Random Thoughts

For the last ten days or so, I've been on hiatus from social media. It's an annual break and one I deliberately chose to take because I'm doing something I enjoy and that keeps me sane--I go to the Collie Nationals. This year the Collie Nationals were held in Salt Lake City. Taking nine dogs to a show that is a solid 2.5 day's drive from home requires logistical planning on par with moving a small army. To accomplish that trip required the rental of a trailer to haul equipment to Salt Lake City. (Fortunately, we didn't need the trailer coming home because two of those nine were going to forever homes on the trip there.)

About five hours into this trip and well after dark, near St. Charles, MO, the ball hitch for the trailer lost the nut holding it securely to the bumper. Crossing a bridge in desperate need of repair bounced the trailer, complete with ball still securely held in the hitch yoke, out of the bumper. Fortunately, a professional driver of a big rig saw what happened, laid on his horn, and flashed his lights at me. Another car drove by and the driver shouted out his window to my friend and passenger we were dragging the trailer. Neither of us had any idea what was going on and I tapped the brakes. Immediately, said loose trailer began swaying all over the place. I knew then we had a major problem. The semi driver stayed on my bumper with his flashers going and cleared all four lanes of traffic so I could get to the exit at the bottom of the bridge. Another driver in a pickup followed us off the interstate and to the well-lit parking lot of a business very near the off ramp. This driver offered help. 

Four hours later, after a call to the 800 number of the rental company, we were finally back on the road with a brand new ball hitch that had been properly tightened and secured. (As a Facebook friend said when I first posted this image--"LockTite is your friend!") 

It could have been a lot worse than simply a sheered off ball hitch. We could have been tail-ended and the trailer driven up into the van, possibly injuring dogs. The trailer could have fishtailed and jack-knifed around into the van. Or worse, it could have caused me to lose control of the van and either forced us into traffic or off the bridge. None of that happened. The whole thing amounted to little more than a four hour delay and a bit of an inconvenience. 

I'm pretty sure my guardian angel was working overtime that night and when he or she went off duty had a good stiff drink. I know I did when we finally got to the hotel that night. 

I grew up in a house full of music. My dad was a huge fan of swing, and the big band music, and Drum Corps, International. My maternal grandfather taught me to appreciate and love classical music. I played trumpet in high school. I was darn good, too. I could make that brass sweat and shiver. One of the regrets in my life was not pursuing music further. My kids were in marching band. My daughter played the flute. My son played the clarinet, including the sopranino, and taught himself to play the saxophone.

On occasion, I que up the big band music while writing. Benny Goodman at Carnegie Hall in the thirteen-minute-long version of “Sing, Sing, Sing” takes me back to the days my kids were in high school. During the off season from marching band, the high school band would hold multiple fund raisers. (It ain’t cheap to keep uniforms clean, keep the equipment truck running…) One of those fund raisers the band held every spring was “Jazz Café”. The school cafeteria was turned into a flippin’ speak-easy. Band members were bouncers and if you didn’t know the password, you didn’t get in. Of course, for a “bribe” (ticket price admission), they’d let you in. 

As a freshman, my son auditioned for the Jazz Café band. He was told there wasn’t a lot of clarinet music in jazz. His response—“Excuse me, Mr. *******, but does the name Benny Goodman ring a bell with you?” Mr. ****** told my son that if he played sax, he’d have a seat. Literally over the weekend, my boy taught himself the fingering for a sax, borrowed a friend’s sax, and marched into Mr. *****’s office on Monday morning and played several jazz pieces, impromptu. He had his seat. He then proceeded to rewrite every single piece the band was playing that year from sax to clarinet and played both instruments. Oddly enough, he also never played the sax in jazz band after that year, either.

For Jazz Café, the band would invite professional jazz musicians to sit in with them for the evening. My son’s junior year, “Sing, Sing, Sing” was on the play list. That year, the professional musician sitting in with the jazz band was a Grammy award winning jazz clarinetist. My son had to audition to get the solos in “Sing, Sing, Sing.” My boy got those solos. I cried when he came home and told me he got them over a professional jazz musician. 

Every year, Jazz Café was closed out with a long version of “Sweet Home, Chicago.” At the end of the song, ****** would have the students “trade fours.” (For the uninitiated, the first student would play four measures. The second student then improvises on that four and the first student has to improv on that improv.) Usually, after going back and forth about three or four times ***** would point to two other students. Sometimes, if they were feeling brave, a student could trade fours with the professional musician. After about three sets of trading fours, this professional musician stood up to trade with a student. The whole jazz band was shouting at my son, “Take him, Shoots. You got him.” 

My son kept trying to pass. Finally, ***** pointed his baton at my son. My boy stood up, dipped his head to the other clarinetist, letting him go first. Remember, I said, ***** would stop the trades after about three or four back and forth improvisations. Twenty minutes later, with the ONLY sound in that cafeteria other than the soft timpani of a snare drum for the beat, my son racked a four measure across the ceiling, down the walls, and crawled it over the floor. The snare drum tapped out about six beats, then that professional set his clarinet on its stand, put his hands together at his chest, and bowed deeply to my son. My boy had played a four he couldn’t repeat and therefore couldn’t improv on. 

My son brought the house down. Everyone was on their feet, screaming and cheering and clapping. I saw it all happen and saw it happening before even my son realized what he was doing. He was outplaying, out-improving a professional musician. 

So, what’s my son doing these days? He still plays—but not professionally. He’s still as good as he was. I once asked him if he regretted not pursuing music further (after that performance, he had a couple of universities after him to come and play for them, and one offered a full ride). He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Nah. If I went after it as a profession, it would have been a job and I would have hated it. I just love to play, Mom.” 
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“Sing, Sing, Sing” reminds me of that. When I look at my writing as a profession, I don’t enjoy it. I just keep writing because I love to write. And, even students can be as good as (and sometimes better) than the pros. I’ll keep tradin’ fours until I write it to a standstill.