Grandpa Gipson and me
Despite the title, I’m not fishing for sympathy. It was a tough day for many reasons so I just thought I’d share a nice memory about him.
When I was a little kid, he came to live with our family in Glendale for a short while. With a plan to stay for a few months, he parked his tiny trailer in our back yard. (Very cool.)
One afternoon, I was in my room practicing my sax. He knocked on the door and asked to sit in. As a shy kid, my music was usually a very private thing.
But I couldn’t say no.
He sat next to me and tapped his foot to the jazzy standards I was noodling around with. I played my goofy amateur heart out. I faked a little here and there, but I did it with conviction. He loved it.
As an adult, I don’t “blow the notes” frequently enough and I regret not playing for him since those early years. He often asked, “When are you gonna bring your sax and play for me again?”
The Lesson: Never stop playing.
Ever.
