—by Megan Dodson

Occasionally, when I was in the middle of a piece, I’d get the feeling I was being watched even when there were no customers. I’d look up to see her beady yellow eyes staring at me unblinkingly from her perch on a nearby tricycle seat.

The local family-owned farm nearby hosted a farmer’s market every Saturday that included a baker and a boiled peanut vendor in addition to the products from the farm itself. In the rural, sleepy shrimping village of McClellanville, South Carolina, where the grocery store is at least a half-hour drive away, these markets are essential to the community. An unlikely place to find a pedal harp amid the animals and dust, perhaps, but I was just getting back into performing after a long hiatus, and needed a low-pressure place to play. The farm owners and the vendors were extremely welcoming, and if they ever thought it odd to have a harp at their market, they were too polite to say so.

The farmers, the baker, the peanut guy, and I all became friends. We chatted away those long, sunny afternoons in between customers. The baker often came up behind me to look over my shoulder at the music when I played her favorite pieces.

And then there was Mimi.

Mimi was a magnificent golden-brown chicken with a shimmery white tail feather. She was a beloved pet of the farmers and their children. Friendly and curious, more cat-like than chicken, she became something of a mascot for the farm. And she was fascinated by my harp.

She scuttled up to my harp as though she were on a mission. To do what exactly, I never knew. I shooed her away, and she ruffled up her feathers, offended that I would dare spurn her company. Sometimes she stood her ground, not to be thwarted, only to inch ever closer when I became distracted. Occasionally, when I was in the middle of a piece, I’d get the feeling I was being watched even when there were no customers. I’d look up to see her beady yellow eyes, staring at me unblinkingly from her perch on a nearby tricycle seat.

I couldn’t leave the harp for even a minute without delegating a guardian. “I’ll be right back,” I said to the peanut guy, followed by a phrase most harpists will never have to say: “Keep the chicken away from my harp!” On more than one occasion, I’d return to find the peanut guy flapping his arms as though to take flight, chasing Mimi away.

One day, in the middle of the market, there was a commotion by the cow pen. Much mooing and yelling ensued. “COW’S OUT!” hollered the farmer.

The peanut guy jumped up and ran to help, and so did I, without thinking about the fact that I was wearing a dress! And high heels! I dashed—well, stumbled in a hurry—across the grass, clumsy and heels sinking in the dirt. I was completely useless in those shoes, and the farmer and the peanut guy managed to secure the cow before I could do anything to help.

They walked back to me, laughing at the antics of both the cow and me. I joined them for a second, then suddenly remembered…MIMI!

I whipped around and sure enough, Mimi was trucking it toward my harp. I ran/limped back to the harp, firing off a string of threats in one breath,
“MIMINOGETAWAYFROMTHAT
HARPDON’TYOUDARE!” arms waving like a seizing octopus.

Foiled again, Mimi gave a frustrated “buh-GAWK” in retreat. She scurried away, beady eyes fixed on me all the while, no doubt hatching her next grand scheme to conquer the harp. •