I took the dogs outside just as daylight began to suggest itself.
The birds were chattering like a gaggle of Wall Streeters in thousand dollar suits. I wonder what they’re going on about? And it occurred to me how empty and meaningless the world would seem without that dawn bird chatter.
Big Tiny Little died the day before yesterday.
He was a trad jazz piano player. One of the best, ever. Made his fame on the Lawrence Welk Show. Made his living with his heart and fingers. Loved by millions. Loved by me from our Sacramento Jazz Jubilee encounters of years past. We always greeted each other warmly and hugged briefly. I always gave him a thundering, crowd-stirring introduction. He always earned it.
He is gone, in a blink.
Somebody on Facebook mentioned the Sixties Hippies of San Francisco.
All I can think about is how very far away that sweet, innocent, misguided time in our lives seems. And I think of the Bellamy Brothers’ song, An Old Hippie:
He was sure back in the sixties that everyone was hip,
Then they sent him off to Vietnam on his senior trip.
And they forced him to become a man while he was still a boy
and in each wave of tragedy he waited for the joy.
Now this world may change around him…
…but he just can’t change no more
Some days the funk in your life just needs a little attention.
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