiniDV cassette had no visible screws. It seemed to have been sealed during manufacturing.

I couldn't simply open it.

So I stared at it for a while.

Then, for reasons I still can't fully explain, I put the cassette to my lips and blew gently through one side, almost as if I were playing a harmonica.

To my surprise, the loose end of the tape slowly floated out from the other side.

I laughed.

Then I blew from the opposite direction.

The other end appeared too.

Annie and I carefully joined the two ends together, rewound the cassette, and successfully recovered the recording.

Sometimes technology yields not to force, but to patience.

Or perhaps to a little music.

By the way...

I play the harmonica rather well.

Maybe that helped.

Maybe every skill we learn eventually finds its own unexpected moment.

Even if it takes years.