All Blues (by Kevin Sites) In the end when all else failed you, sound was your salvation. When your eyes finally surrendered, you lived by your ears. But that's the way it was from beginning, wasn't it? The bodacious, confidant sounds of big band, giving way to the bittersweet contemplations of jazz, giving way to the soothing reflections of easy listening. While you listened you stayed alive, but when you played, when you played your trumpet you truly lived. The sea, the sky The you and I Sea and sky and you and I We're all blues All shades, all hues We're all blues The trumpet taught you every lesson you would ever need to know: That it took your own breath to truly bring something to life -- whether it be a home, a marriage, a family, a career -- or just the notes that emanated from a beautifully curved piece of brass blown from a basement on winter Sunday afternoon, wafting through the heat vents to warm us all. The music that came through the flare of your horn, we knew, were your not-so- secret joys and regrets, your gratitudes and pleadings. But more than anything they were your prayers. That is where you prayed, every note of life, your hands raised, your head bowed, your lips pursed and then you played. You prayed. What came out in those notes was the story of your life. The hauntingly beautiful and sometimes melancholy tale of a stubbornly honest man to whom much was given and much was taken away. We know for example, you began as sensitive young boy, an only child who grew up in the eclipsing shadows of a classic beauty and a charismatic showman, garrulous giants, who could suck all the air out of the room just with their presence. But still, in that sometimes suffocating place, you found enough air for yourself, breath enough to make boyhood friendships that lasted a lifetime, breath enough to pledge an oath to your country and as a young officer command the respect of rough and tumble sailors older and more experienced than you, you found breath enough to propose to the love of your life and a little more breath to say "I do" only to nearly lose your last breath just a few years later in an almost fatal car accident. Still, you proved you would not go so easily or so quickly. With a shiny new patch of titanium covering the hole in your skull, there was still enough breath left for all the years it took to be a father four times over, enough breath to speak the words that would guide your children as well as to chide them when necessary, but more often, you used your breath to express your love and growing admiration as they found their own way in the world. It was another lesson your trumpet taught you, especially after your accident. There was no music without a little pain. Some blues are sad Some blues are glad Dark and sad Oh, bright and glad They're all blues All shades, all hues They're all blues You didn't hide that pain from us, we could see it in the way your hand rubbed tiny circles on your forehead, in the sound of the cap coming off a bottle of Excedrin, the dull throb behind your eyes, but never did you complain about it. Never. But more importantly, you never hid the joy either. Your greatest joy, no doubt, was the love of your life, your wife. How different you both were: you a small town guy from Ohio and urban gal from Atlantic City. She was the heat of a summer's day; you were the cool, fall breeze. She the salt-water taffy, you the glazed donut, she the gin and bitter lemon, you the cold beer, nurse to banker, Catholic to Protestant, wife to husband. SOULMATES. While your differences were obvious, what bound you together was equally clear. Compassion. You both cared deeply about the lives of others, spent your lives in acts of kindness, felt deep empathy for the others that shared your world. And from that compassion you found the passion that kept you so fiercely devoted to each other for more than six decades. Not all of them easy. To love someone is to let fear into your heart. To know that someday you will lose them or they will lose you. That you WILL lose each other. There were moments both early and late in your marriage when you had to watch each other probe the thin membrane that separates life from death. It's easy to imagine that even in those most painful moments, there was a lesson from your trumpet as well. In the curve of its bell there was both solace and sanctuary. With three fingers and two lips you could release all the things stuffed in the attic of your heart, release both hurt and hope, a golden noise winding through the reservoir of your lungs, through the dark, hollow curves and finally, filling the air. The sea, the sky The you and I Sea and sky and you and I We're all blues While you lived much of your life with the familiarity and precision of someone who had already experienced too much uncertainty, you knew the best music wasn't static notes on a page. It was about improvising and the unexpected. And while you breathed your story through your horn, you let it come out different every time--even as it held the reflection of who and what you were at that very moment. Maybe that was who you were most comfortable being. But you knew that to do the same thing over and over and you might as well be a shadow. You were not a shadow. So you improvised with us, when it came to your children, you left the sheet music behind. You inspired all of us to find our own breath and to tell our own stories. And so we did. And the fact that you were proud of us from the moment you held us in your hands to the last moment we were able to hold yours, will nurture and fortify us for the rest of our lives. We were especially grateful that you lived long enough to be able to see our stories unfold before you, even after you lost your eyesight. And while our stories were our own, in each, there was and is much of you. In your first born, Kathy, we see an expansionist heart and a humbling emotional honesty able to grow and accommodate a family that so desperately needs her attention, energy and unconditional love. In Shawn, your second child, we see the keen intelligence and merciless wit of your own mind, but also bottomless compassion that kept her at your bedside, both day and night, until she knew you had made it safely to the other side. Your third, Tim, as you know has surpassed you in the building of exquisitely beautiful things in which lucky families might live their lives. We will hear you always in his laugh, but truly know your presence in the generosity of his spirit. Your last, Kevin, shares more than anything, your love of stories, hearing them, telling them, hoping they can somehow be instructive guides for our own lives, just as your story has been for his. Some blues are sad Some blues are glad Dark and sad Oh, bright and glad They're all blues Long after it became too painful to find the breath to play, when you finally had to put your trumpet down and your eyesight had failed, you turned again to your ears. And while you still listened to music, your true escape was your books on tape. You listened to stories of detectives and spies, gunslingers and lawmen, pirates and sea captains. Through them you were able to move freely again, able to see the worldin your imagination. They were exciting and funand they were fiction. But your story is real and though it may fade, it will never be forgotten like those you listened to for hours on your audio player. We will tell your story with our lips and with our breath, but most of all with who we are, that part of you we carry with us, your loving wife, your two daughters and two sons, your grandchildren and your great grandchildren. We will see you clearly, even when our own eyesight fails us. Because we are you. You were a man not just of flesh and blood but also of steel, the titanium that guarded your brain early on and the box that guarded your heart in your later years, but more than anything you were the brass that you held in your hand and to your lips releasing the angel of your soul. All Blues (Chet Baker/Rachel Gould) 9/24/2015