525,600 Minutes....

My 36th Birthday. Usually on my birthday, I tend to mournfully recount the myriad accomplishments I HAVEN'T made to date: finishing my degree, obtaining a steady teaching job, becoming a well-known and well-paid drill designer, having a well-maintained and reasonably spacious house, etc. This depressing tradition is particularly observed on milestone birthdays - 5's and 10's, mostly - where I have particular goals set forth in the naivete of my youth. This year, however, given all that has happened, I tend to be focusing on the aspects that actually matter. I have a job (3+, actually, depending on how you count), two increasingly brilliant, talented, and impressive kids, a house I'm make more and more my own every day, a WORKING car (knock wood), scores of absolutely wonderful friends whom I cherish, and an amazing girlfriend who understands and adores me every bit as much as I do her.

As happy as I am, on the whole, and as well as things are going for me now (which I'll recount later), something's missing today. The one thing missing to make this happiest of birthdays is the traditional (if exceedingly corny and often ill-timed) early morning call from my mother, singing "Happy Birthday" to me in a sappy, kid-like voice, followed by the long-winded recounting of the day of my birth.

My mother, Nancy Orton Keiser, passed away this Easter Sunday morning, April 4th, at the age of 65 . She died of congestive heart failure, which she suffered from several years back and recovered (mostly) from. It was likely a combination of factors - diabetes, asthma, sleep apnea, arthritis, and being a good 300 lbs overweight, among other factors - that led to this latest episode being fatal. She died in my grandfather's house, with him at her side. It was quick, sudden, and she didn't suffer.

My mother was the most loving person I ever knew. She would always try and help in whatever way she could - for anyone. No, she was not always encouraging. She didn't always tell you what you wanted to hear, and would often make snap-judgments based on little information. As a child, whenever I saw a TV commercial for something I wanted, she'd say, "Well, save your pennies!", resulting in a disappointed pout and "hrumph!" from me. To this day, proudly painted on the change jug on my dresser is the phrase, "Mom always said, 'Save your pennies!'"

Still, her motivation behind whatever she said was ALWAYS to help. She had a unique way of distilling situations into quotable catch phrases and cliches, which one of my mothers friends referred to at her funeral as "Nancyisms". Some wholly inapplicable to the situation, but many times, offering a clarity of perspective that would allow for a fresh approach to a situation.

It was this willingness to listen to people and help them deal with their own problems (not so much the snap-judgment part), that has formed a great deal of how I relate to my friends and those I love. It's that inexhaustible, unflappable, unconditional love and willingness to help others, despite your own problems, that I have tried to emulate and has made me who I am. This is likely the biggest part of my mother that I will miss. Not always her help or advice, but the spirit and pure love behind it.

I credit her most of all for my involvement in music. Not just my LOVE of music, which I get equally from both of my parents, but my motivation to LEARN about music and create it, rather than just appreciate it. This was one area of my life where her support was absolutely unquestionable. I remember being maybe 5 years old and her trying to teach me to play our old electric organ in the living room. I didn't have the patience to endure much instruction at that age, but she taught me where 'C' was on a keyboard and where the notes went from there...and that started everything. My first music theory lesson.

This is my first birthday without her. Even as I type this, I'm tearing up, which is rather odd for me. In the month or so since she passed, I haven't allowed much time for myself to feel her absence or cry over it. You all know (or can read in my previous posts) how insanely busy I am. That, combined with the pride I take in being people's emotional 'rock', have forced me to push my feelings about my mother's passing aside for the time, and do what needs to be done, which is to be there for my family, continue to work my insane schedule to pay the bills, and fulfill the obligations I have to myself and others, like the quartet, chorus, and friends.

I don't resent this. This is not a feeling I want to deal with. I feel it's selfish, coming from myself. I'm MORE than understanding helping OTHERS deal with their feelings and being there to support THEM, but I'm not great at expressing my negative emotions to others. It's not their problem to deal with, and I don't want to burden anyone else with my problems. Sure, I'll whine and bitch about work, cars, computers, and other insignificant situations that others can easily relate to, and yet feel no real responsibility to fix, but emotional crises are different. Most of my friends are VERY supportive and sympathetic and want to help. I don't want to put them in a situation where their help may be ineffective, inadvertently dismissed, or in a moment of weakness, irrationally resented. Believe me, I know how much that stings.

In the past year I have had my car die (several times), lived in a gutted, filthy house with no heat or hot water, had my manhood, character, and parenting called into question MULTIPLE times, doubled my workload, had my income cut by more than half, nearly lost my house, had to swallow my pride and accept charity on more occasions than I am comfortable with, even walked 4 miles in the freezing rain on Christmas Day before going to work at a barely-above-minimum-wage job. All of these are insignificant. I didn't even consider these things over the past several months. This year, I lost my mother. I lost her ill-timed, sleep-interrupting calls at the crack of dawn 'just to talk'. I lost her oversimplification of complex issues to reach a conclusion that had no real world application - or often even vague similarity - to the situation. I lost her meddling into my business and relationships to try and get everyone to see things her way. I lost her obnoxious, cheesy references to embarrassing incidents from my childhood and their "supposed" relevance to my problems today.

Most of all, I lost the absolute love behind every single one of those maddening habits. As much as she drove me absolutely bananas, I NEVER felt unloved by these acts. She always had love behind it - and I knew it.

I'll get to the HAPPY birthday stuff later. Right now, I'm penciling some time into my schedule to grieve for a bit.

Bass initiation, and a sad good by to a real hero...

Our first gig with our new bass (New Dave) was Saturday and it couldn't have gone better! We headed out in the heavy snow and bitter cold in our tuxes to sing for a birthday at the Grosse Pointe Club - a very ritzy and exclusive yacht club in one of the richest neighborhoods in the metro area. The wonderful lady that hired us had everything timed to a tee and the small gathering was VERY appreciative and responsive. We started out in the club's bar singing for the patrons. To my great joy and surprise, we were ringing more chords than any group with a band new member has any right to! Our banter (as we almost never script any) was fresh and off-the-cuff, our sound was tight, and the patrons were attentive and smiling.

The small group of close family to the birthday girl was even more engaged, chatting with us, joking, and laughing between songs (which was good, as we weren't sure our set list was long enough to do the whole gig). With all the friendly chit-chat aand occasional breaks as we moved from bar to dining room, we easily made it through the hour and a half engagement nd recieved some WONDERFUL compliments! We were even asked for busniess card a few times, which we were more than happy to provide the well-to-do folks who never seem to flinch at price. ;)

We have rehearsal tonight and plan to work almost exclusively on our show tune, the Flying Sinatra Medley. This one's a bear of an arrangement by Ed Waesche, but has some great transitions, a great tempo, and a KILLER tag. I can't wait to get this one polished up!

On a sadder note, my mom's friend, Charlene Pushman died last Friday. She was a wonderful woman and my mom's roommate for several years. She struggled with her weight, like my mom, but was always more motivaated to do something about it. She was a great driving force in getting my mom to go to the Y and swim, get moving, and always a friendly listening era. She was sweet, but honest, a joy to be around, and - quite simply - saved my mother's life.

A few years back, after she moved out on her own, I got a calll from Charlene at about 11:30 at night. She had just gotten off the phone with my mother and was concerned that she didn't seem particularly lucid. She asked me to go check on her, as my mom only lived a mile from me. When I got there, she was barely conscoius, lips bluue, and gasping for breath - she was havving heart failure. I callled 911 and she spent the next 3 weeks in the ICU at Beaumont. Scariest point of my life, bar none. If Charlene hadn't called me, my mom wouldn't have made it through the night.

I was gooing to take my mother to the viewing last night, as I'm working today durring the funeral. I got to my mom's and she was up, dressed, ready to go, but had just attempted to get down the first step of her hoouse on her new walker with the assistance of her physical therapist and had a lot of trouble. I commended her sincere effort (along with the coroboration of the therapist), had dinner with her, and went to the viewing alone. I shared my condolences with her friends and family and shared my story. They needed to know.

I'll always be indebted to Charlene for my mom's life. She will be sincerely missed.

Remembering Old Friends...

Yesterday I went to the "Gift of Life Celebration" (AKA memorial service) for Jason Michael Bradley. It was a bit of a sobering experience. I got to hear about and understand my friend more than I had considered.

I had helped his sister, Sarah, a bit by scanning a few of Jason's old pictures to have them available for the family and to present in a slideshow for the reception following the service. We met over coffee and perused my MP3 collection to come up with an appropriate soundtrack. An hour and a half of music, and we hadn't even gotten through the 'R's in my pop/rock folder yet. Sonya spent about 11 hours and was up until 8:30 in the morning arranging them all and setting them to appropriate songs (cussing at my laptop the whole time for not working the way she expected it to).

The testimonies provided by his family, friends, even our old choir director Rick Hartsoe, gave a greater insight to the man I knew, and all of it confirmed what I had known about Jason for years: that Jason was all about love and joy. Here is a man that lived more in 29 years than most could in a century. He had seen more of the country by the time he was 25 than most would see in their lifetime, yet he still had the time to make everyone in his life feel like the most important person in the world. No one could recall a single harsh word or emotion from him. This big teddy bear of a guy embodied unconditional love - and it was felt by everyone there.

My writings aren't usually this disjunct, but it would take me days to compile and organize my thoughts on this event and my subsequent feelings about Jay. Suffice it to say, the service wasn't sorrowful or regretful. One always regards the death of someone so young as a tragedy and with a certain amount of regret, but with Jay, there was none. Tear, yes, but not regret. He lived an AMAZINGLY full life and blessed absolutely everyone whose life he touched. So much so, that rather than focusing on what might have been, everyone was focused on how grateful they were to have known him at all.

Everyone's familiar with the concept of "Pay It Forward" by now. Well, jay was the impetus for more kindness, love, and smiles paid forward than most anyone I can think of. He inspired everyone he knew to be cheerful, helpful, and loving.

The world is more indebted to Jason Michael Bradley that it will ever realize...

Saying goodbye…

I suck at goodbyes. I'm great at cheerful "see ya later"s, or even the occasional "catch ya on da flip". Goodbye – when I know it's forever – I just can't do.

I'm a pathetic sap. I'm not even 5 sentences into this damned blog and my eyes are tearing up already.

The decision has been made to stop my friend Jason Bradley's life support and let him pass on. Every test has shown that he has no higher brain function left – just heartbeat and breathing. Our Jason is gone.

I went to the hospital last night to say goodbye. I'm still fighting this damnable cold, so I coated my hands in germicide and put on the paper mask. Just as well. I didn't want anyone to see the look on my face. A couple of his good friends from Florida were there keeping vigil. I still have this glimmer of hope. Miracles do happen. I said something akin to, "I'm not giving up on you, but if you decide this is goodbye, so be it."

The mask didn't cover my eyes, though. It was soaked by the time I left.

After heading home, watching a movie with my kids and getting them to bed, I went in the backyard and Sonya and I started a fire in the fire bowl. I spent the better part of the next 4 hours there sharing a last beer with my friend, pouring a small amount into the fire between sips.

I had been trying to remember exactly when Jason and I had first met, assuming it was something involving my sister and Dondero's choir. Sonya reminded me last night that I had met him a year prior, during the highlight of my high school career, the Spring musical, The Music Man.

I was playing the lead, Harold Hill. The director had recruited several 7^th and 8^th graders to play the part of the boy's band. They would come in from time to time for run-throughs and some rehearsals. For the big finale, all of the kids needed instruments. Having met and talked with Jason a bit, I saw a lot of myself in him. He was a chubby extrovert with a chipper persona and goofy sense of humor. We just clicked, so I chose to sort of take him under my wing. I lent him my personal trombone for the final scene and made a big point of letting him know that he was the only one I trusted with it.

I don't know how I could have forgotten that, but somehow, it makes this loss all the harder for me. Jason was with me for one of my biggest triumphs at that point in my life, and helped make it that way by making me feel important and looked up to. That was Jay: always lifting people up, even when he's not really trying to. It was reflexive for him to make people smile.

Sonya and I talked about him for a while, remembering how he would light up a room. He wouldn't make a big entrance or draw attention to himself. You'd be at a party, surveying the scene, and notice him in a corner talking with some folks and smiling that shit-eatin' grin he'd usually have on his face. Suddenly you think, "Yea, NOW it's a party," and go join in the fun.

Talked with my good friend and designated "inner child" Paulie B. last night after he got home from hanging with some of Jason's family. He helped me put some things in perspective. An interesting switch, as lately that seems to have been my role for him. He and Sonya have been a rock for me through this. They may not know it, since I play my stronger emotions pretty close to the vest, but they've been keeping me pretty grounded.

This is hitting me on a lot of levels. Not just losing Jason, but contemplating the bigger issues of mortality, God, and eternity as well. I haven't been questioning my faith, exactly, but it's helped me to put it into better, more focused perspective.

In closing, there's a song that has been creeping into my head a lot lately. It's from The Muppets Take Manhattan and was used at Jim Henson's funeral. It pretty much sums everything up: sorrow, grief, and hope. Have tissues at the ready.

Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye, going away
Seems like goodbye's such a hard thing to say
Touching a hand, wondering why
It's time for saying goodbye

Saying goodbye, why is it sad?
Makes us remember the good times we've had
Much more to say, foolish to try
It's time for saying goodbye

Dont want to leave, but we both know
Sometimes it's better to go
Somehow I know we'll meet again
Not sure quite where, and I dont know just when
You're in my heart, so until then

Wanna smile, wanna cry
Saying goodbye

La la la la la la la la

It's time for saying goodbye...

Saying goodbye

Add to My Profile | More VideosGoodbye, Jason. Time to get this show on the road.

My Week of Hell: Part 1 - Sorrow...

Forgive me, bloggers, for I have sinned. It's been two weeks since my last real blog…

For the last two weeks I feel like I've been trapped in an updated, Midwestern version of a bad Country/Western song. There has been a laundry list of woes, ranging from minor annoyance to true sorrow, that I honestly should have written about so as to reflect on them for deeper meaning later, however time and circumstances forbade such documenting. I'm going to try and go through the ones I can remember now, but I'm sure I'll leave a few out either due to memory lapses (getting old sucks) or privacy and decorum. The first will likely take up an entire blog. I'll get to the rest later.

Under the category of true sorrow, my wonderful cat and ever-vigilant friend for the past 15 years, my cat Tassie, was laid to rest last week.

She had been fighting a urinary tract infection since about January. She had increasing instances of incontinence and would 'leak' wherever she laid down for more than a few minutes. She began to smell constantly and required regular baths, which she wasn't fond of, but patiently tolerated. She couldn't sit or lie down comfortably, could barely walk, and was in extreme pain by the end. After several trips to the vet and 4 runs of antibiotics of increasing strength over the past several months, it had gotten so bad that she was actually infested with (hold down your lunch here) maggots.

Euthanasia is never a decision I have been able to come to lightly, as it shouldn't, but the thought of her suffering any longer just to placate my own emotional weakness was excruciating. I would have been able to tolerate the smelly house and constant cleaning (which Sonya, bless her heart, usually did while I worked my 2 jobs), if she had any prospect of recovering or showed no signs of pain.

She has always been there for me in the worst of times to snuggle with me, offer a soothing loud purr, and soft fur to pet and center me. I recall when I spent a few months with my dad in Jersey after high school, she would scratch at my door every night as I went to bed, demanding entrance. I'd open the door, and she'd dart past me and hop on the bed. I would climb in and she would get up, burrow under the sheets and re-emerge, placing her head on the pillow next to me, purring with the ferocity of a 72 Mustang.

She had big, soulful eyes and youthful face and demeanor that always cheered me up. She was a precocious and wily kitten, and an elegant and matronly adult, and absolutely wonderful with my children. She would never let anyone sleep alone if they were blue, angry, or otherwise distraught. My kids would always request her to be in the room at bedtime, and she would almost always oblige.

She became the adoptive mother/grandmother to our other two cats, Praxis & Lil' Bit (mother and daughter) and assisted in childcare duties when they each had their litters. They, while being obnoxious young upstarts, still always treated her with the proper love and respect she provided them and was owed herself, always moving out of the way as she approached the food and/or water dishes, preening and cleaning each other, and snuggling in comfy spots with her.

She was generous to a fault, frequently trying to help provide for the family by bringing home "meals" of small birds, rodents, and large insects of all kinds, frequently standing proudly next to her offerings as if to say, "Take a rest, my friend. I'll take care of dinner tonight."

She was always loving, never mean or moody, and melted the hearts of anyone she approached, which inevitably started with the most allergic. She wasn't exactly a lap cat, opting to lie down next to people and be petted on what seemed to be her own terms, maintaining that regal air of feline indifference, yet offering social and loving interaction by eagerly responding when summoned.

Tassie was the epitome of a loving cat, while keeping a modicum of her stereotypical aloofness. She was, in my opinion, the perfect pet: low maintenance, loving, and loyal.

I will miss her dearly and can't imagine her being replaced by anyone – human or beast.

God speed, Tassie. I'll see you someday and miss you every second until then.

Coming up next: "The Remainder of My Week of Hell: Things Can Only Get Better"

Today, I lost a Mentor...

It's funny how little you may recognize or appreciate how important someone can be to the greater plan of your life – even when it's perfectly obvious to everyone else.

Dick Perkins was not a warm & fuzzy kind of man. As my high school band director, he was very proper, professional, and extremely dedicated to his work. Our relationship never went beyond teacher-student to become respected colleagues, as I had hoped. Even as I became a music educator myself, he was just one of those teachers, no matter how adult you get, you could never call by his first name to his face. He would always be Mr. Perkins.

I would see him at marching band and drum corps shows fairly regularly after I had graduated and gone on to instruct, myself. We would make eye contact, walk up and say hi, we would banter briefly about this band's woodwinds, that corps' guard or what some classmate of mine/former student of his is doing what nowadays. Our conversations were always brief, good-natured, but awkward and uncomfortable. I always felt like such an amateur talking music to him, like a 3^rd grader talking to a physics professor about how well he knows his multiplication tables. Eventually, I tended to avoid going out of my way to say hi when I would see him at shows to avoid the awkwardness.

I'm bitterly regretful of that now…

Today I received a call from Ralph Biggs. I hardly ever hear from Ralph anymore. I could almost sense what was coming.

Richard H. Perkins died this morning in a hospice of a rare brain disease, as I understand. He went peacefully in his sleep. He had suffered what was originally thought a stroke several weeks ago, and his health had been failing since.

I had just seen him at the DCI Quarterfinals broadcast last August, looking fit as the proverbial fiddle, and exchanged a few awkward sentences.

Of course, it was a great disappointment to me when I heard the news, but to be honest, I didn't feel particularly sad. I was at work, distracted with a million different tasks, thoughts of the coming holiday, and basically shrugged it off with the feeling of, "that's a darned shame."

Later, after grabbing some pizza and inviting our friend, Leigh, whom we were in the band with, I dragged out some old cassettes of our band concerts. We listened through pieces like Holst's "First Suite", some show tune medleys, and such, and toasted him with Jolt Cola (the favorite drink for 7am marching band rehearsal in 1990). Then a lush, gorgeous arrangement of "Danny Boy", played with depth and dynamics rarely heard in a high school group, wafted through the living room. I imagined Mr. Perkins waving his baton in front of me on the podium as I played…and I cried. I finally realized what I had lost. I had lost one of my greatest mentors.

I have always attributed my interest in music and my desire to pursue music education as a career to several teachers in my life, often giving more credit to the ones that used the style of teaching I wanted to emulate: the slightly off-the-wall, exuberance and energy that is magnetic and inspires the same energy in others. Richard Perkins was not one of those teachers.

Richard Perkins was the kind of teacher that didn't need any of that. He inspired great performance and learning by an exceeding love and knowledge of music. Most importantly, however, he never underestimated the talent of his students. He would pull out class AA music for a band of 50 high school kids and have them playing it every bit as well as a university level symphony band. He taught theory, history, multiculturalism, and balanced it all with an unrivaled diversity of repertoire that expanded every student's musical horizons.

I suppose I never appreciated it much, even recently, because it was a standard I felt I could never live up to. Cracking jokes, getting excited, and being a cheerleader to get kids to work – that I can do. But having the kind of depth of knowledge of music and skill and/or knowledge of every instrument, music history and theory, let alone the work ethic to be able to fit it into virtually every lesson plan – that, I feared, I could NEVER do.

And so I distanced myself from him. Not intentionally, but I let his legacy and the greater lessons of his example slip lower in priority in my professional memory. I focused my attention to the teachers that fit more into my teaching style: the fun ones, the ones that cracked the occasional bad (or usually dreadful) jokes, the ones that made the work not seem so much like…work. Many equally good teachers, mind you, but completely different from Mr. Perkins.

After reflecting today on 4 years (plus one season instructing) with Mr. Perkins and the Dondero bands, I came to an epiphany. I realized that my professional development, as with all things, must be about balance. Being a cheerleader and full of energy and enthusiasm for the subject I teach is useful and important, but just because it's what I'm comfortable with doesn't mean I should rest on my laurels by relying on it exclusively.

If there is one major life lesson I learned from Dick Perkins, it was this: The work may be hard, it may be boring or even excruciating at times, but the rewards are far richer when you do it right, learn something from it, and know that you succeeded through your own perseverance.

Thank you, Mr. Perkins. You will forever be a part of me, and your legacy will live on through every student I teach and ever note of music that emanates from me for the rest of my life. I will work for that.