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Mrs. Tubbles -
I went for a walk yesterday and I didn’t see flowers. I didn’t see birds or green leaves. I saw nobody I knew. Nobody to stop and have a chat with (if I wanted to stop and have a chat, which I didn’t, not really).
On my walk, I didn’t see skyscrapers. I didn’t see a lake or the ocean. I didn’t see my parents or my besties. I didn’t see anyone from work.
I didn’t see farmland, I didn’t see industry, I didn’t see a city, I didn’t see a forest. No waste water plant, no rivers.
I didn’t see a stationery shop or a book store, a pastry shop or a local cafe. I didn’t see iron verandas or balconies or balustrades. I didn’t see people leaning on porch rails watching the world go by. I didn’t see folks on the sidewalk catching up. I didn’t see anyone walking a cat on a leash.
I didn’t see snowflakes or raindrops. I didn’t see an American flag hang motionless.
I didn’t see anyone in nurse’s scrubs, I saw no men or women in business suits. I didn’t see anyone rollerblading or biking, skateboarding or hiking. I didn’t see beer bottles litter the sidewalk. I saw no broken windows or doors with bars on them.
I did not see buskers, I did not see graffiti. I didn’t see a block party. I didn’t see a pen shop. Nobody ate ice cream.
I didn’t see open windows with curtains billowing in them. I didn’t see anyone on a bench reading a book. I didn’t see anyone holding hands.
I didn’t see anyone fight. I saw no animosity. I didn’t see a Volkswagen beetle.
So random, right? This was a fun writing prompt from Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones Deck that my daughter gave me for Christmas. The prompt was to go for a walk and then write what you didn’t see.
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When both kids started driving, my husband and I had more free time on evenings and weekends than we’d had in 18 years. We relished this freedom. We began going out to eat again. We went to nice restaurants, shared a bottle of wine, ordered appetizers, entrees, dessert, and coffee. We had such fun!
After a while, going out to eat became routine. It was the only thing we did with our evenings when we wanted to get out of the house. We’ve been married more than 25 years, and we’d sit across the table from each other like, welp, here we are again. What will we talk about at tables for two for the next 25 years?
On trips out of town, we started adding jazz shows to our evenings. On a trip to New York, we saw Ezra Collective at Blue Note and the Jean-Michel Pilc Trio at Smalls. In DC, we saw Julian Lage at the Lincoln Theater. In Montreal, we saw the Taurey Butler Trio at the Upstairs Jazz Bar & Grill. Each ensemble had a different vibe, each venue unique in personality.
As I wrote about in a recent post, I never thought we’d be able to find something similar near home. I thought we’d always have to travel to be able to enjoy live jazz. My husband searched anyway. A couple of years ago, he saw that Cécile McLorin Salvant was coming to our local performing arts center and got us tickets. He found another performing arts center in nearby Roanoke where we saw the Preservation Hall Jazz Band at Christmas, and Flutes Wine Lounge slightly further away in Lynchburg where we took the kids for a local Flat Five Jazz band’s Christmas show.
This past week was a treat for us, jazz-wise, after a long week with snow and ice and a power outage. On Thursday night, we saw the G. Thomas Allen Quintet at the Jazz Club at the Jefferson Center in Roanoke. If I closed my eyes and listened to the singing, I’d have thought G. Thomas Allen was a woman. He is the first man to have won the Sarah Vaughan International Jazz Vocal Competition. His voice is rich and sweet and beautiful. The bassist, Julian, was dapper in his white turtleneck and blazer, and the pianist (Dennis) with his Irish flat cap. They played “My Funny Valentine” and several tributes to women in jazz. The crowd swung and shouted “yeah!”, and a woman behind us, who herself had a gorgeous, sultry voice, sang along to “Wouldja Couldja“.
Then Friday night, we stayed closer to home, where Grammy nominated saxophonist Lakecia Benjamin played at our local Moss performing arts center. WOW. Like all of the shows we’ve seen, I knew nothing about the musician, and she was exactly what everyone needed at the end of a long, hard week. She brought huge, unleashed energy, messages of hope and love, mixed hip hop, jazz, blues, played “My Favorite Things” and “Amazing Grace.” She and her band showed no restraint, and their vitality and sound filled the large hall.
I love this new addition of live jazz to our lives. Since I don’t know the musicians ahead of time, I never know what to expect, which makes it even more fun for me. Every night is a new experience. In addition to the music and the spaces it’s play in, the instruments are works of art, with their beautiful shapes and textures: the brassy gleam of the horns, the luster of the piano, the rich wood curves of the upright bass, the glitter of the drums, the blur of the drumsticks. The instruments have their own personalities that come to life when a musician starts playing them.
Sharing space and experience with other people who are there to appreciate the music, listening to the creation of art, and the musician’s personalities, talent, and love for their craft fill my cup. I’m so happy and grateful we can enjoy this in our own community.
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It is raining and raining. Water gushes in the gutters. Drops dink against the metal chimney liner. A steady downpour shushes me into slippers and under a blanket instead of into workout clothes.
I know weather is not supposed to be interesting to talk about. It is the cliché small talk topic. Weather is big, though. It is ever present. It is not a nothing. Unless I stay indoors, weather can determine the fate of my mood, my comfort, my energy level, what I want to listen to, what I wear, what I do.
Even indoors, weather seeps in. Snow, then ice, earlier in the week knocked our power out for almost 24 hours. We lit candles and a fire that evening and read by battery powered lights. Temperatures dipped below freezing outside. Our bedroom is far from the fire, and the floor by the fireplace was not padded enough for my old body to sleep on. We wore long underwear and slept under an extra down comforter on our bed.
We worried overnight that the kitties would turn to popsicles. I woke at 5:30 am to a still dark, still cold house, and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I had no light for my regular writing practice, and my mind raced about stuff at work. I turned my laptop on, tethered to my phone, and started working. We lit another fire. I drove to get coffee, along with every other person in town. I sat in the drive-through line for 20 minutes.
That was a long, draining day. More draining than I realized in the moment. Every thing I did required new microdecisions or included unanticipated obstacles. I fed logs to the fire and worked from battery packs until every device and every battery pack petered out. I had no juice left. Not in me, not in my laptop, my phone, or 5 different portable power sources.
I walked 20 minutes under a blue sky to Panera, the closest place I would potentially be able to get wifi and a power outlet. The warm sun created torrents of meltwater that poured from gutter spouts and rushed along the edges of streets. The sun felt wonderful on my face.
When I arrived, Panera was slammed. I was clearly not the first person in town to have this idea. Open laptops topped nearly every table, all the outlets were taken, the pastry case was empty, and the internet was down. I took this as a sign that it was time to end my workday. I’d already put in a long day anyway. Luckily, I had brought my book. I bought coffee and read at a table by the window where the warm sun poured in on me. The table was unwanted by anyone else; there was not a power outlet anywhere in sight.
After snow, sleet, freezing rain, ice, and sun over the past few days, today’s rain feels like permission to rest. It says, stay inside. Be soothed. Take it easy. Enjoy the click and shush of the heater coming on. Snuggle under that fuzzy blanket. Cuddle with a kitty. Read your book.
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It’s dark through the window. The sun is still an hour from rising. As I sip my coffee and look out, in the barely there glow of pre-dawn light I see white powder piling on the stair rail. We’re expecting maybe 7 inches of snow before it turns to sleet then freezing rain tonight.
I’m excited for it. I’ve got my comfies on: sweatshirt, sweatpants, wool socks. Our cat Tubbles is purring against my chest as I type. On the kitchen counter, I’ve got chickpea flour soaking for a flatbread I’ll bake tonight in a cast iron skillet. The bread will accompany a toasted grain soup with mushrooms and kale that I’ve been wanting to try for a while.
I brought in extra wood and laid a fire in the fireplace last night so that all we have to do tonight is light it. We’re cozy and warm. We’ve got cats and blankets and the makings for warm, comforting food. We’re ready for snowfall.
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Last Sunday night, my husband and I drove to nearby Roanoke for a jazz show. I didn’t look at who we were going to see — I figured I wouldn’t know who they were — I was just excited to go hear live music.
When we climbed the stairs inside The Jefferson Center, we expected to be directed into the 925-seat theater where we’d seen the Preservation Hall Jazz Band play a Christmas show. But instead, the usher guided us to continue down the hall to the end, where a bar was set up, and then to turn right through a corridor that snaked into a small room with maybe ten rows of folding chairs and a raised stage at the front. The ceiling was high — 20 or 30 feet above us — and long, black folds of fabric draped all of the walls. Two tables stretched along the back wall to offer up cheese plates, cake and cookies, and coffee. It felt cozy and intimate, like a little jazz club.
At 7 o’clock, the lights went down and the band came out. A tiny woman sat at the wooden grand piano to our left, two men took their places at the back of the stage on bass and drums, a silver-haired woman strapped on her saxophone, and a woman about my size entered last, trumpet in hand, and took center stage. Nobody spoke. She put the trumpet to her lips in the quiet. It sparkled in the spotlight. And when her music came out, I was blown away.
A woman trumpeter led the band. As I listened to this big sound come out of this small woman, walls fell down for me. Last night, I put on a Blue Note Edition jazz playlist on Spotify while my husband made dinner. I scanned the artists on the playlist, and as I scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled, I saw maybe 3 women’s names. In 90 songs.
My heart soared as I watched her play. Every image I have of trumpeters is of men. I have no ambition to ever play the trumpet, but it’s hard to describe how meaningful it is to see someone who looks like you do something cool like this. I fell in love with her.
After a couple of songs, the bandleader introduced the band, and she introduced herself. “I’m Bria. Just google ‘Bria trumpet,’” she said with a smile. “It’s easier than trying to spell my name.” I did just that when I got home. Her name is Bria Skonberg, from Chilliwack in British Columbia.
She is fun, humble, and charming, and she is radiant on both trumpet and vocals. With each song, my heart grew bigger. She mentioned that she’d become a mom in the past five years, which made me love her even more. She sang an arrangement of John Lennon’s “Beautiful Boy,” which I used to sing to our son, and I had to get out my handkerchief to wipe my eyes.
At the end of the show, after we thought it was over and everyone was putting their coats on to leave, the lights went down again, and the band came back out with a special guest: a girl trumpeter from a local high school. Bria counted off, and gave the stage to the 17 year old. As the young trumpet player improvised and began to look a little nervous, I fell another layer deeper in love as Bria sensed her nerves, led her, and led the band to support her by calling out guidance, pulling the band together with eye contact and gestures and smiles, and near the end of the song, leading a call and response with their two trumpets. The audience rose from their seats and gave the student a standing ovation.
The sound in the space was clear as a bell, and the show was intimate, with maybe only 100 people in the room. It turns out the venue has a whole jazz series: Jazz Club at Jefferson Center. We’ve got tickets to a couple more upcoming shows. We had no idea we’d find a jazz scene in our little Appalachian mountain community. And Bria Skonberg is now in regular rotation on my Spotify.
