Saturday, Oct 21, 2023 

I can still hear the sound … the vibrating clasps of his trumpet case, cracking open from the back room.

The ritual, reverberating release. A sound of dedication. I remember it clear as yesterday because I heard it so often growing up. Followed by him trudging dutifully downstairs, closing the basement door behind him … to disappear the world for a bit.

Scales on repeat. Low tones held long, the horn players’ equivalent of planking. After a good half hour or more woodshedding, he’d always save room for dessert.  Whatever he was feeling in that moment on that day, always rubato so there was ample space for his spirit to move. Sometimes blues, sometimes Harry James, sometimes a classic … a la Mood Indigo. 

The joy of each and every gig. From my drumset, from my best seat in the house, I’d look over to my right to catch him standing up a couple bars before a solo. He’d tip the mic up, limber his fingers for a microsecond, draw a deep inhale, bend his knees, lean back, close his eyes … and just blow. On occasion, he’d confess to me on break, “Got a good lip tonight.” When I heard that, I’d lo-key petition Sam the bandleader for something that featured a couple choruses … maybe “Woodchopper’s Ball,” or “Tuxedo Junction.” He prided himself on never playing the same solo twice … save when he’d pay respects to James’ sinister intro on “Two O’Clock Jump,” or signature sweetness on “You Made Me Love You” (game respects game). Writing the names … I can still conjure his heart and tone in notes long since gifted to the ether.

Even after age and the frictions of the late nights and travel nudged him to give up gigging, he’d still shed. Dutifully downstairs to his sacred space …. or to his bedroom when the basement steps became too much. For years and years. After his quadruple bypass. After the aneurysms. After heart failure. After each, he couldn’t wait to pick up his horn. Get back at it. Always gave him something to look forward to. In the hospital … he relished when they’d want to test his lungs, giving him this plastic apparatus to blow into, see how high he could make a red ball in the tube go, and for how long he could hold it there. He’d hand the thing back to the nurse afterwards like droppin’ a mic. “I’m a trumpet player,” he’d say with pride.  

I remember once visiting with him at the kitchen table in the days after Mom passed, and him excusing himself … to practice … going back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Then the sound of the clasps. The scales. Then … WIL-low weep … for me … WIL-low … weep … for me .… Mourning in rubato. Disappearing the world for a bit.

Even in his last years, even in his failing health, whenever I’d call or stop, he’d update me on his practicing. “I think I’m getting stronger,” he’d always say, referring to his lip and lungs. He was always looking forward.

When I got older, if I wasn’t able to visit him on his birthday, I’d call. “Hey, dad,” I’d say when he’d answer. Then … 

“Peeeeeete!” 

How his voice would pitch up a couple notes in excitement. Every time. I can’t remember a time when he wasn’t excited to hear from me. I don’t recall him ever saying it wasn’t a good time.

“Peeeete!” 

I think I might miss that sound more than the sound of his horn. 

It’s a very human and comforting thing to imagine what loved ones might be doing in the hereafter. 

So, on what would’ve been his 96th birthday earlier this week, here is my imagining …. 

After cringing through the angels and Mom serenading him “Happy Birthday,” (Mom always sang flat, he often lamented), taking his sweet time making his wish, extinguishing all the candles in one shot with his trumpet lungs, summarily housing an entire Bob Evans Banana Cream pie by himself, then washing it down with a Jamocha shake from Arby’s (bottomless, his appetite), and taking a good hour ‘doing his teeth’ as his belly settled …

Dessert.

… the glorious release of the reverberating claps on his case, shedding for a bit to get loose … then hopping on stage to jam with a proper upright bass player, a pianist who knows from fat, juicy chords, and a drummer laying it down … knees bent, eyes closed, leaning back, taking chorus after chorus after chorus on a B-flat blues, making time melt playing to the wee hours. 

How I can hear the sounds.