Dixieland

My daddy kept his record collection on a shelf in closet by the front door - Pete Fountain, Pee Wee Hunt, Al Hirt, King Creole, and my own favorite, The Preservation Hall Jazz Band of New Orleans. Dixieland was the very first music I ever heard and came to love in my whole life.

On a perfect November afternoon, I sat on the grass just a few feet from this amazing group of men, all in black suits, white shirts and ties, and listened to a faultless blend of drums, piano, and horns. I've rarely felt so lucky or so carried away and I couldn't help but think how my daddy would've absolutely loved this day. There were people all around me, applauding and dancing, children being swung in the air in the arms of parents, shutters clicking a mile a minute. It was, not to put too fine a point on it, glorious.

If anything bound my daddy and me, it was music. We played it, listened to it, talked about it and loved it. My mother was lukewarm about it and neither of my brothers cared in the least, but my daddy and I were die hard fans, it was in our blood and our hearts and we couldn't have imagined life without it. He taught me chords from the time I was old enough to reach a keyboard, played me blues from New Orleans and Chicago until I knew every note, told me stories of playing in a band in the army. I knew all the names, famous and unknown, could recognize a style and signature of a player after just a few notes, knew their stories and histories. Each time he brought a new record home, he waited until the house was empty then we listened together. It made him smile, tap his fingers and feet, made the sadness in his eyes lighten.

Mostly he played the piano but every now and then he took out a battered old clarinet, handled it delicately and played along with the records. At the farm, he strapped on an accordion and along with my Uncle Byron would play til the cows came home while the rest of the family sat around the old dining room table and listened. Even after I was sent to bed, I could hear it and often fell asleep to the sounds of makeshift dixieland and improvised ragtime. It was better than a bedtime story, more comforting than milk and homemade gingersnaps.

Music called to my daddy all his life. He would truly have loved yesterday and I like to think that just maybe he heard it.