March 7, 2013
You put yourself through college playing gigs and working odd shifts at the local hospital.
Were you buddies with the other guys in the picture?
Is one of them actually Al Anderson?
In my head I hear you say, “They were all nice fellas.” That was one of your words.
Years later, when I was about eight, you said to six of my boy friends who were playing a bit too rough for your liking, “Hey fellas, take it easy.”
To this day I’m not sure if they stopped because of the inherent authority of your presence, or because they were so startled by the word “fellas.”
You called Steve, my brother, “Ace.”
Even me, once in a while too.
Neither of us knows from where that came.
I imagine you taking a break at that gig in the picture. Outside the back door of this school auditorium? Dance hall? It’s freezing cold, and you’re all hunched over in stiff tuxedos with smoky breaths rising, cigarettes cupped in your hands. You talk about what song to play next, which girl is the prettiest, how much snow will fall.
Isn’t it funny, this life you had? I’ve spent countless years trying to understand the Dad you were. These days I wonder about the younger you…before you were a Dad, a husband, a businessman, a coach. When you were just a horn player. Just a fella.