Rhapsody

On August 14th, Ian and I took Mikey to see our friend Rachel Worby conduct the Pasadena Pops for one of the last times, since she is leaving after this season. The theme of the night was “All That Jazz,” and it began appropriately enough with Kander’s “All That Jazz” from Chicago, and then went through Mancini, Monk, Ellington, and several by Gershwin. Normally, as close friends of the Maestra, we get a good table up front, but at the last performance we decided that with Mikey, we were best off on a blanket in the back. It turns out that was a great decision.

It had been a month and a week since we had visited the parents and grandparents in New Bern, North Carolina. And it had been a week since I got an email from my mom with the title “Dad Is Dead,” referring to her father, my grandfather, Mikey’s great grandfather, who he only had a chance to meet the one time. How is it possible for a death to be a shock when it isn’t a surprise? I don’t know, but it was. I think it’s simply that I’ve been lucky for 41 years: no one I’ve truly loved has died before now. I am so grateful that we decided to hitch a visit to North Carolina onto the back of my cousin’s wedding in Wisconsin. The photos that we have of Mikey and Grandpa giving each other high fives are ones I will always treasure, and when he’s old enough to know what a remarkable man his great grandfather was, so will he.

So, it’s been a sad week. Add to that that Mikey has begun preschool, so he’s not home for several hours during the day. Apparently, according to his teachers who know what to say, he misses us enough that he’s called out “Daddy!” or “Papa!” after his nap, and once or twice looked for us in the preschool kitchen (the place where naturally we’d be), but the truth is that he loves it. He’s so social, it’s a good fit for him.

When you’re with Mikey, there’s not much time to reflect on your grandfather passing on and your son growing up. You’re feeding, chasing, laughing, and doing all the other present-tense things you have to do to keep up with a 23-month-old. Even at a concert like Saturday’s, you can’t sit and reflect on the music much, because the kid requires your attention. Then there was the plaintive, warbling glissando of the clarinet – which Rachel described as a bit of humorous improvisation at the first rehearsal of Rhapsody in Blue which Gershwin decided to keep in – and Mikey froze and began his dance.

The pity of it is that unlike the visit with his great grandfather, we were unable to capture it on film. Our video camera undoubtedly has a night light, but damned if I know how to find it in the dark. As he danced among the blankets and chair in the back rows of the concert, we heard various witnesses describe it as somewhere between a contemporary interpretative dance, a Charlie Chaplin routine, and a drunken jig. In fairness, Rhapsody In Blue, which closed the concert, began about two hours after Mikey’s usual bedtime, so the normally energetic kid was even more punch drunk than usual.

For me, Rhapsody In Blue was first associated with the black and white fireworks in the beginning of Woody Allen’s Manhattan. Then, when United began playing it in their commercials, I began associating it with flying. Now and forevermore, it will remind me of a warm August evening outside the Rose Bowl in Pasadena, and our son jumping, tumbling, shaking, and skipping perfectly in time with the score. A rhapsody indeed.