The clock is ticking

The clock is ticking. I can feel my chest tightening as I count down the days. In my mind there is a digital clock marking every second of every minute. It sounds suspiciously like the clock from “24.” With every “doink-doink-doink” I know that it’s growing ever closer. I’ve become accustomed to my life and routine, and, although it may look awfully boring from the outside, I enjoy every moment of reflection and creativity that can be wrung out of a day. But that could all be coming to an end. My son John has to move out of the house he has shared with his band mates for the past year. This means that he and Sugar, his boa constrictor, will be looking for a new place to live. Doink-doink-doink.

I liken John’s personality to the wind. He comes in, stirs everything up, and then leaves. He has always been like this. In school his teachers would stop short of using the word “disruptive. Because they liked him they would opt for the phrase, “overly social.” They would report that the class did whatever John was doing.

When he was six, I approached the music teacher at his school to ask if she would give my first grade son piano lessons. She said she didn’t take first graders. Sorry. But then she asked, “Who is your son?” When I told her it was John Luzzi, she quickly made an exception, “Oh, I’ll take John!” She had already caught on to his musical abilities. He spent two years with that teacher. When he changed schools, he changed teachers, and by Christmas of third grade, he played at Nordstrom in Bellevue.

Now John is no prodigy on the piano. He switched to the electric keyboard, and that teacher (the third if you’re counting) referred him to a guitar teacher. From that moment on, John was in love. His piano teachers gave him the foundations for music, but the structure was built with a guitar. Many nights I would go into his room and find him asleep with a guitar across his chest. Shortly after he began taking the lessons, I heard him listening to “Wipeout” by the Ventures in his room. Finally, I though, he’s listening to some good music! I opened his door to tease him about it, and much to my delight, the sounds were not coming from his stereo, but from his guitar. I ended up teasing him about his ability. “No fair! I took guitar lessons for years, and all I could play was “Michael Row the Boat Ashore!” The example was lost on his youth, but he understood my awe of his emerging talent.

Now that he’s older, he’s in a few bands, and occasionally going on the road. Being a musician means that you’re always broke, or else you’re too busy to enjoy having money if it comes your way. He knows that overnight success is just an illusion, and that he’s paying his dues at this time of his life. And I know that at some point he might get tired of having nothing but a guitar or two (and a boa constrictor), and take a more conventional job. But last week when he told me that he had to move, neither of us addressed the elephant in the room, moving home. I love my children, but I enjoy them much more when we don’t live together. But if he absolutely has to move home, I’ll take my heart pills and brace for the wind. Doink-doink-doink-doink-