Another Year Older, for both of us

Every year at about this time, I post something about the son. His birthday is coming up and I always remember and recall things from his childhood; his playing with the old yogurt cups in the kitchen as I made dinner. His drumming on the plastic tubs in the living room with his dad and sister as they played some discordant marching song.

He is so far away sometimes. Not just geographically, which of course, he is. But I don't get the day to day interactions, the little asides, the small smiles. I was suddenly cognizant of the fact that I hadn't shared his birthday with him since when he went away to college. The new semester always began before his birthday--had usually just started--so coming home wasn't an option. I haven't seen our son for his birthday for over ten years. It really got me today as I mailed his card and present. It is not a tragedy, I realize that. There are more earth shattering and mind bending things that are happening in the world today. But in my little corner, I came to the realization that he's ambled through almost half as many birthdays without the family as with them. I got all choked up (as I'm sure my family would say I am wont to do). Birthdays are special to my way of thinking. I have always loved celebrating them with others and for others. But he hasn't been home to celebrate with us for a very long time. I'm sure he has his own rituals now. He is doing something really cool for his birthday this year with his friends. But his family isn't sitting around the table with him having his "favorite" dinner nor eating that artery hardening cake we used to get for him.

I'm not going to dwell on this fact anymore, though. I'm made of sterner stuff. I will step out and go to work as usual on his birthday. One foot in front of the other. One hour passing by another until the day is done. Wishing for a candle to blow out in his honor. I miss him sometimes too much I guess. Happy Birthday, son. Love you lots.

Sometimes it Gets You, Right Here

Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Look it up, I'll wait...

This is what it says on its site:

     New Orleans’ Preservation Hall was established in 1961 to honor one of America’s truest art forms – Traditional New Orleans Jazz. Operating as a music venue, a touring band, and a non-profit organization, Preservation Hall continues its mission today as a cornerstone of New Orleans music and culture.

     Situated in the heart of the French Quarter on St. Peter Street, the Preservation Hall venue presents intimate, acoustic New Orleans Jazz concerts over 350 nights a year featuring ensembles from a current collective of 100+ local master practitioners. On any given night, audiences bear joyful witness to the evolution of this venerable and living tradition.

I've known about this place since like, forever. I've never visited New Orleans, but our dad was a huge fan. Knew the names of the famous people who played there, loved the music. It was a place he spoke of in that whispered excited voice of his, whenever he discussed music of his heart. I'm not sure, but it seems like he owned one recording of the band as he knew it. I don't recall listening to it, just knowing about it or seeing the cover, something in sepia tones and old, black guys on the cover. It was just another kind of music he listened to. I appreciated that jazz was a music he liked. But scat and some other forms just weren't my thing, so I guess I sort of dismissed it.

Fast forward to today. Our son, a music lover, composer, joyful participant in all things melodious and not so much had ventured to New Orleans as part of one of those "new-fangled" bachelor destination parties. He is a member of the bridal party and so he went. When he called to speak of various and sundry things, we asked how the "bachelor party" way down south went. He spoke of the food and the drink and the camaraderie of young men enjoying themselves together in a new place. But he then began to speak of the vibe of New Orleans. "There's music everywhere," he said. "I've never been in a place where music happened all over, it was part of the fabric of the place." And then he told us of visiting St. Peter Street. The temperature was hot and steamy. But it was like no other place he had ever been. It was called Preservation Hall. I hadn't heard those words together in a very, very long time. And my throat closed up and my eyes watered. And I knew my dad was thrilled beyond anything that his grandson had visited the land of clarinets, drums and trumpets slowly ambling across a melody while bodies swayed and feet thumped to the rhythms of the players. How could I explain the thrill of hearing him say he was there? Well, his birthday is coming up, but he just gave me the best present I ever got this year. He walked in the steps of Dixieland and heard the blues and jazz the way they were meant to be played by the band that knows how to play them. His granddad in heaven is smiling to beat the band...any band...anywhere.