The Harmonicat
When I was 10 years old my grandfather, normally a skinflint, in a moment of generosity gave me my first harmonica: a busted-up model he'd played himself during his service in World War I, on which only half the notes worked. It could be blown, but sucking produced nothing but dust and a bad taste. Still, I managed passable versions of "Taps" and "Reveille," enough to encourage Mom to stash a spiffy new Hohner under the next Christmas tree.