Sensory Bombardment

 There was quite a contrast in my choices of topics for this column. One was about the procession of murderers being invited as honored guests to the White House. The other is the Community Choir concert on Pearl Harbor Day.

I’m really concerned about the direction of my country. I see photos of rivers filled with trash and demolished neighborhoods in foreign lands and it makes me so grateful for what we have here.

What we have here is a bunch of  normal and extremely talented people who have the guts to give something lovely to our community. I’m not saying that these gifts came easy. The work behind this Christmas concert is simple for some and  difficult for others. It’s all total dedication, and the dictator, Bonnie is so sly and successful in bringing out the best in each musician.

I had a friend in high school. We went to a music store. He had never touched a saxophone. He picked one up and played Mary Had a Little Lamb. It reminded me of how we all need a little kid to help us with our phones and computers.

Our oldest kid played trumpet in school. It wasn’t like my old buddy. He really had to work at it. I remember my dad came up from Lincoln for “Nostalgia”, an appreciation night featuring the school jazz bands. As Hans played My Funny Valentine I looked at Dad. He had more tears than I did. His face was soaked.

A dear friend we have from Sweden once told me that there are people who have no intrinsic enjoyment of music. I mourn for those people. Enjoyment of music can mimic looking back at plowing, or extracting a broken bolt out of an engine block, or falling in love.

Stefan, our Swedish friend, came to visit last year on a tour of roller coasters. We don’t all enjoy the same things. As I too often do, I played DJ and put “The Inflated Tear” on the record player. There I go again, crying as Roland Kirk ripped through endless inventive riffs on whatever instrument he just tripped over.

In my high school days I went to the record store to buy a Jethro Tull album. The unconventional flute playing of Ian Anderson was the draw. But the guy at the store said, “If you like that, you should hear this.” What sets jazz apart is that it imitates traveling.  Roland Kirk was a bullet train through paradise.  

I don’t intend to let the sick goings-on in DC go unreported. But that stuff isn’t the whole world. We are blessed to have near-Kirk quality sensory bombardment about to happen in Hampton on the anniversary of FDR’s day of deceit. We old folks call it Pearl Harbor Day: 2:00 o’clock at the Methodist Church in Hampton.

Please comment on these columns through a letter to the editor or to me at 4selfgovernment@gmail.com