20181120.0430

I've noted, I believe, that I've been taking part in a community jazz band in my hometown, one for which I am playing the bari sax I inherited from my grandfather. I've been enjoying myself greatly so far, even if my chops and technique aren't nearly as good as they used to be (not that they were terribly good to start with) and far less good than the ensemble really ought to demand. We'd previously been practicing at a privately-held facility where one of the founders works, but this past weekend saw us relocate to the local high school bandhall for practice--a move likely to last for quite a while, given how things are falling out. And going to the high school bandhall was something of a strange experience for me.
To be fair, the space is not the space I practiced in, twenty or so years ago when I was in high school band, marching alto and bari saxes and anchoring the jazz band with my honking buzzsaw of a horn. The school has moved since then, though its name and that of the bandhall--named to honor a long-time award-winning director whose children followed him into conducting and whose grandson even now is coming up through what was his grandfather's band program--are the same as they were when I left them. Many of the awards on the walls are the same, as well, and while it was a peculiar comfort to see that the commemorations I remembered were still in places of honor, it was a bit of an oddity to see my name on the walls in a place of pride--and with others' names coming after mine in succession, when there had been a gap before mine of quite a while.
Somewhat shocking was to see old pictures of myself and my old bandmates in places of honor. I was told by the band director that the students had been going through some of the old materials in the bandhall, unfiled and unsorted things that needed to be cleaned up somewhat. Pictures of my freshman and sophomore years' marching bands were among what they found, and the students had decided that pictures of the bands that are, for them, of old needed to be displayed. They are not wrong; there is value in looking back to an organization's history to help it develop and maintain an esprit de corps and to promote morale. It is simply strange to be one of those looked back upon; I know that I have wondered about the stories of those who went before me, and I wonder if I am the subject of some of the same wonderings now.
If I am--and I know better than to assume that I am, though I am vain enough to hope that I am--I know that those who wonder as I did have something that I did not have in nearly so much abundance. I am here, and I am happy to tell what I know. When I was in, those who could have told me were distant from me; I like to think, and I hope I am right, that I am a bit closer, even if there is perhaps not so much that I would be able to say as others might have done. Still, some has to be better than none...