Gramp

My aunt Helen sent me a picture of me and my grandfather--one I've never seen before. We all called him Gramp. Over time he became a legendary figure, a no-nonsense man from that generation of pipe-smoking, hat-wearing, crusty tough guys who you normally don't see spread out on the lawn and playing with a toddler.

Gramp lost a leg as a teenager. That much was true because I saw him several times without his prosthetic. He told us he was run over by a train, but he had lots of stories; about living with the Indians in Canada and about meeting Clark Gable while working as a lumberjack (and encouraging him to go to Hollywood). Who knows?

Also to entertain us, he often recited this poem (unless my mom could stop him before he got to the end). I can't remember all the verses, but here's the general idea:

Went down town, bought me a shovel
Shovel wouldn't dig, traded it for a pig
Pig wouldn't squeal, traded it for a wheel
Wheel wouldn't run, traded it for a gun
Gun wouldn't shoot, traded it for a boot
Boot wouldn't fit so I threw it in a pit
And covered it with shit
And that was the end of it.

But mostly he is remembered for not being overly sentimental. I was crying like a little girl in the backyard once, probably for no reason at all, and he walked out and told me to shut up and then walked back into the house. I don't remember the exact words; he may have said Shut your yap or even Quit your belly-aching.

He was right--it's not complicated. There's no crying in the backyard...

No Toilets

It doesn't seem possible, but I quit playing music professionally over 20 years ago. I use the word professionally only in the loosest sense, in that it was my job (and my only job) for about 12 years. As for the quality of my playing, I was certainly no professional, and I'm still amazed that anyone ever gave me money. We do live in a great country.

Other than the playing, I liked nothing about that life: the late hours, other musicians, loud smokey bars, drunk people, lousy pay, mean or insane club owners, hours on the road, etc.

Once, while standing in a men's room, the guy next to me (another, much older musician) said to me, "They're all toilets," meaning all nightclubs and bars. Even the nicest ones, he said. No difference. Who, I thought to myself, wants to spend their life in a toilet?

So I got out, though it sure took awhile. Still... sometimes I think it would be nice to play with other musicians again. But no toilets.

Jazz, On The Page

I just recorded some jazz piano. But now I can't find the cord to download the videos from the camera, and that's probably just as well. If I had to choose one word to describe the videos: boring. (And that's one of the nicer words.)

Funny, because I didn't feel at all bored while playing. My ears were buzzing, my heart racing, my toes tapping, my mind struggling to get things right, struggling to turn those notes on the page transformed into instructions for my fingers, which is the opposite of how I played for years--from memory and while watching my fingers go wherever they liked.

Each day I get a little better at sight-reading and I enjoy it more and more, like reading a good book, lost in time for a while, even to the point that I can't actually hear the boring crap I'm playing as I'm playing it. But it's a struggle, and my improvement is measured in snail steps.

I could just memorize these songs and watch my fingers play them, but I'm determined to stay on the page. My fingers (to be honest) are stuck in some smoke-filled blues club of the past, and they don't like being told what to do.

Sometimes, usually early in the morning when my brain is not too worn out, I can read through a difficult passage effortlessly, and I get it. Like a teacher once said: "Playing an instrument is easy; playing music is hard." Or, as jazz musicians like to say, "Cool."

Except I'm almost never cool.

Looking at this from a broader perspective, I would probably be happier if I didn't record videos of my playing or, in general, if I didn't spend too much time measuring my own coolness. Oh well, one snail step at a time.

The Best Halloween

I never liked Halloween. I only have one fuzzy memory from my youth, walking up to my neighbor's house in, I suppose, a costume of some kind, though I just remember a paper sack in my hand and some abstract fear that made me reluctant to press the door bell. What if I say "trick or treat" and they just stare at me.

The next memory comes from the late 70's. I'm playing music in big dance hall that is strategically placed next to a truck stop and several college bars. It's Halloween--I can tell because all of the women are dressed up like tramps, which is ironic because they are always dressed like tramps, only without as much imagination.

That brings me to the present. I made some pizza Sunday night (thanks to the bread book recipe that Gisah sent me) and Cheryl and I sat out front, with a huge bucket of candy and a little table between us, with Cheryl's new iPad set up to watch a movie while we waited--laughing and eating pizza and talking--for the neighborhood kids to show but only a few came, fewer each year, and that's OK. A little girl dressed as Tinkerbell was cute and said nice things about our house. We packed it up at around 8pm and finished the movie and pizza inside.

As always, I'm the luckiest guy in the world.

Bamboo Takes One for the Team

I'm convinced that the nice stand of Bambusa oldhamii in our back yard is smarter than most plants. Spooky smart. Until a few weeks ago, the canopy was very full on all sides, and then it just opened up around the new culms. Before, you couldn't see the new shoots at all. Now, they are clearly visible, limbless and shooting to the sky.

Why did this happen? To allow in some sun, I suppose. I don't know. I mean, how does a plant know to do that? The other plants out back are just mildly opportunistic--they grow and push and shove until I reprimand them or until the rain quits feeding them. But they don't make room for other plants.

The Bamboo, though, always seems to be thinking and working together. It (or is it a they?) drops its leaves and sleeves on the ground and creates it own mulch. Each culm sends out branches, but not to compete with the neighbor culms--there always seems to be enough sunlight for all. Not bad for beings in such a crowded space.

Now I've discovered that 3 or 4 of the culms are broken at the top. Sure, maybe the wind snapped them.

Or maybe it was intentional, knowing that the real estate is limited up there on top, with just enough room for a few branches at the crown, so maybe they drew straws (as plants are known to do) and the short straws took the hit for the good of the team and snapped themselves.

Anyway, it's just a theory in progress...

Frisbee Season

Frisbee season is officially open for Willow now that things have cooled off. She would gladly play all year long, but after watching her pass out from heat exhaustion a few years ago, I have probably become overly cautious. Even on a cool day we only play for a few minutes.

We are reminded lately that Willow is getting old--she's almost 10, but what does that really mean? Her behavior has certainly improved. No more hopping up and down like a bunny, jumping on house guests. Is this evidence of old age?

And I'm sure there are other signs that I rationalize or refuse to see (like those gray hairs on her chin), just as I do when looking in the mirror.

So I have to accept the possibility that we are growing old together, slowing down like objects on Einstein's train, slowing down from the perspective from others but unaware of that fact, maybe...

A video might make the case one way or the other, so I took one. Slowing down? Not this season.