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Of black hats and jazz music.
Alright, here's a piece from my memoirs. It's my favorite that I've written so far, and was received well by the group too. Plus, it's upbeat, so I thought it'd make a nice place to start.
Against a rippling beige backdrop, he holds the saxophone in smooth fingers, eyes crinkled shut in the thrill of the music, just like in those old photographs of jazz musicians that my step-dad keeps on his wall. He’s young, jeans worn and grass-stained, suit jacket poking out around shoulders that have yet to broaden. At first glance, it’s hard to tell if the picture was staged or if the camera was just lucky to catch such a vibrant moment. Next to the young boy stands a tall man, thick like an improvised groove. His jacket’s the same color as the boy’s, but his suit includes matching pants and a tailored white shirt. Barely visible behind Coke-bottle glasses, his eyes look softly out of the frame, and his mouth is pulled tight. He leans the way the boy does, arms shifted slightly from where they’d lay naturally, a single shine of gold highlighting his left hand. On their heads, they both wear black hats with flat rims and flatter tops.
I think Erik still has those hats, up in his bedroom. They picked them up right before the funeral, telling Mom that hats would make them look more polished. She knew that was a flat out lie – she can always tell that sort of thing, even when it’s not as obvious as it was that time. Erik just wanted the hat because he thought it was cool, and Joe felt the same way. I wasn’t there then – Great-Grandma died during the middle of a term, and I returned Mom’s phone call right after finishing an exam to hear all about the ceremony. She was 94 years old and had lived a simple life of pet black widows nestled on her doorstep and scrambled eggs for visiting relatives no matter the time of day. Her passing wasn’t like her daughter’s – we lost Grandma Lois quickly, violently, unexpectedly. Great-Grandma didn’t do that. She just got old. She just got tired. And when the winter had cleared up and the sun was shining in my window far too bright for me to take a nap, she just decided to sleep.
The funeral was less of a funeral and more of a family reunion and a celebration of her life. Erik hadn’t even parted his hair for the event – he just let it fall the way it always did, and threw a suit jacket over his play clothes before they set out. If Joe had been that age, he would’ve been dressed just the same, but his grown-up instincts told him that a classy suit would be the most fun thing to dress up in. With the hat on, you couldn’t even see his bald head, or the gray patches of hair above his ears. When the food ran out and the energy didn’t, everyone migrated back to my family’s house to continue the fun. Mom found a camera, Erik found his saxophone, and Joe found the rhythm of the party.
I know, because I know the people involved, that the photograph is entirely sincere. In the photo, my little brother’s fingers are smooth and soft because he hasn’t been playing music for long. But he’s a natural, and the pose he strikes isn’t faked. He inhales the emotions of the day, the reality of death and the love of life, and sends them singing through brass and into the ears of family. The man next to him shares no blood with us or with the woman whose life we saluted that day – his bond to my mother shines on his left ring finger, the same brilliant hue as Erik’s saxophone. He’s family, though, more family than any of us thought he would be, and his lean towards Erik is one of affection. His arms are in the middle of some funky dance move that only Joe would think of, fingers pantomiming the playing of an instrument. It’s the essence of their relationship, both creating in their own ways, loving the moment, and finding harmony in the company.
I don’t know the entire story of that night, but I like to think that Erik kept playing for hours. He composed a tune of cheap black hats and chilly night air in Reno that no one will ever hear again. By his side, Joe moved his fingers to play the same tune, only on an instrument that no one could identify or even see. When the energy finally waned, guests leaving for home or hotel, and Mom ushered both boys off to bed, they fell asleep with their toes plucking out notes in the air.
Against a rippling beige backdrop, he holds the saxophone in smooth fingers, eyes crinkled shut in the thrill of the music, just like in those old photographs of jazz musicians that my step-dad keeps on his wall. He’s young, jeans worn and grass-stained, suit jacket poking out around shoulders that have yet to broaden. At first glance, it’s hard to tell if the picture was staged or if the camera was just lucky to catch such a vibrant moment. Next to the young boy stands a tall man, thick like an improvised groove. His jacket’s the same color as the boy’s, but his suit includes matching pants and a tailored white shirt. Barely visible behind Coke-bottle glasses, his eyes look softly out of the frame, and his mouth is pulled tight. He leans the way the boy does, arms shifted slightly from where they’d lay naturally, a single shine of gold highlighting his left hand. On their heads, they both wear black hats with flat rims and flatter tops.
I think Erik still has those hats, up in his bedroom. They picked them up right before the funeral, telling Mom that hats would make them look more polished. She knew that was a flat out lie – she can always tell that sort of thing, even when it’s not as obvious as it was that time. Erik just wanted the hat because he thought it was cool, and Joe felt the same way. I wasn’t there then – Great-Grandma died during the middle of a term, and I returned Mom’s phone call right after finishing an exam to hear all about the ceremony. She was 94 years old and had lived a simple life of pet black widows nestled on her doorstep and scrambled eggs for visiting relatives no matter the time of day. Her passing wasn’t like her daughter’s – we lost Grandma Lois quickly, violently, unexpectedly. Great-Grandma didn’t do that. She just got old. She just got tired. And when the winter had cleared up and the sun was shining in my window far too bright for me to take a nap, she just decided to sleep.
The funeral was less of a funeral and more of a family reunion and a celebration of her life. Erik hadn’t even parted his hair for the event – he just let it fall the way it always did, and threw a suit jacket over his play clothes before they set out. If Joe had been that age, he would’ve been dressed just the same, but his grown-up instincts told him that a classy suit would be the most fun thing to dress up in. With the hat on, you couldn’t even see his bald head, or the gray patches of hair above his ears. When the food ran out and the energy didn’t, everyone migrated back to my family’s house to continue the fun. Mom found a camera, Erik found his saxophone, and Joe found the rhythm of the party.
I know, because I know the people involved, that the photograph is entirely sincere. In the photo, my little brother’s fingers are smooth and soft because he hasn’t been playing music for long. But he’s a natural, and the pose he strikes isn’t faked. He inhales the emotions of the day, the reality of death and the love of life, and sends them singing through brass and into the ears of family. The man next to him shares no blood with us or with the woman whose life we saluted that day – his bond to my mother shines on his left ring finger, the same brilliant hue as Erik’s saxophone. He’s family, though, more family than any of us thought he would be, and his lean towards Erik is one of affection. His arms are in the middle of some funky dance move that only Joe would think of, fingers pantomiming the playing of an instrument. It’s the essence of their relationship, both creating in their own ways, loving the moment, and finding harmony in the company.
I don’t know the entire story of that night, but I like to think that Erik kept playing for hours. He composed a tune of cheap black hats and chilly night air in Reno that no one will ever hear again. By his side, Joe moved his fingers to play the same tune, only on an instrument that no one could identify or even see. When the energy finally waned, guests leaving for home or hotel, and Mom ushered both boys off to bed, they fell asleep with their toes plucking out notes in the air.