Skip to main content

Of Jazz and Rain

It’s dark.

The neon reflects in the rain-slicked streets. Around me, a million cars seek a path known only to them.

Inside my car it’s quiet.

The steady hum of the tires on the pavement and the slow, fluid sounds of Dave Brubeck’s Take Five fill the void.

Somehow, for me, that piece of music sounds like rain. The saxaphone splashes notes against the windshield like so many raindrops.

The sun has long since faded for the day.

For the week, maybe.

Above me, the sky hangs low, moist and soft and gray.

Colors are more vivid — the red dirt, so prevelent here in Oklahoma, has been washed way.

Brubeck continues.

In my mind I see a single man, wrapped in a dark overcoat, moving quietly through the rain-soaked street.

I change lanes and merge smoothly toward the downtown exit. Near Broadway and 23th Street the aroma of newly baked bread hangs heavy in the moist air.

It swirls and blends with the smell of my large coffee, and takes my mind places on this late, wet night that I haven’t visited in years.

The wet and the dark, conspire to make me feel cold. I pull my coat tighter around me and move quickly back to my car.

In front of me, a homeless man holds a damp cardboard sign. I empty the change from both pockets in his red, plastic cup.

He gives me a toothless smile and offers me a blessing from the Almighty.

Briefly, I remember my grandmother. She always admonished me to share with the poor and the homeless.

“Just in case the good Lord visits the Earth disguised as a begger,” she said.

I know, tonight, she would be proud.

I slide back behind the wheel and, quickly, the engine comes to life.

Brubeck resumes his music.

And I continue my way home.

Comments

Anonymous said…
Enticing. An English teacher taught me, "Show, don't tell." You know that well, too.

Popular posts from this blog

Ex-pastor suing Moore's First Baptist Church

MOORE — A former official with Moore’s First Baptist Church is suing the church for his termination, and for “spreading false rumors about his mental health throughout the community,” court documents show. Jimmie D. Lady, the church’s associate pastor, filed the suit in Cleveland County District Court last week seeking $10,000 in actual damages and $10,000 in punitive damages for “severe emotional distress and mental anguish as a result of statements made about him when his job was terminated.” Lady’s attorney, Andrew Hicks of Houston, claimed church officials terminated Lady for being bi-polar, then spread rumors about Lady in the community. “Although a man of God, Dr. Lady cannot ignore the dramatic, adverse effects these untrue and unfair accusations have had on him and his family,” Hicks said. “First Baptist Moore’s efforts to tarnish Dr. Lady’s reputation have threatened his family’s livelihood. Through this suit, we hope to restore Dr. Lady’s good name.” Church officials denied...

Pink Toes

Zachary has pink toes. Thursday, that horrific, difficult, awful day, is over. And here, in the stillness of my home, the quiet is my benediction. My youngest son – the smallest, most fragile of a large, blended family – has stood at the edge of oblivion and returned. The weeks building to this day brought tension, anxiety, stress and fear. Overwhelmed by nature of Zachary’s needs, we, his parents, had no real plan, no other process in place. We simply turned our faces toward the storm and prayed. For the third time in our lives, Karen and I made the long, long walk down the yellowish-tan colored hallway to the operating theater. This time, Karen went in with Zach as they put him under. She walked out the doors sobbing. We returned to the third floor of Children’s Hospital and started out long vigil. The clock seemed to move backward. Once again, we huddled inside the waiting room with friends and family and made mindless conversation. We talked about politics and God and life. ...

The more things change, the more they stay the same

So I’m standing in a large darkened gym, watching a bunch of middle school kids fake like they are dancing — and for the record they’re not very good. I’m here, because in a moment of weakness, I told my school teacher-wife I’d help chaperone. The music is loud. Between 40 and 50 kids line the walls — boys on one side, girls on the other. The dance floor is empty. I’ve been here before. About 30 years ago. Over to the left, there’s the arrogant little twit who is sure he’s the perfect specimen of masculinity. He thinks he’s immortal and he honestly believes that every girl here is dying to hook-up with him. He struts around like a rooster, high-fives his buds, and practices that same look Rod Steward made famous in 1975. Rod’s version was way better. Thirty years ago this kid’s name was Jimmy; he started on the eighth grade football team and his Dad bought him a real motorcycle. He was just sure he had qualified as the Alpha Male of the eighth grade. Superjock is talking to the standar...