jazz lover

This past weekend, one of our sons performed in the band's annual Jazz Festival. Of course I went to see him, and I enjoyed every minute of the performance, as well as the time I put in volunteering for the event. Something happened, though, that made this particular performance all the more special.

I saw my dad.

Oftentimes, my friends or family members will tell me of the dreams they have had about those they have lost, but in all these years, I've only had two dreams (one that was particularly reassuring, and one that still has me perplexed), and I've felt his warm, one-armed hugs on many occasions, but this was the first time that I saw him, with me, where I was.

When my sister and I were kids, my parents had a subscription to the local Little Theater, and we would go to see all kinds of plays, musicals, and concerts. The Clemens Center Theater was--and still is--a beautiful place, and always seemed so huge to me; with velvet covered seats, long aisles, a balcony, and a nifty orchestra pit. We learned theater etiquette there, which carried on to lecture hall and classroom etiquette later on. We learned to read the program, cover to cover, because each person listed is listed for a reason (that's why we watch credits after movies--as Kermit said in The Rainbow Connection, "Those people have families, too."), which has recently led me to designing programs for the Jazz Festival. During intermission, Dad would encourage us to go for a walk with him, up and down the aisles, exploring the details of the theater. We might take a look at the reliefs on the walls, or wonder about the instruments in the pit, or even sit in a vacant seat for a moment to see how different the perspective was. The result of all of this is that when I go to any theater, I drink in the details, comparing and contrasting them with the performance, other theaters, even the cost of my ticket. I love it! And it reminds me of all those intermissions with Dad.

In that way, I've been reminded of him many, many times, but only in my heart. And a smile comes to my lips as I say a silent "thanks" to him for teaching me to appreciate what others might take for granted. And, like him, whenever I leave a performance, I tend to be humming or singing one of the songs, or repeating favorite lines.

Following a few of the boys' concerts, I have been moved to tell them that I think Grampa would have liked some piece in particular, and I do believe it when I say it--it's not just to bring up his name. There have even been a few times that I have cried, wishing he could have been there to see and hear them.

Saturday was different.

I knew our son had a solo, but I didn't know which song. Sitting in the balcony's opera seats with Mom and our youngest, I sat excitedly chatting and sharing stories with a dear friend. Our band started to play, and they sounded great. The all looked so enthusiastic, and the band director beamed at them. (I like the opera seats because I can see his expression, too.) Just before the solo, I saw Dad. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his smiling eyes half closed with joy. His lips, also smiling, were slightly parted in his "da--da--da" position as he oh-so-softly sang along. Elbows raised, fingertips touching as though ready to snap out the rhythm, he chair-danced along.

As my heart leaped, two tears ran down my cheeks and I watched Dad tune out everything except his grandson: never a more beautiful sight.