...and out of nowhere on a Saturday afternoon, my life was changed forever by an unexpected source

About two months ago we had some old friends visit us from California. It was a couple we’ve known for a long time and their two kids (ages 12 and 18). The older child (we love her) will be attending college nearby in the Fall and she was here with her parents for orientation so it was a good time to reconnect with some old friends.  

We go way back with this couple. I attended the same elementary, middle and high school as the father and his wife went to the same middle school and high school as my wife. Not sure you’re following all this…but we all went to the same middle school and high school. I’m a bit older so it wasn’t all at the same time…but the point of all this is…we essentially have roots in the same hood and they really area  wonderful family. 

I hadn’t seen any of them in the 10 years since we’d moved to the nation’s capital, and both the kids had grown considerably since the last time I had. The boy, who was only about two the last time I’d seen him seemed a bit bored with the trip, and though I tried to make conversation with him as we stood on the porch as they arrived, he just didn’t seem to be all that into the trip thus far.

When we walked in the house, I noticed the kid appeared to be mesmerized by the music corner of the living room. Immediately to the left as you enter the room is an upright piano, a clarinet, a guitar and two ukuleles. It’s handy having a lot of instruments around because while it might look impressive, it always seemed to be a good alibi for my inability play any of them particularly well.

The boy just stood there and gazed…and it was clear from the kid’s expression that he was interested in music. His father announced that his son (Jason) loves to play the guitar, and suggested that perhaps I’d allow him to play mine. Trying to be the consummate host I obliged, but I clearly wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

Jason picked up the guitar and sat down on the oversized chair in the opposite corner of the living room by the fireplace. The 12 year-old looked a bit awkward with the six-string in that oddly large chair…but within seconds something magical started to happen as it wasn’t long before he was picking away like Hendrix. I looked across the room at his beaming dad and held out my hands as to say “what the hell?” as Jason played away. His dad just returned the “hell if I know” gesture and simply said… “the kid is just a musical genius.” Jason played for about five minutes and then stopped and abruptly held out the guitar and said “now…you play something.”

I laughed and said I wasn’t about to touch that guitar after that demonstration…and that I may not ever try to play again.  We begin talking about Jason’s guitar prowess and I learned that he’d only been playing for about 18-months. To add insult to injury, he further shared that he was essentially self-taught. I’ve been playing for about 30 years, and I know about 8 chords. This cat was moving his fingers up and down the neck like a rock star…and I’m still struggling to play more than a three chord Willie Nelson song.

Jason asked me to play something again…but I cowardly reiterated I wouldn’t be touching the guitar again anytime soon…especially while he was in the house. His dad, who has also struggled to play for years was laughing, and then Jason said simply “ then play something on the uke.”

For some reason this seemed less threatening, so I picked up the uke and began to play (and sing) something like Blue Hawaii. Jason was smiling from ear-to-ear as I strummed along, and when I finished he enthusiastically said “wow…you are good.” Well, aside from his musical prowess, it was immediately clear that this little liar has a very bright future. He not only plays like Clapton but he’s quick on his feet too and knows what to say even when it’s obviously over-stated. His compliments kept coming…and he convincingly encouraged me to “play something else.”

I told Jason that I could play all night…but that none of the old songs would be anything he’d ever heard. He claimed he didn’t care…and continued to urge me to play. I asked if I played some song if he could follow along on the guitar and he nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders and said “sure…no problem.” I announced that I’d be playing some old country song from the ‘40s called “Careless Hands,” and he smiled and said “cool.”

“It’s in the key of…” I started to say when he held up his hand in a stop-like fashion and blurted out “don’t tell me the key…just start playing.” I hate these arrogant little musical geniuses. I started to strum the uke and sing and within seconds Jason was wailing on the guitar and dressing up the tune like never before. When we finished up, we both simultaneously strummed the same chord…and it was pretty clear to everyone we were headed to Nashville.

When we finished I asked Jason what key we’d been playing. He looked up…thought for a minute, smiled and correctly said “C.” We continued to play several songs…and at least for me, playing with this incredibly talented kid was true magic. After about four songs we took a break…and I began to ask Jason how it was that he could play so effortlessly to songs he’d never heard before. “I have perfect pitch” he responded…but that really didn’t mean anything to me.

“So what” I said… “how does perfect pitch allow you to play along to songs you don’t know.”

“Well, once I figure out the key, I just essentially start playing the appropriate pentatonic scale notes and try to come up with something that sounds cool.”

“What the hell is a pentatonic scale?” I asked.

“Well” Jason responded… “every key has a corresponding pentatonic scale with five notes any of which can be played during the song and it all sounds pretty good. You just have to know the key and the right scale notes. It’s really pretty much a breeze.”

I was really starting to like him a lot less, but after they left and over the course of the next few days, I started researching pentatonic scales on the internet and learned quickly that the kid was right…the theory (or at least that part) really is pretty simple. It wasn’t long before I’d was tinkering on the piano…dressing up old hymns I’d been playing for years with fancy new riffs that dramatically altered the sound (in a good way). Now…regardless of what I’m playing, I’m all about the pentatonic scale. I come into the office in the morning, put on some old hymns or country on Grooveshark, and pick up my uke and play along (most of the time I can find the key). At least while I’m sitting there in the empty office in the morning…it all sounds pretty good.

On the weekends, I can play the piano for hours just expanding on what Jason taught me. Whenever I’m done playing, I turn to my wife and say the exact same thing. “That little sh*t changed my life.”

What’s the point of all this? Well…if you know…please tell me. For over thirty years I’d be struggling to play guitar the exact same way. Three chords (maybe four if I was feeling really adventurous) and singing old cowboy songs as I strummed along. I’ve played for decades with talented guys that could pick lead and they all seemed to have this just natural ability to know what to play. I always thought that…but I never really understood it all. Then, out of nowhere when I least expected it from an unlikely source, this unassuming yet remarkable little kid walks into my living room on a Saturday afternoon in April and changed my musical life. I love this kid...and I owe him too.

It’s a great life.  

BTW…there’s still a song at the end of this unorganized drivel each Friday…and I’m always amazed at how many folks don’t bother to listen (thankfully…there are more that listen to the music and don’t waste time with the stupid blog). I heard today’s song last Saturday night while driving with my wife and  there was just something about it. If you take a few minutes to listen, I have a feeling it will be a good way to kick off your Friday and set the table for a truly splendid weekend.   

 

...and it's your second cousin

...and I really don't need air-conditioned seats

Sometime in 1972, when I was about 11 years old, my father and I stopped at the Jules Myers Pontiac Dealership on the southwest corner of Westwood and Santa Monica Boulevards in West Los Angeles. It was sometime in the early evening on a weekday, and on a whim my dad turned left from the northbound Westwood lanes and pulled into the car lot to look at a brand-spanking new black ‘72 Grand Prix. We were driving a black ’65 Thunderbird at the time (that still shined as well as the day he drove it off the lot in ’65), so sticking with a Pontiac made some sense.

I’ll never forget the test drive that followed. My dad got behind the wheel of that beautiful new union made sled and the salesman hopped into the front passenger seat.  I climbed into the back…and the red vinyl interior looked so luxurious it was like settling into a junior suite at the Waldorf Astoria. It was the first time in my young life that I recall experiencing “that new car smell,” but the most memorable thing about that drive was yet to come.

As my dad pulled out of the dealership to drive north up Westwood (toward the UCLA campus),  the salesman leaned forward and turned on the FM stereo. As an 11 year-old in 1972, I’d never heard the sound of an FM stereo in a vehicle. I’m pretty sure my father hadn’t heard it either and I remember snapping my head around when I realized there was quadrophonic music emanating from the two rear speakers behind me. I’d never heard anything but AM music coming from small speaker in the dash board and now it was like Carnegie Hall on wheels. I remember thinking instantly that we had to by that car.

We didn’t buy the Pontiac. Though my dad tried to dicker with the salesman he couldn’t get him where he wanted. My old man had also heard about a new Ninety Eight Oldsmobile Regency, and he wanted to see that car before he decided what to buy. A couple of weeks later we ended up at the Albertson Oldsmobile dealership on Sepulveda a few miles south in Culver City. Doubt many of you can recall what the Ninety Eight looked like…but it was one of the biggest vehicles tip-to-tail that GM ever made. The Regency (the top-of-the-line for the Ninety Eight) had brushed velour interior and a quadrophonic 8 Track Stereo. If the Grand Prix was like Carnegie Hall, the Olds was like Carnegie Hall meets a high-end Bordello (I mean...as I've imagined).

 After chiseling down the poor sap that was working the showroom floor that night (and walking out the door at least twice), dad bought the car for what I believe was about $5,500.00. Dad had a rule that you should never make an initial offer unless you were embarrassed by the amount (otherwise your initial offer was too high) and though I don’t recall the spread…he drove off the lot paying considerably less than the sticker. We paid cash…because the only thing my old-school father ever reluctantly bought on credit was one home. I’ll never forget when we pulled off of the lot in the new car…my dad announced “well…we just lost one thousand dollars.” He went on to explain that the minute you drove a new car off the lot…you lost money because you could typically never get what you just paid for it.

My depression era mom (she was born in ’29 and lived in North Dakota through the dust bowl years) didn’t sleep for a week after making that luxurious purchase. In the typical conservative form of her Scandinavian ancestors…she was convinced we were shamefully “putting on the dog” and the vehicle was in her words… “just too swell.”

That struck me as strange, because from my perspective my WWII veteran and IBEW electrician father was doing well enough with his collectively bargained wages that he could have bought a Cadillac (or certainly entertained the idea by test driving one). At the end of the day though, he was never going to pay the premium “just for a fancy hood ornament.” He used to say all the time that a Buick, Mercury, Olds, or Pontiac “was plenty good enough for the working man.”

 

Even later in life…when he saved enough that he could have easily afforded his and her Lincolns every other year, he never strayed from his philosophy of restraint. The most luxurious car he ever owned was a Mercury Grand Marquis…and even long after his passing, his last shinny Grand Marquis still sits in his garage in Santa Paula, CA and my 84 year-old mom still drives it every single day. The Merc looks about as good as it did when it was driven off the lot about 10 years ago…and just about every other trip back to California I wash and Simonize it from top-to-bottom while listening to my dad’s old 8-tracks which can still play on his garage stereo.

 I always kind of resented my father’s hood ornament thriftiness when it came to cars…and resolved not to make his same mistake by denying myself the luxury I was so certain I was entitled to. I dumbly bought my first used ’76 Cadillac Seville in my late 20s for $3,000. I remember my dad was disappointed when he first saw it…feeling I’d learned nothing about the conservative spending (or more importantly saving) values he demonstrated so well.  Though a gorgeous ride, that car ended up costing me a fortune…and there was really no good excuse for me driving that kind of vehicle at that age.   

About two weeks ago I drove a new vehicle off the Jim Coleman Cadillac Dealership in Bethesda, MD. The car made me think about my dad…because if it floated, it could easily fit right in to the Carnival or Viking fleet. It is immaculate, and drives like an absolute dream.

Can’t know for sure, but I imagine my dad kind of frowned as I drove off the lot though I’m hopeful he may have felt a little better knowing the car wasn’t new. Sure…I wanted the hood ornament, but like him I didn’t want to fork over the premium price. It was actually a 2005 with 67,000 miles…and after going back-n-forth with the salesman in a way that would have made dad proud, I got it for a song.  The car is in absolutely showroom condition…and I can’t help but think it must have been owned by someone that took care of it just like my dad would have.

What’s the point of all this? Not sure really…just wish I had a bit more of my dad’s saving discipline. I probably spend more on wine each week than my dad spent on meals in a month (even adjusting for inflation). If I applied even half of his restraint in my own life…I’d be retired by now…and no doubt driving a brand-spanking-new Buick with all the options…paid for in cash…at well-below the sticker price.

And I’d drive it for at least 10 years...  

Have a great weekend 

 

Who do you think you're fooling...

 

 

...and today is the Fourth of July

We were just north of Breckenridge, Minnesota, not far beyond the Highway 210 junction (which takes you east to Fergus Falls) and heading home up Highway 75 toward Abercrombie, North Dakota. It was sometime in the mid-to-late ‘80s, and we were driving back at about 10pm on a hot and humid summer night after attending a Sunday evening dance at the Eagles Club in the small Minnesota town of approximately 4,000.

I was probably in my mid to later 20’s at the time, and had tagged along with my uncle Donald (my mom’s brother), who loved to go to various dances around that part of the country and pretty much had an almost nightly routine of various places he could go to listen to music and “dance with the widows.” It probably sounds weird, but I loved going with him to those things and just sitting back and watching all the local color. I like kibitzing with the older folks too…and they always seemed to get a kick out of chatting with the kid from Los Angeles.

It was just a couple of days before the Fourth of July, and we were driving directly into what appeared to be a hellacious electrical storm directly to the north. My uncle had country music playing as we chatted, and I remember commenting that I never recalled seeing a thunder storm that looked quite that ominous. I distinctly recall him replying that I’d probably also never been in a situation where I was driving directly into such a storm…at least voluntarily.  

We were talking about various things when the conversation turned to the looming Fourth of July holiday and the many family  celebrations at his kids (my first cousins) lake places. My cousin Pam would undoubtedly have a BBQ at her place on Pelican Lake, and her brother Brent would surely put on an elaborate show at his beautiful lake place on Lake Lizzie. My uncle started talking about how much he loved the Fourth, and before long he started romanticizing about all the reasons he loved the Fall.

I remember thinking it seemed like an odd segue. We’d just been looking forward to Independence Day and all of the sudden he jumped ahead to thoughts of basement church suppers, threshing festivals, changing leaves and carving pumpkins. As a product of Southern California the Fourth-of-July seemed like early summer to me, and I couldn’t understand how he made the transition to Fall…which at that point in my life still seemed like light-years away.

When I inquired why he was already talking about the Fall, I remember him saying that he’s always thought of the Fourth of July as kind of the gateway to Autumn. That sounded insane to me at the time…but he went on to explain that after the Fourth, the days are rapidly getting shorter, the church suppers start in earnest, he’d be closing down his Crane Lake cabin a month later around Labor Day and it just wouldn’t be long before the cooler temperatures arrived. He basically said that once the Fireworks are over…it won’t be long before we’re decking the halls. He told me when I got older I’d realize that…and boy…my uncle could have been a profit.

I’m 52 now, and the rapidity with which time flies by really is nuts. With every passing year, the craziness somehow conspires with an out-of-control work pace and my growing number of years to create a condition where the months feel like weeks and the weeks pass like days.

When I was a kid storming out the doors of my elementary school on the first day of summer, those three glorious months seemed like a literal lifetime. Now…I no sooner get the patio furniture out, when it seems like I’m pulling up the garden and setting up the decorations for Halloween.

What’s the point of all this…not sure really. Today is the Fourth of July…and once again it snuck up on me and I’m haunted by the fact that I should have planned better how we’d spend it. Time is so precious, and before we know it, summer will be winding down and the back-to-school sales will be in full swing. However you spend the long weekend, make the most of it doing the things that matter the most with the people you care about. Put down the smart phone, stay off email, enjoy some grilled sweet corn, have a glass of lemonade, hold a march to a sparkler and do all you can to take in this wondrous holiday. Most of all, exhale long enough to fully appreciate the precious gift of time. Whether you realize it or not... it’s ticking by way too fast.

Hurrah for the Fourth of July!

 

Something touched me deep inside...