Seamless: Jazz in the Flow

JONATHAN ROWDEN GROUP
 @ THE BLUE WHALE 09/14/14

Midway into the first set, breathless and somewhat exhausted, you realize the boundaries are gone: the music is flowing from piece to piece to piece. Quite simply it is unstoppable. 
The musicians can handle it; can you?

 The typical transitions of a jazz set --- instruments ebb, audience applauds --- have been supplanted by chords and progressions, echoes and ingenuity. The result is a compelling tapestry of sound that constantly surprises you.

We've heard the Rowden group before --- talented musicians all --- but we've never heard them sound like this; are they joined at the hip? It's clear these four creators (plus friends in Set Two) have practiced and rehearsed, composed and arranged, edited and refined, improvised and rejoiced. Their work is seamless.

The Rowden Group's first CD "Becoming" is worth tracking down on the web or elsewhere. How long has it been since the phrase 'original music' actually meant originality in composition, structure, tempo and phrasing? This is original stuff.

Kudos to Jon Rowden for celebrating his 30th birthday with a gift to all of us. The musicians were having so much fun it may have been illegal. The audience, many of whom were experienced musicians themselves, tapped and pounded, punctuating the small club with exuberance and wonder.

The Jonathan Rowden Group plays selected venues in the L.A. metro: Catch them if you can.

Kissing My Father

           About a decade ago I started kissing my dad on the cheek when I told him goodbye.

It was awkward at first; I usually only kiss men when I’m in Europe.

 

            By the time I began these public displays of affection my father was 74 and frail, a gaunt shadow of his former 6’3”, 220-pound self. A combination of early Parkinson’s, early Alzheimer’s, and TIA (mini-strokes) were taking their toll. And it didn’t help when at about age 60, Dad was struck by a car in a Wendy’s parking lot, thrown up over the hood, and had to be re-built with metal and bionics. For several years afterward one of Dad’s legs was 6 inches shorter than the other: He had to learn to walk all over again.

            So when he was 74, and I was leaving Kansas to go home to California, I bent over one day and kissed my dad goodbye. I think we were both startled by my sudden and non-planned emotion. But Dad smiled and I realized that next time, if I could work up the courage, maybe I would kiss him goodbye on purpose.

            I did so, and it gradually became a pattern. Any time I was leaving my dad --- walking away from his hospital room or living room, I would bend over and kiss him on the cheek. Dad would smile and sometimes reach out to give me a hug.

            At age 81 Dad lost the love of his life, his wife of 60 years. In her absence I took up the duties of practical nurse, home health aide, housecleaner, doer of laundry and other chores. Dad was suddenly living solo, but didn’t have the ability to clean up, fix up, pick up, or sometimes even get up. So my wife and I stepped into the gap and I began seeing my dad twice a week at a minimum, even though he lived five hours away.

            Dad survived my non-professional care for a year, after which his medical team strongly advised finding a skilled nursing facility, not relying on a temp worker from several hundred miles away. We shopped Dad around to assisted living communities, both in our city and his, but none could handle the degree of care Dad needed on a constant basis. All of them agreed with Dad’s doctors: “Skilled nursing.” 

            These days Dad’s basic needs are supplied by people with professional training. They feed him and bathe him. They keep both Dad and his surroundings hygienic. They dress him and help him stand or sit or move. In short, they do everything I did for that first year after Mom left us --- except they do it professionally. I was a rank amateur.

            About the only thing they don’t do these days is kiss my dad on the cheek. That is still my signature custom. Dad expects it and looks forward to it and Dad smiles, even when he can’t form a word. This week, spending four of the past seven days at Dad’s side, I’ve had quite a few chances to kiss him goodbye when leaving his room. I don’t say it, and I try not to think it --- but any of these kisses could be the last.

            I kiss him; Dad smiles. I give Dad some verbal proclamations also but somehow the kisses seem to reach Dad at a deeper level. He watches me lean over and he turns his cheek, ever so slightly, getting ready to receive my goodbye. I kiss him, and then say “I love you, Dad” and he lights up from the inside.  

            Dad’s 300-watt smile is down to a mere candle glow these days, but watching him light up reminds me that kissing your dad can be a good thing, even if it feels a bit uncomfortable the first few times you try it.

            I love you, Dad.

Marilyn: A Life in Focus

Mom was ready for a better place. One by one we each filed in, said our final goodbyes, and told Mom we loved her. With the meds dialed back she was able to quietly but clearly tell us she loved us. Her time was short; she was ready to go home.

We gathered around her at Olathe Medical Center, a small circle of family and friends, aware of the sacredness of these moments. We prayed, we conversed, we waited. We laughed occasionally, sharing a favorite memory. We listened for the rhythms of Mom’s breathing, noticing the beeps and buzzes of the medical equipment. Occasionally Mom would pause a bit between breaths: Was she gone?

Then she was escorted from us, borne upward on unseen wings, quietly and gently lifted from this planet to a better space. Her departure was simple and natural; she was not alone as she left us.

One year later we remember her, more aware than ever of Mom’s love, her life, and her witness. We watch as the choir files in at her favorite church, waiting to see the tall soprano on the left. We listen to a stirring anthem or a favorite hymn, and instinctively we glance around to see the blessing and enjoyment on Mom’s face.

We hear a note or two of music, played perhaps on a keyboard, and we picture Mom at the piano bench, entertaining us with her own arrangement of a classical favorite. We smell something baking, and we wander into Mom’s kitchen, half expecting to find her there. So many happy memories.

Mom’s life had clarity and purpose, focused clearly on the eternal truths. There is no way to remember her without looking up, beyond the chaos and the misfortune of daily life, toward a higher calling and a greater love. With consistency and integrity Mom lived a life of faith and virtue, showing us the way to eternal peace.

One year later her life is no less true, no less virtuous. Out beyond the limits of pain and loss -- in a place where there is no suffering and there are no tears -- Mom walks beside still waters, thinking of us. There can be no doubt of Mom’s prayers and her intentions: That we, each in our own time, will go to be where she is. Mom’s life and her example are still pointing us in the same direction. Her life and her example show us the Only Son of our Heavenly Father, who as an act of love stretches out His arms to invite us home.

Creating Moments and Memories --- While You Can

To celebrate their 50^th wedding anniversary we flew them to Canada, First Class. We met them at the Calgary airport as they arrived, helping them navigate Customs and collect their luggage. Then we escorted them on a week-long tour of the Canadian Rockies, all expenses paid.

They were 73 and 71 years young at the time, still vital enough to enjoy the journey. Dad had been injured a few years earlier in a hit-and-run; his replacement joints and sockets couldn’t manage long bursts of hiking. Mom’s arthritis hindered her a bit too. We did a lot of our traveling by car, with short strolls to scenic vistas. With a bit of encouragement from us they rode a tramway to the top of a Banff peak, thrilling to the sights below.

It was the trip of a lifetime for both of them; they talked about it for more than a decade until Mom’s sudden passing. Mom died two months ago today; it still seems surreal. We spent those last difficult days and weeks in hospital rooms and rehab centers, running errands for the two of them and doing anything possible to make things more manageable and serene.

Looking back --- we recognize the value of doing things for those you love --- while you can. We saved for most of a year to pull off the anniversary trip. Used some hotel points and some airline miles, then blazed through a stack of carefully hoarded cash. But regardless of our total expenses, the value of the trip was “priceless.” We knew it then; we are even more certain of it today.

Mom’s in heaven now. We assume her eternal surroundings look pretty much like the Canadian Rockies. We’ve seen much of the world so far --- 42 nations and counting --- and we’ve witnessed a lot of beauty.  Switzerland, Austria and many other places are awe-inspiring. But for sheer scenic beauty it’s hard to top the vistas along the Bow Valley Parkway through Canada’s Rocky Mountains.

Here’s a pic of Mom and Dad, one of our favorite photos of them. They’re standing on a bridge in Waterton Lakes National Park in Canada. They’re happy, relaxed --- going places they’ve never gone, seeing things they’ve never seen. We sacrificed a lot to make it possible for them; we would do it again in a heartbeat.

Who do you love, and how might you choose to express what you feel? The journey of life is fragile and quickly over; this present life is comes down to intentionality and setting priorities. Do what you can, while you can.  Tomorrow is uncertain; the only thing you own for certain is today.

Teaching My Dad to Shave

            Forty years ago, give or take a whisker, my father taught me how to shave. We stood at the big sink in the hall bath, both of our razors at the ready. My dad, a vintage straight-blade man, showed me how to hold the handle at an angle, how to glide across my face instead of slicing. His hands steady, Dad was the very picture of confidence.

            Me, not so much. I had waited so long for this moment, only to discover that I was clumsy with a razor. I was introduced to the styptic pencil, a painful invention that somehow worked miracles despite the sting. I learned how to tear off the smallest piece of tissue, loft it onto a fresh wound, and wait for the blood to congeal behind it.

            I sliced and diced a lot, but eventually I learned how to shave. Mostly I wondered why I had wasted so much time looking forward to this ritual. For what? So I could carve open a fresh wound, sting myself with a wax pencil, then go off on my date with a scar?

            Shaving is so overrated.

            All of those memories came flooding back on Wednesday morning as I stepped into my father’s small apartment in suburban Kansas City. It’s a tidy place every Sunday evening, after my wife and I have finished the laundry, washed the dishes, and picked up the week’s mess. Then we kiss dad goodbye, shut the door, and the apartment swiftly reverts to its normal chaos.

            Wednesday, as we made our regular midweek appearance, Dad greeted us at the door unshaven. Paul Newman’s eyes with white wisps of beard clinging to his shaggy chin. “Dad,” I chided him gently, “maybe it’s time for a shave.”

            Expecting to find him this way, I was carrying a new shaver mixed in with the week’s groceries --- an electric appliance hidden among the hot dogs and Easy Mac. “Dad,” I told him, “I think maybe shaving would be easier with this.” I pulled the shaver out of its plastic cocoon and set it down on the table beside him.

            Dad picked it up, admiring its heft and design. “This is a Norelco,” Dad beamed, “I can tell by the three heads.” He bounced it back and forth in his hands a bit, smiling.

            A few wobbly steps on the worn carpet and there we stood, in the hall bath of his seniors-only apartment. I plugged in the new shaver and showed Dad how to work the pop-out trimmer on the side. “Use this on the longer stuff,” I advised him. “Then when you’re down to just the stubble, let those three heads do the work.”

            Dad grinned at that, and I saw my youthful self in his face. Tentative, maybe a little uncertain, but happy to be learning a new ritual. We were back in our usual places, but this time our roles had switched up a little.

This time I was the confident one, calmly playing the part of teacher and mentor.  I showed Dad a few tricks of the electric shaving trade, then wisely got out of his way. Dad is a man --- older and slower but no less a man than he’s ever been. He takes direction well, but he’ll want to figure this stuff out on his own. That’s what we men do.

That’s what I did, all those years ago, and it’s worked out pretty well overall. We men study and learn, but after a point we end up figuring things out on our own, by trial and error, by stupidity and repetition, by consequences and outcomes.

Dad will be a pro with his new razor soon, I have no doubt.

He’ll find some unshaven guy, somewhere down there on the second floor, and Dad will tell the guy he really ought to get a Norelco. And before the guy can even defend himself, Dad will be telling him exactly how the thing works, step by step.

Calm and confident, Dad will use his natural gifts as a teacher.

A mentor’s work is never done.

A Faithful Servant Goes Home

Standing along the shore of a beautiful Wisconsin lake on a perfect fall day, I smile at the groom as both of us wait for the bride to descend to the grassy lawn. All eyes turn in the same direction --- atop a long wooden flight of stairs, a bride will appear --- radiant and beautiful on her special day.

She won't be alone when we see her. On her arm will be the dad who has raised her, the Godly man who has been an example to this bride, and to all of us --- devoted husband, loving father, loyal churchman, mission-minded believer. We are eager to see the bride today, but we also want to watch her father beam with evident pride.

We've rehearsed all this on the day before, and it went well --- more casual, a little more

laughter, a few pranks. Today is

the wedding and even the littlest cousins are on their best behavior. There's room for good humor, but also room for respect. We are counting our blessings as we unite Hunter and Meghan in happy and lasting union. Even the weather cooperates; answered prayers.

Two loving family circles and a great group of supportive friends have gathered here for a wedding celebration. This is a time for joy.

In those first few moments after learning that Paul Dennis was gone, God took our thoughts to the weddings ---- Jeremy's wedding, Meghan's wedding. Lisa and I were praying for Lori and Jeremy and Meghan --- and almost instantly, God brought the two weddings into our thoughts and prayers. Right there in our grief, not fully understanding what was happening, we stopped and just thanked God that Paul lived to see both of his children grow into adulthood, marry wisely, and form families of their own.

So many brides walk down the aisle alone, never having known the love of a father. So many grooms grow up without a Godly male example to respect and follow. Meghan and Jeremy grew up with a warm and wonderful dad who loved God, loved his wife, loved his kids, and loved helping others --- at home or far away. Paul Dennis showed us what Godly manhood looks like --- humility, service to others, faithfulness to marriage and family, compassion for those in need.

Paul has gone home. It seems too soon, too early --- Paul seems too young. We must trust the timing of our Heavenly Father even though we don't understand the why and the when. As for the where --- well, that was Paul. He served on so many trips to so many places --- always showing up, always helping, always caring, always giving, always loving --- it seems natural for him to go home while serving and helping in a faraway land. Those trips defined his life among us.

Paul has crossed the finish line. He lived to see his kids grown and married; he lived to share his son, give away his daughter, and welcome two new adults into the family circle. He saw a lot, gave a lot, lived a lot --- and now he's gone home.

He leaves a legacy that all of us will respect and remember. And there is no doubt that Paul crossed the finish line and was welcomed into the arms of a loving Heavenly Father. There is no doubt that Paul heard, as he entered his heart's true home: "Well done, good and faithful servant."

Soul Mates & Sopaipillas

A mellow evening welcomes us as the sun sets slowly over the Sandia Mountains. We're winding our way through Old Town Albuquerque toward one of our favorite restaurants, Monica's El Portal. We're in search of some delicious oxymoronic food: Old New Mexican.

The byway is busy with peds like us: The chatter of children is everywhere, mostly in Spanish. We window-shop --- pottery and beads, turquoise and silver, images and icons. Hand-crafted by artisans and reasonably priced; our slender sales resistance weakens and wanes. Eventually we reach Monica's, seat ourselves by a window with lace curtains, and wait for our first basket of fresh chips. You can have any salsa you'd like, as long as it's Monica's. It's hot, about an 8 on a fire scale of 10, yet you can still taste the delicate edge of cilantro.

We nosh on chips and salsa (complementary), carne adovado (a house specialty), frijoles refritos (crispy out, soft in), and sopaipillas (five of them, all complementary, perched next to a squeeze bottle of honey). Our total indulgence, including tip, will run about $20 this evening. We'll be sated and stuffed as we wander back through Old Town after dinner.

Soul-mates. That's what we are this evening, as a perfect fall day in New Mexico yields gradually to the risen moon. Sharply outlined peaks tower over us. The chatter of children has moved indoors, now joined by the clink of dinner dishes. We are lazy and well-fed with no schedule to keep, thirty years together and much in love. Why did we approach our grandparenting years before figuring out life/work balance? Are we slow learners?

We have another book releasing soon, "The Soul-Mate Marriage," and we'll be busy promoting it, traveling to speak and work, but that is for another day. Tonight we are merely soul-mates, not authors or speakers. Tonight we are full up on sopaipillas, carbed out on comfort food and feelin' no pain. Nondescript and anonymous, we are just two more tourists here.

But tonight, if we could be anywhere on earth, it would be just down the street from Monica's El Portal, talking softly and walking side-by-side through Old Town. We linger, savor, sample, stop, celebrate. Far up above --- la luna, semi-circular and self-satisfied, whispers to us and we can almost hear it.

Goodnight, moon.

(This encore edition post originally published in October, 2008.)