We Did It Ourselves

It happened again.  I’m frustrated.  I can hear his trumpet.  I know his nick name and I struggle for about eighteen seconds to recall the actual name of the 1930’s, 40's, trumpet player, “Little Jazz.”  I have written about this particular vacuum before.  There is something about his name that is forever slippery.  But per my eighteen second comment, it is not something I’m still vexing on.  After a bit of mental juggling, and quiet hand wringing I was able to clasp the name of Roy Eldridge.  I wouldn't have cared when I was younger, now it feels important not to give up. 

My wife has hosted this event where Roy is on the airwaves.  It’s a lovely theatre where not long ago I saw a fine production of Macbeth, a first for our local community.   Today, my wife has taken the space and is profiling the artistic efforts of many, many mothers in the local community. And she has, consciously or I suspect unconsciously pulled upon the work of the thirties trumpet  player.  And the event is in motion now and I think I’m the only one concentrating on the music.  This is clear, as someone has put the tune on repeat and it is simply looping along, over and over again, which has now begun to annoy me. 

The event though is wonderful.  The ladies put on a play.  My wife plays the grumpy Shandong husband to-a-tee.  She missed her calling as a male chauvinist.  The ladies all seem to have, one after another, a chance to shine, showing their artwork and modeling shawls and discussing contributions to charity.  Proud of my gal.  She’s like the Daoist adage that says: the best leader is the one of whom, when the work is done, people all say, we did it ourselves.

One woman has painted gingko leaves in a lovely manner.  I look closely and I see that she has reproduced the Minoan paintings of Knossos, the princess and the dolphins there, on the leaves and she is surprised that I recognize the source.   She too has taken her kids there for a look and we reminisce for a while about how lovely Crete is.  Her work is accomplished and she is happy to have people considering it, as anyone would. 

There are no other foreigners here.  At least none that look like me.  Once I think I would have been strongly conscious of this, though now it registers as an afterthought.  What’s more noteworthy perhaps is that there are not may men here.  There is one other husband in the audience.  He’s got a young boy in his arms and later I go to talk to him.  We both agree that it is drafty and indeed, uncomfortably cold, the longer we sit here.  His wife has also done a great job today as well, but she is standing across the room in a light dress and I fear she must be freezing. 

Saturday, 12/08/18