My New Friend

Mr. Blue

I made a new friend this week.
In fact, I may have a little crush on this guy. Hubby knows and is totally fine with it, by the way.

Picture this:
I'm walking home from Anne's house after an afternoon spent sitting in lawn chairs in her driveway, watching the boys fly (mostly nose-dive crash) Anne's son's new RC plane. It was a beautiful afternoon, high 70's with a light spring breeze. I even got a tan line on the top of my feet from my flip-flops. Which looks very odd when said feet are bare, but I digress.

Anyhoo ...
I'm walking home from Anne's and I notice an older gentleman walking in front of his house. I smile and wave and say hello, 'cause I'm all relaxed and happy from the sun and the girl-talk.

He responds with a hello of his own, and as we chat about the gorgeous weather he mentions he's getting over jet-lag. Not being a world traveler myself, I ask where he's returned from. (I cannot remember the last time I was on a plane, unless I poke multiple little grey cells into action, and that would slow down my story)

He answers, (casually - as if it was the corner market) "Switzerland."
My mouth gapes unattractively as he continues, "I'm going to Paris in June."
This man has my undivided attention.

"How do you get to travel so often?" I ask.

"I'm a musician. I play the Blues. Do you like the Blues?" he replies.

I stammer. I don't know how to find the words to tell him how much I love the Blues. I was raised by parents with eclectic and varied tastes in music, but most of all, a deep appreciation for the pure emotional sound of Jazz or Blues. I am also the granddaughter of a trumpet and coronet player who spent thousands of late nights playing in a Jazz band. Nothing soothes my soul like the sweet and mournful Billie or Etta.

He casually offers, "Would you like one of my CD's?" I cannot answer fast enough. "Yes, please."

He opens his garage door and I am transfixed. I am rooted to the spot; my rubber-soled flip-flops have melted into the cement of his driveway. The walls of his garage are papered with festival posters ... The Monterey Jazz Festival catches my eye instantly. There are more festival posters, some I've never even heard of. Then I see the framed - some signed - photos of the singers and musicians he's played with over the years. Tina Turner, Ike Turner, B.B. King ... my head is spinning. I'm stuttering and trying not to gush like an idiot. I'm not being very successful. There are so many faces I'm familiar with; my brain cannot carry the names to my lips.

I am in awe.

He is so casual. So earthy and friendly and open to sharing his stories. I wish I had one of my trusty notebooks. Hell, I wish I had a tape recorder because my words cannot do justice to his stories. The cadence of his speech, the easy, rhythmic timing of his syllables.

I feel the need to convey my love of everything from that era. I want him to know I appreciate his life, his work, his world. I'm not just a thirty-something neighbor woman biding her time. My favorite music, books, movies, fashions ... everything is from the 40's and 50's. I try to tell him how special this conversation with him is to me ... meeting someone with the talent and history and memories he possesses is overwhelming. And I am at a loss for words. All I want to do is sit at his feet and prompt him to tell me stories until he tires of me.

He mentions he talked to Tina last night. I interrupt, saying "Wait. I'm having trouble with the fact that you just toss that out so off-handedly." He smiles, and I go on. "You talked to Tina Turner last night." He shrugs, and then adds, "We keep in touch. I just saw her." I remember the A&E Biography of her and respond, "That's right! I forgot she lives in Geneva, right?" He smiles at me and I think I've just gotten the tiniest nod of approval.

I've talked with him since that first day, but that will have to wait for my next post. There is more to tell, and I want to share the stories properly. And the CD he gave me? I've only played it about six times already.

This wonderful guy's name? Leon Blue

Yes, that is his real name.

I'm going to leave you with an older picture of Mr. Blue. That guy walking in front of him? Oh, that's just Ike Turner.
This guy is the real frickin deal. And he lives on my street.
My neighborhood just got so much cooler.