So, I open my program at the Phil concert, and here is the bio of Eastman’s own, Rich Thompson. I check the program rep. And, then I look up at the stage, and I text him.

“Did they drag you all the way from Henrietta, to play snare, for BOLERO??”

Sure, enough – he texts right back! Brad will play Bolero, but Rich is actually in the concert. Haven’t seen him, in YEARS.

Then, I glance over at the trumpet section, and spy my former 5th grade trumpet student Jay, and he looks out and actually sees me and waves, just before the Concertmaster takes the stage.

The performance unfolds. I recognize Les Preludes, by Lizst. We’d played it, possibly twice, back in the day. I choke up, at the lush melodic interplay between celli and violi. I look around at all the instrumentalists filling the hall with music we’d all shared together, for three decades.

Then, the guest flute soloist with the same last name as the step father of my old boyfriend from Lake Ronkonkoma launches into THE most demanding flute solo ever written, and everybody roars to their feet, ending the first half.

Intermish.

When the Ellington sets up, I realize Rich will be right out on stage edge, at the kit, directly in my sight line. He plays like he always did – assuredly, forthrightly, and with dazzling style. I’m proud of my old friend.

Then, Jay plays a trumpet solo, and it’s absolutely perfect. During applause, I look at him and he sees me again and I give him two thumbs up. I’m so proud, again, of the boy who started in my brass class back at Grover Cleveland in, what, ’99? and then, in high school, competing with me at the keys on the Arutunian trumpet concerto.

Bolero is equally flawless. I’m so thrilled by every soloist, beginning with the intrepid, unflinching Brad Amidon, a man I will love always, and moving to flute, gorgeous oboe d’amore from Danna who introduced me to my one and only husband, bassoon from Fredonia’s darling, two very fine clarinetists, Allen Z on a wailing soprano sax, and then those trumpets, all of them, Gary and Jay and also Riley, for whom I’d played piano for his impeccable concerto decades before, and then the killer trombone solo, and the orgasm, and done.

Rich texts that, due to a suspension malfunction in his car he needs a ride, so Barb and I agree to pick him up at the French stage door and take him to his hotel. As the hall empties we speak briefly from the stage edge, solidifying our plans.

And then, up comes Jay, walking right directly to me, and I’m so honored to get to speak with him after his wondrous performance, and he reminds me that I DID set his embouchure and that he never did change it and THAT reminds me of Chris Dempsey, whose trombone embouchure I’d also set and who went on to win a solo award at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Two brothers having played trombone, plus Dad having been lead bugler in his army outfit and playing Reveille for us, when we were kids – yes; these were my first brass “teachers”. But, Jay is particularly attentive toward me, which warms my heart and makes it grow big and fill my whole body. I ask if his parents are here, and he tells me about his mum’s back problems so similar to my own, and then says his dad would rather sit at a bar and watch a game, and my heart pricks for Jay who plays so beautifully and who also knows the absence of those close to him. I want to stay a bit longer, talking with Jay, but we have our plans and we must attend to them.

Rich and Barb and I head to Oliver’s where we drink wine and I get to have my gluten free flatbread pizza with caramelized onions and sun-dried tomatoes and balsamic. And, we stay til almost midnight – me, my friend Barb, and my old friend Rich, the two of them making an instant connection over high end cars and the entire California coast.

I drop them both off, and head home to write this recap of an evening filled with nostalgia and affirmation, in the midst of heartbreak and isolation so many reminders that the old girl does have plenty about which to be both thankful and assured, newly convinced that, even if left with only sad stories to tell my life work has been of benefit to at least two boys, who grew to be young men at the peak of their professional performance.

The most mystifying part remains just how many times Rich has actually come to mind, over the past couple of days. And, now, here he’d been, riding in my car after the Phil concert tonight.

Taking a few moments to let my mind spin down and my heart find its center, I end the evening feeling gladness, grateful just to have been remembered.

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Copyright Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Originally published at Facebook.

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— with Ruth A Scanzillo.