Ellen once told me a story about a teacher she had in Junior High. She told me the teacher asked everyone which they would prefer: to be blind or to be deaf. The question wasn’t meant to trivialize either condition and I have no idea what conversation preceded the discussion, but I remember what Ellen said next. She said that everyone answered that they would prefer to be deaf. Each cited a difficulty they would face living without eyesight: how they couldn’t drive a car, how difficult it would be to do simple tasks, and how they would be afraid to live in the dark. Then the teacher surprised them all and said she’d rather be blind. She said that she wouldn’t want to live in a world without music. Ellen said she was surprised by this teacher’s response, but that she had grown to realize the truth in it and that she now agrees with her teacher. I don’t know if I fully agree with Ellen, but I do know that life is more beautiful with music. I know how deeply it affects me.

I’ve since been to many other concerts with Ellen. One in particular stands out. A local rock station, WBCN, sponsored a concert at the Paradise club in Boston.
The Maids of Gravity were playing with God Lives Under Water. I liked both bands, but the real motivation was going in town on a beautiful New England day, last minute, at a great small venue, and you couldn’t beat the cost. The concert was sponsored by WBCN 104.1, so the cost was only $1.04 if you mentioned the station at the door. I called Ellen and she was in.

As I mentioned, the Paradise was a small venue rock club. It had an adequate sized stage and it takes up half of the first floor room. There’s an upstairs balcony which overlooks the whole room and there are a handful of booths to each side of the stage. We arrived fairly early, but there were still enough people crowded around to create problems finding a good spot to watch the show. We walked around a bit before I came to the realization that sitting in a booth would probably provide the best view and comfort. Unfortunately, all the booths were occupied, although only with a few people each.

Ellen was ready to stand at the back of the room, when I proposed that we simply ask someone if they would mind sharing their booth with us. Ellen didn’t think that was going to work out and was ready to accept a position at the back of the room. I tried the back of the room for a few minutes, and even looked around at other possible areas, like the balcony. Finally, I arrived at the conclusion that there was no harm in asking, so I walked over to one particular booth right next to the stage, with perfect eye-line, and occupied by only two people. The booth was massive, enough to hold at least a dozen people, so we really wouldn’t be intruding, I reasoned. Ellen still thought I didn’t stand a shot, and I guess I steeled myself for rejection, but I politely asked the couple if they would mind sharing their booth with us, and they kindly agreed. It was that simple.

They turned out to be very nice people and I think they really enjoyed our company and our conversation. I don’t remember either of their names and I would have no way of knowing if they remember the concert like I do, but their simple act of kindness contributed to a lasting memory. Every time I think about that show, that summer at that time of my life, I remember them. This pair of strangers that I’ve never seen since will always be the lynchpin of that memory. The same can’t be said for the rude people I’ve encountered in my life. With few exceptions, I can’t remember them at all.

I don’t know if that couple realized that their act of kindness could have such an impact. They may just be friendly people, who are accustomed to being courteous and honorable. They may have forgotten the matter as something you just do for people, like holding the elevator door open. But, I know it did have an impact. I’m certain I would have remembered the concert anyway, both bands put on a great show and I bought two CD’s that I still have, but my memory wouldn’t have been as perfect without them.

I thought it interesting that at the same show, I didn’t see anyone else ask to share a booth; certainly, no one asked us. If they had, I like to think the couple would have agreed as cheerfully as they had before. Some of the concert-goers may surely have preferred to stand, or dance, or gather at the front of the stage or the back of the room, but I have to think there were many who would have preferred to sit in a comfortable booth like us. Unfortunately, it’s easy to fall into the trap of cynicism and see only the negative qualities of mankind and not seek out the goodness in others. They probably thought that no one would have agreed to share, even though it really wouldn’t have been an imposition at all. I don’t fault them for believing this, but I remember it every time I see someone searching for a place to sit or stand and doesn’t have the courage or insight to ask someone to share a table or bench. I don’t fault them for being cynical. I offer them a place next to me.  I do that whenever I see an opportunity and each time I brush it off like it was the simplest thing in the world, because, really, it is. And I never know when I’m going to make someone’s day and give them a memory they hold with them for a lifetime.

"If you want to lift yourself up, lift up someone else.”
Booker T. Washington

Ellen is single, so it only reasons that I’d have more memories of her during my single years than I would of my other sisters who are married.  That’s not to diminish the times I’ve spent with Ellen, because they have been some of my favorite times of all, but I felt the need to explain why her name continues to pop up with more frequency than my other sisters.

Ellen and I have shared several vacations together, one of which we spent in Las Vegas.  I’ve since gone back to Vegas with Ellen, but our first trip was indeed my favorite.  I’m sure I’ll write more about this particular vacation, but since the current topic is live music, I’ll keep my thoughts to a particular memory of our trip.

Without checking through old plane ticket stubs (I’ve held on to those, too), I’d guess that my first trip to Vegas was in early 1995.  The MGM Grand still had its theme park open, the Bellagio; New York, New York; and the Venetian hadn’t yet been built on the strip, and they were just preparing for construction of the massive roof that would eventually encompass the street downtown.  This trip, we stayed downtown at the Golden Nugget.  It’s a fine hotel, but frankly, we didn’t spend much time there other than to shower and sleep.  We really only chose it because hotel fare was cheaper off the strip but we still wanted to stay some place nice.  The Golden Nugget turned out to be even nicer than I had imagined.

After about our fifth day, the lights, noise, and constant activity that defines Las Vegas began to wear on us, and then we began to wear on each other.  I decided to head out on my own and Ellen stayed in the room.  Before I got too far, only about a block away, I could hear the obvious rhythm of a live band.  The music was coming from a club called The Fremont Street Reggae and Blues, which unfortunately closed only a few years later in 1996 when its owner moved back to Omaha.  The club was dark and I couldn’t make out much from the street, so I started to forgo the ten dollar entrance price and walk away. I only walked a few doors away when the the allure of the club beckoned me back.  There was an adventure to be had and ten dollars wasn’t a lot to risk on a new experience. I walked up to the people collecting money at the door and it was only then that I discovered the money was being raised for a local cause. I reasoned that if the experience didn’t turn out to be worth ten dollars, I was at least contributing to something beneficial.

I walked in, took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, and watched the show. The band was playing great, but as soon as the song was over, they thanked the audience and left the stage.  My disappointment ended quickly when the MC announced the name of the next band to take the stage.  It turned out that they were hosting many local bands who were all playing for the charity.  I don’t know if I ordered and finished a second beer or not, but I do know that I got my hand stamped at the door and ran back to the hotel to get Ellen.  She seemed a little reluctant to leave the room at first, probably because I had started grating on her even more than I had realized, but she eventually relented and followed me out and down the street to the Fremont Street Reggae and Blues where I eagerly paid her entrance fee.

I don’t know how long we spent in that dark club on that bright, sunny day, because it was one of those experiences where time seemed to have no meaning.  We watched many bands and we drank many more beers.  And when we finally did leave that club, whatever problems we had with each other were long left behind.  In fact, I don’t have the slightest idea what petty dispute or annoying habit caused us to go our separate ways in the first place.  All I do know is that I’m thankful I decided to stop into that bar, and even more thankful that I had the good sense to share it with my sister.  I also know that I heard the most amazing rendition of Magic Carpet ride that day that couldn’t be surpassed if Steppenwolf themselves came and played it in my living room.

"As life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time, at the peril of being not to have lived.”
Oliver Wendell Holmes

Christmas was really nice this year.  The holiday itself fell on a Sunday and when this happens, my work has to give us Monday off, creating a three day weekend. Last year, Christmas fell on a Saturday, so in essence we didn’t get any day off for Christmas (or New Year’s Day for that matter), other than the usual weekend. Needless to say, I enjoyed this year’s holiday weekend over last year’s.

More significantly than the day on which the holiday fell, was the inclusion of a new family member: my daughter, Ella.  She’s only a little over four months now and it’s doubtful if she’ll remember into her adulthood anything that occurred this year, so it’s questionable whether our celebrations were for her or for Maggie and me. We dressed her in a Christmas outfit, took photos, and mailed out the best one for our Christmas card.  It actually came down to a choice between two photos, but we picked the one with her head cocked to the side a bit, looking somewhere between exuberant and mischievous.  Another day, we dressed her in another outfit, and took her to see Santa Claus down at the town hall and took even more pictures.  Christmas Eve, we dressed her in yet another outfit, and took her to two parties, one for each side of the family, and took yet more pictures and even video footage.  If in years from now, she becomes a fashion model, I’ll have to think the wardrobe changes and flash bulbs from this Christmas alone would have played a great part.

After all the rushing around Christmas Eve, we spent a nice quiet day at home on Christmas Day.  Maggie’s brother, Eric, came for Christmas dinner, and Maggie cooked a delicious roast beef with all the trimmings.  It was a really nice day overall until evening arrived and Maggie had to dress for work.  She’s started working two overnight shifts a week at a local hospital, sometimes on weekends and sometimes on holidays.  This allowed us to eliminate day care for Ella without dropping the household income.  It’s been difficult for her to manage the nights without sleep, especially since her schedule doesn’t allow her body or mind to truly adjust to the changes.  I try to be positive and helpful.  I do odd jobs around the house to try to make things a little nicer for her when she gets home.  My sister, Brenda, has helped out by watching Ella in her home during particularly tough weeks.  But, the simple fact is that the new schedule is hard on my wife, and as a result, hard on us.  We’re learning to cope, and I’m learning how to be more understanding and give her a little more room.  I think the changes may turn out to be as good for us as we knew they’d be for Ella.

Christmas night, I put Ella down at her usual time, but I knew that her internal clock was a little off-kilter due to the schedule changes and activity of the previous week which reached a crescendo on Christmas Eve.  She had also been suffering under the effects of a cold.  She woke up about 9pm and was still pretty drowsy while I fed her, slipping in and out of sleep, each time looking a little surprised or confused as to where she was.  I tried putting her back down to sleep, but an occasional cough kept waking her until she was fully awake and alert.

I’m usually the one to advocate the importance of self-reliance and discipline, but there aren’t many reasons to stress either with a four month old, especially on Christmas, when her mother isn’t home.  So, I dropped my role as the disciplinarian and took on the role of the nurturer.  I stood over her crib, and gently rubbed the top of her head, the back and sides, around her ears, and traced her face with my fingers.  She stopped crying, her arms stilled, and her breathing slowed and became less forced.  I don’t know how long I stood over the crib, but eventually my back to ache, so I squatted by the side for as long as I could.  When my legs began to tire, I pulled over the ottoman from the glider and sat by the side of the crib, continuing to caress my daughter’s head.  She looked as peaceful as I had ever seen her, perfectly still, with a slight hint of a smile on her lips.  Eventually, the power of the situation overwhelmed me and I began to weep.  I cried because I loved my daughter.  I cried because I loved and missed my wife.  I cried because I loved and missed my mother.  And I cried because I finally “got it.” I felt the unbreakable bond between us as surely as I felt the soft skin beneath my fingers.  She’s no longer just my daughter, but I’m also her father.  I can’t describe it any other way.

"The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart.”
Helen Keller