“Aging is not for the faint of heart.
It requires a slower pace, a steadier step,
and the wisdom to say goodbye without fear.”
—Meryl Streep

“I never heard of a jazz musician who retired.
You love what you do, so what are you
going to do, play for the walls?”
—Nat Adderley

I’ve been thinking about retirement.

For old road dogs like me, retirement is a tricky proposition.

Do we even want to retire? We love what we do. Why should we stop?

Occasionally you'll hear about a musician retiring “from stage to page,” exchanging public performance for the solitary work of composing music or writing a memoir. Others become painters, poets, or novelists. That's less retirement than reinvention.

Nobody expects us to retire. Most of our heroes didn’t. Unlike professional athletes, jazz musicians don’t “age out” of the business. When our strength, stamina, or chops begin to wane, we adapt. We simplify. We change our style.

Most of us can’t afford to retire. Self-employed artists rarely make enough to build any real retirement savings, and many end up with modest Social Security benefits. We’re responsible for our own healthcare. We don’t get paid vacations. We don’t receive paychecks, pensions, or 401k matching funds. We’re out here on our own.

A fortunate few get to expire on the bandstand. Bonus points if you drop dead during the applause, right after your brilliant solo! This exit strategy is called The Big Finish. We should all be so lucky.

The retirement plan for most of us, however, is The Slow Fade. You keep working because you must. Over time your health, mobility, and mental sharpness begin to decline. At the same time you experience a decrease in professional activity and cultural relevance. It feels like ageism, but it’s entropy. Fewer gigs, smaller crowds, less attention. A gradual slide from relative notoriety into obscurity and, eventually, total anonymity.

Fading out was never my plan. I wanted to finish the story on a high note. I wanted to go out on top.

When I was first starting out, I envisioned my career as a steady climb upward until finally, in my ultimate season, the capstone: a glorious Farewell Tour! I imagined joyously returning to all my favorite festivals, clubs, and concert halls for one final performance. I would play my heart out, then retire to a quiet life of leisure.

Now both of those dreams—the steady ascent and the victory lap—sound grandiose and incredibly naive to me. I've had a good run, but it felt less like scaling a mountain than navigating a winding river. Not a disciplined escalation so much as a cunning negotiation of life’s twists and turns, ebbs and flows, ups and downs.

Nevertheless, the idea of “a quiet life of leisure” sounds pretty good right about now.

After ten thousand gigs and half a century of hustling, I'm ready to rest, though the rewards of a life in music rarely arrive in a brokerage account. Most of them are non-monetary. I can't afford to quit working—not anytime soon, not in this economy.

I’ll need to keep earning a living for the foreseeable future—and perhaps that’s for the best. Creating, performing, and contributing are what give my life meaning. I would surely miss the connection with the audience and my bandmates, were I to leave it all behind.

But I can’t just keep going until the wheels fall off, and I won’t wait around for the slow fade to occur naturally. I must shape the process intentionally, little by little.

This body, mind, and spirit call for a deliberate downshift to a sustainable pace.

Maybe “retirement” isn't the right word. Maybe what I'm after is merely a gentler tempo.

I’ll continue to make the best music I can for as long as I can, for whomever is listening. I’ll simply do more with less: smaller projects, shorter tours, fewer gigs. From here on, it’s quality over quantity.

No retirement party.
No celebratory splash.
No farewell tour.

Just a long, slow decrescendo.

Diminuendo al niente.

“We don't stop playing because we grow old;
we grow old because we stop playing.”
—George Bernard Shaw

Can it really be true?

Is this year already half over?

Damn. For “The Year of Slow Living” it sure is going by awfully fast!

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, they do say “time flies when you’re having fun,” and I’m having plenty.

Because finally, after weeks of digital exercises, physical therapy sessions, and care team visits, my flugelin’ hand has fully healed from surgery.

I’m back to doing what I love: traveling, making music, living the dream. I’m even writing again!
 

There’s nothing like being sidelined for a while to make you appreciate getting back in the game.

Looking ahead, I remain mindful of two very important things:

1. I can’t stop working (so I sure as hell better pace myself), and
2. I can’t do this alone.

I’ve never been more grateful for my family, friends, and fans.

Your love and support mean the world to me.

Onward!

That’s a wrap on the first quarter! 

So far, so good.

RA-wise, I’m doing better. The pain is manageable, but the fatigue is frustrating, especially on show days.

I’ve never been a particularly powerful player, but I now require lots of rest breaks. Fortunately, my bandmates don’t mind spelling me from time to time.

The biologic medications are definitely helping. Progress is slow, but the rheumatologist advises me to be patient and stay the course. For the foreseeable future that means daily meds, weekly injections, monthly blood tests, quarterly x-rays, and regular doctor visits. I’ll begin physical therapy as soon as the insurance approval comes through.

Meanwhile, I’m making progress learning how to live and work with this condition.

We played twelve gigs this month, just enough to cover expenses. There was one cancellation due to weather, a significant loss financially, but the surprise “snow day” was a welcome gift.

As we prepare for more travels and adventures, I find myself reflecting on the month of March and why it always feels so laden with meaning.

March heralds the arrival of spring, a fertile time of natural and spiritual renewal, when new life begins as winter melts away.

Named for Mars, the god of war, March is also a battle cry. When spoken aloud, the word itself may trigger a visceral response. “March.” It strikes the ear like a command, to move forward.

Now here’s where it gets personal. 

Throughout the 1990s and early aughts in San Francisco, March was “Matheny Music Month,” when we staged the annual Dmitri Matheny Home Season. 31 days and nights filled with special programs, including workshops, commissions, charity events, scholarships, artists-in-residence, collaborations, premieres, symposia, talks, and performances for the home town crowd.

We borrowed the idea from dance companies: build a program in the winter, showcase it in the spring, tour it in the summer and fall.

The formula worked.

Our March series became an annually anticipated event in the jazz community, while providing the framework for one energetic, somewhat delusional, young flugelhornist to launch a career in one of the world’s great cultural meccas.

It enabled me, fresh out of college, to immerse myself in the vibrant Bay Area arts community, collaborating with respected elders, creating new connections, building audiences. And it provided the means to maintain a visible profile at home while making a name for myself on tour.

My heart swells with gratitude when I remember all our partners in the project, from our fellow creatives, to the generous patrons who made it all possible. I’m especially grateful for the journalists and volunteers.

Remember, email was brand new and social media didn’t yet exist. To get the word out, we relied on word-of-mouth, postal mailings, and coverage in the traditional print and broadcast media.

We organized volunteers into “mailing parties” and “street teams.” The older folks would sit around my kitchen table, sticking postage stamps and address labels onto thousands of invitations, newsletters, and media releases. The younger ones distributed stacks of handbills and flyers to nightclubs, cafes, community bulletin boards, coffee shops, grocery stores, libraries, laundromats, and other high-foot-traffic areas in the region. It was a monumental undertaking on a shoestring budget.

Sigh. That was long ago. We made a splash at the time, but in the scheme of things, did it matter? Many of the venues, publications, and people involved are sadly no longer around. 

And yet. I still feel the tug and twinge of those “March Madness” years. Like the itch of a phantom limb after amputation, March awakens something in me.

Call it vestigial ambition. Embers from an old fire. Forgotten, but not gone.

Now April is here and we’re on the road again. 17 events in Washington, Oregon, and Northern California.

I’m not worried. I’ll take my time and enjoy the journey.

My only job is to pace myself.

I resolve to maintain a simple, stress-free lifestyle built on gentle, sustainable habits.

1. Physical Health

Drink black coffee, unsweetened tea, and water.

Eat one meal a day, favoring vegetables and protein.

Limit consumption of alcohol, sugar, snacks, dairy.

Prioritize a daily nature walk and afternoon nap.

Stay current with prescription medications.

Visit the doctor and dentist twice annually.

Monitor blood pressure and weight.

Get plenty of quality sleep.

2. Mental Health

Avoid burnout. Say “no thank you” easily and often.

Stay connected. Reach out. Make time for friends and family.

Begin each day with affirmations. End each day with gratitude.

Talk less. No need to complain, explain, or entertain.

Schedule a multi-day solo retreat every 3-4 months.

Curtail consumption of news and social media.

Read. Rest. Sit quietly. Listen to music. Smile.

3. Finances

Practice frugality and minimalism. Limit spending to essentials. Give and receive simple gifts.

Make one money move (deposit, investment, bill payment, debt reduction) each and every day.

Pay off high interest cards and loans. Maintain current accounts. Keep credit utilization below 30%.

Avoid air travel and rental cars. Van-camp whenever possible. Don’t waste money on lodging.

Keep van and horn in good repair. Schedule an inspection before every big road trip.

Maintain OMAD and warrior diet protocols even when traveling.

4. Music / Business

Pace yourself. The hustle-and-grind years are over.

Do less of everything, but more deeply. Make it count.

Cast a wide net. Offer opportunities, follow-up, move on.

Never multi-task. Focus on a single project or tour at a time.

Value efficiency and sustainability over productivity.

Strive for slow, steady, incremental improvement.

Focus on community and collaboration.

Be purposeful, not ambitious.

Stay curious and inspired.

This year I resolve to work smarter, not harder.

I plan to pace myself, take my time, and do things right.

I’ll talk less, walk more, and appreciate every moment.

1. Sustain my daily routine at home.

• Wake up before sunrise. Walk, stretch, make bed.
• Handle all business before noon; reserve afternoons for music.
• Practice flugelhorn long tones and rudiments. Prepare repertoire.
• Read, study, walk dogs, run errands, and finish chores before daily meal.
• On gig nights: allow extra time, drive carefully, arrive early, and read my book.
• On free nights: enjoy television, movies, music, and podcasts.
• Before bed, put the day up for review and plan tomorrow.
• Practice deep breathing and mindfulness meditation.
• Sleep soundly for six hours or more.

2. Make the most of every road trip.

• Service van and replenish supplies before every tour.
• Plan ahead. Research each day’s driving route, meal, and nature walk.
• Drive no more than six hours daily. Rest every two hours.
• Schedule one (but no more than two) engagements each day.
• Cut costs to increase margins. Overnight with Harvest Hosts when possible.
• Maintain personal hygiene and stick to a regular sleep schedule.
• Recharge devices and handle business each morning.
• Plan breaks along the way for visits with friends.

3. Prioritize mental well-being.

• Relax, smile, and laugh. Choose to be in a good mood.
• Limit exposure to negative people and influences.
• Watch no more than 30 minutes of daily news.
• Spend no more than 10 minutes on social media.
• Get outdoors. Appreciate nature. Play with dogs.
• Schedule seasonal solitude retreats and staycations. 
• Make time for real conversations with friends.
• Be of service. Offer help and follow through.
• Avoid complaining, even to myself.
• Stay humble, hopeful, and grateful.
• Memento mori. Amor fati.

4. Prioritize physical health.

• Enjoy food and drink in moderation.
• Limit consumption of caffeine and alcohol.
• Follow OMAD and Warrior Diet protocols.
• Visit the doctor and dentist regularly.

5. Maintain financial discipline.

• Boost contingency fund by 20%.
• Increase retirement savings by 10%.
• Pay off 100% of consumer debt.
• Protect home and credit rating.

6. Shut up and listen!

• Hold few opinions and express even fewer.
• Listen more. Speak less. Two ears, one mouth!
• Remain curious, interested, and open-minded. Become laconic.
• When possible, try to make the point in one sentence, without preamble.
• In conversation, pause to think, then choose words carefully before speaking.
• When performing, settle down. Be a supportive listener, not a cheerleader.
• Rather than reacting impulsively, respond thoughtfully.

Made it home safely to sweet Sass and the fur-babies!

Since my bio-clock is still on midwest time, and Scout is a “morning person,” we’ve added an early AM neighborhood walk to our schedule. During today’s chilly moonlit ramble I reflected on Michigan, why I love the place so much, and why I keep returning.

The Great Lakes State figures prominently in my origin story. 

It’s the first place I lived after leaving home, where I first became serious about music, and where I found out what it means to live as an artist. It’s where I learned the values and habits that have nourished and sustained me: how to be creatively resourceful, emotionally resilient, financially independent. How to be a citizen of the world. It’s where the boy became the man.

So many “firsts” happened for me in Michigan. It’s where I met my first benefactor and my first great music mentor. It’s where I prepared my first concert as bandleader, and where I played my first paid gig. It’s also where I first experienced romantic obsession and heartbreak. 

I accepted my calling there, that “mournful yet grand” destiny of which Liszt spoke, the internal narrative which has shaped my entire life. The place is absolutely redolent with personal meaning, and each time I return to that poignant landscape, its familiar sights and sounds and smells bring back a rush of emotion, and my affinity for Michigan only deepens.

When I was planning this trip, I intended to include other favorite midwest venues in Chicago, Milwaukee, and Cleveland, but I simply ran out of time. Before I knew it I had filled every available date with “mitten bidness” — 21 concerts and workshops in as many days! 

I’m glad it worked out that way. 

The trip felt like a homecoming, not just back to my beloved Michigan, but back to myself. 

These past few years have been challenging, ruminating over the loss of my father, facing my own mortality, dealing with the financial impact of the pandemic, struggling with anxiety.

Yet in Michigan, standing before the brilliant Diego Rivera frescoes at the Detroit Institute of Arts, I had this epiphany: returning here has reminded me of who I am. 

Road life is rewarding, but it can also be exhausting, especially after so many trips around the sun. 

However, today I feel rejuvenated. I now believe I have another decade of traveling and performing in me, something I doubted before. 

October is the perfect time to visit Michigan. 

Criss-crossing the state, driving those winding backroads through the tunnels of trees, past all the rivers and lakes and farmhouses in the mist, with the autumn leaves swirling? Absolutely magical.
 

The other thing that made this trip so healing? The people.

My bandmates and I shared a big house together in Detroit. Lisa cooked Korean food for us, Tom shared several excellent bottles of wine, and we all talked late into the night about anything and everything. 

Our performances got stronger as we grew closer, something I haven’t experienced since my international travels with Amina Figarova years ago. 

But it wasn’t just my colleagues on the bandstand. 

All the venues were so warm and welcoming. 

The students and teachers were so inspiring. 

And the audiences were amazing! 

So much kindness, soulfulness, and generosity. So much joy.

Thank you, Michigan.

For our final quintet performance of the tour we convened at GRNoir in the heart of downtown Grand Rapids. What a magnificent venue! 

Heartfelt thanks to owner/founders Shatawn and Nadia Brigham and artistic director Kevin Jones (a renowned, respected artist in his own right) for creating and sustaining this cultural treasure where everyone feels welcome.

Also grateful for my beautiful bandmates: Tom (my great friend and mentor for over 40 years), Lisa (all the world is waiting for you, and the power you possess), Jeff (my brother from another mother), and Jordan (so soulful and creative, he always elevates the bandstand).  

Special thanks to Blue Lake Public Radio Jazz Director Lazaro Vega for making the scene and helping to fill the house, and to tap artist Heather Cornell for sharing her gifts.

Bright moments!

After coaching the Bloomfield Hills jazzers, I met up with my band for a 4-night run at one of our favorite venues: the historic Cliff Bell’s in Detroit! We made lots of new friends, and our pianist even got to play Stevie Wonder’s Rhodes! Among the extramusical highlights: walking in Palmer Park, visiting the Detroit Institute of Arts, and enjoying Mama Lisa’s home cooking. Excelsior!

Today's workshop was postponed to later in the week, so I took the opportunity to explore Woodland Park Nature Preserve, where the leaves are just beginning to turn. Scout would adore this place!

Be a man. Cowboy up! Don’t whine. Don’t complain. Just do what needs to be done.

Accomplish more with less effort. Use the tools of habit and ritual. Be resourceful.

Book extended tours: midwest (2023), western states (2024), east coast (2025).

Recommit to meal planning, black coffee, portion control, and nature walks.

Use fewer words. Say precisely what you mean and then stop talking.

Update duo, quintet, and big band repertoire. Prepare new sets.

Make time for long, meandering conversations with friends.

Maintain tourbus in excellent condition. Service regularly.

Update home security and emergency response plans.

Boost income from workshops by raising fees 20%.

Seek a mentor, a drinking buddy, and a side hustle.

Make the composition retreat an annual event.

Schedule a full week of rest in every season.

Stay humble. Stay hopeful. Stay grateful.

Take Sassy on a birthday vacation.

Selectively apply for grants.

Reduce debt by 10%.

Listen to the rain.

Learn to bowl.

Prepare.

Adapt.

Words fail to express how much we appreciate your generous support over the past year — the Year of CASCADIA — and the warm reception this project continues to receive from radio, retail, music journalists, and most of all, from friends like you. 

In the four months since its release, CASCADIA has been covered by dozens of online and print media publications internationally, garnering positive reviews from CD HotList, LA Jazz Scene, Earshot Jazz, Something Else, Jazz Views, Jazz Weekly, Midwest Record, and more.  

The album received 4-Stars from All About Jazz, spent over three months on the JazzWeek Top 100, is playing on radio stations all around the world, and was recently among the Origin Records releases submitted for Grammy Awards consideration. 

We’re grateful for all your lovely messages and social media comments about the album, too. But nothing compares to the thrill of performing live for folks who already know the songs because they’ve been listening to CASCADIA at home! 

Music brings us together and lifts our spirits. 

Thank you for lifting ours. 

We appreciate you! 

Dmitri

Traveled 300 miles today from Arden-Arcade to Ashland. 

California, I miss you already, but I’ll be back again in the spring. Try not to burn up or fall into the ocean before then, m’kay? 

Paused for the cause in the resilient town of Weed. Happy to report that both the Mill and Mountain wildfires have been contained, power is restored, and our friends at the Hi-Lo are back in business, serving up the very best pie a la road! 
 

Crossing into Oregon I swear I could feel the seasons change from summer to fall! 

Found a sweet parking spot (#MattFoleyForever) and spent some time with Darrell Grant’s tunes in preparation for tomorrow’s show in Ashland. 

Nice work if you can get it.

Traveled 225 miles from Santa Cruz to Seaside to Sacramento. 

Deja Blue, the Monterey jazz + soulfood venue where my friend Leon Joyce (“The People’s Choice”) leads the house band, is my kind of place!

Convivial atmosphere, lots of laughter with friends old and new (you're a jewel, Barbara), and I’m not sure which was tastier, the music or the catfish! 

The RV park by the Steinbeck House in Salinas didn’t work out, so I traveled north and spent the night in Gilroy, California. 

If you haven’t been to Gilroy, you’re missing out. The very air you breathe carries the mouthwatering scent of the little farm town’s most famous crop! 

How could I resist? Before skipping town I hit one of the roadside tourist traps and tried a little garlic ice cream. 

It was delightful! But it would be even better with bacon. Don’t judge. 

Now back in Sac looking for fresh vegetables.

Said goodbye to Sunset Beach this morning and headed down to Monterey. 

Listening to NPR on the drive, I heard the news that Ramsey Lewis has died. 

It seems like we lose another hero every few days, but this one hits hard. 

30 years ago in May of ’84, Ramsey Lewis came to Interlochen Arts Academy for a performance with our studio orchestra. I was a senior in high school and he was the first “big name” jazz musician I’d ever met. 

He made a huge impression. I was blown away by his infectiously joyful performance and his extreme generosity toward me and the other student soloists.

It couldn’t have been very rewarding for him, sharing the stage with a bunch of teenage amateurs, but I can still see his thousand-watt smile, still hear his howls of approval, as we launched into “The ’In’ Crowd” and “Hang On Sloopy” — big Ramsey Lewis hits from the year we were all born! 

After the concert Mr. Lewis took the time to speak with each of us individually, encouraging us to pursue our dreams. Yes, he did. And we did. 

After that I began checking out his discography in the listening library, beginning with Upendo Ni Pamoja, the album recommended by my classmate Frayne Lewis, Ramsey’s son.

Later I discovered Mr. Lewis' collaborations with Maurice White and members of Earth, Wind & Fire, one of my all time favorite bands, and I was hooked. 

I suppose it’s no coincidence that tonight it will be my privilege to work with Leon Joyce, Jr., a longtime member of the Ramsey Lewis Trio.

Or that this weekend in Ashland, Oregon, Darrell Grant and I will play Mr. Lewis’ theme song, the spiritual “Wade In The Water” — a staple of our repertoire for 25 years.

Ramsey Lewis was far more than a Grammy-winning, chart-topping jazz and pop star. He was a true Gentleman of Jazz, the kind of Great Man that Kipling wrote about, who walked with kings but never lost the common touch. 

Mr. Lewis proved you can be both a serious artist and a crowd-pleasing entertainer. His worldwide reach and influence as a performer, educator, broadcaster, and recording artist, is profound, deep and lasting. 

He was called, he served, he counted. 

His legacy is secure.

Put another 481 on the odometer criss-crossing San Francisco, Alameda, San Mateo, and Marin counties, giving school workshops and private lessons, and visiting friends whenever possible. 

Last week was a little too busy for my taste, but I only have one commitment each day for the rest of the tour, and that’s how I like it. Travel, make some music, enjoy a meal, take a walk, then hunker down with a good book, movie, or podcast. Is this what they call “quiet quitting?” 

The historic heat wave finally seems to be dissipating, thank goodness. Ocean breezes, morning fog, and cool mists are providing welcome relief from the summer sun. Now this is the Bay Area I remember! 

Since my next performance is down in Monterey, I decided to make camp in the seaside community of Santa Cruz. I have some history with this colorful little town, a favorite destination since my first Kuumbwa date back in 1989. 

You’d think I’d grow weary after all this driving, but cruising the Pacific Coast Highway is always rejuvenating and revivifying. This scenic coastline, with the dramatic sea cliffs on one side and the serene blue ocean on the other, never fails to feed my soul. 
 

The fish tacos at the Santa Cruz beach boardwalk are exceptional, and my campsite is so beautiful I feel like I’m getting away with something! 

I spent three glorious nights at Sunset State Beach, a peaceful hideaway under the pines overlooking Monterey Bay, on the very same playa privada as $ea$cape Resort next door. 

I watched the sun go down, took a luxuriously hot shower, then curled up in my comfy bed, falling asleep to the gentle rumble of ocean waves. 

I’ll bring Scout next time. 

She will love it here.

Logged 147 miles this weekend traveling back and forth from my base camp, a bucolic farm in Fairfield, to the bustling cities of San Francisco and Oakland.
 

Friday's venue was Bird & Beckett, a cozy Glen Park (SF) indie bookstore that hosts live jazz every weekend. Eric, the owner, is so hip that he named his shop for Samuel Beckett and Charlie Parker! 

Saturday was the Sound Room Oakland, my favorite music venue in Northern California (and I've played them all). Proprietors Karen and Robert just do everything right, and the sound engineer Carey is top notch.
 

Although the band had no opportunity to rehearse, everyone did their homework, listened to the album, prepared their individual parts, and showed up ready to play. We had a ball! Both performances went spectacularly, quite gratifying when performing for the hometown crowd.

Our drummer Deszon played especially well, later commenting that perhaps it's so easy for us to connect because we’ve known each other half our lives, playing together in different configurations for over 30 years! 

Between gigs I had a little free time in San Francisco, so I took a stroll down memory lane (aka Clement Street) and visited a few of my old haunts from back in the nineties.

Surprisingly little has changed! 

It’s comforting to know you can still pair a steamed pork bun from Wing Lee with a latte from Blue Danube, grab a slice from Georgio’s, or lose yourself in the stacks at Green Apple books. 

And it’s reassuring that the battalion of dusty Ultraman action figures still stands sentry, presiding over the Toy Boat gelato counter, silently awaiting your next visit.
 

Traveled 424 miles for jazz workshops at high schools and colleges in and around Sacramento, Silicon Valley, the Wine Country, and the East Bay. 

You never know what challenges or opportunities may arise on the road. I always try to have flexible plans that can adapt as circumstances change. I’m determined to enjoy every moment of this tour in spite of the historic heat wave. 

I love it here. I lived in the Bay Area for twenty years (1989-2009) so this trip feels like a homecoming.

Between gigs I’m reconnecting with old friends and my heart is full. 

Big thanks to Ann & Lalo, Mary & Peter, Julie, Tom, Ian, and Harvest Hosts for the hospitality!

Traveled 448 miles today from Centralia, Washington to Ashland, Oregon. 

Easy breezy. Open road, sunny skies, no wildfires. 

And have I mentioned how much I love my little 12-volt coffee maker? 

There’s something deeply satisfying about brewing a fresh cup of hot coffee inside the van, whenever you want one, without having to pull over or reach for your wallet. 

Stopped in Ashland this afternoon for a short visit/rehearsal with my dear friend, guitarist Ed Dunsavage. I’ve known Brother Ed and his supercool wife Jen for 25 years, and they remain two of my favorite people anywhere. 

Now settling in for the night at a riverside spot just north of the California border.

Should’ve brought my fishing pole!

Santa Fe was a stone groove! 

Highlights: sold-out show at Club Legato (woo hoo!), giant metal statue of Scout (my kinda public art!), and the best fish tacos in the world. Thanks JT! #BumblebeeBobForever 

Now comes the fun part: the vantastic homeward journey of 2,000 miles, through five states, in three days! From New Mexico, through Arizona, California, and Oregon, and all the way back home to Washington State. 

I’m so glad we did this. 

#Forward #BoondockerBoondoggle

“Open your minds, my friends.
We all fear what we do not understand.”
—Robert Langdon 

Charlie Higgins leads me by the arm into a space entirely unlike the rest of this mysterious fortress. 

The dining room is sunny, warm, and elbow-to-elbow with convivial groups of men in business attire, eating, drinking, talking and laughing.
 

“This is us,” Charlie says as we approach a corner table where a couple of seated gentlemen rise to greet us. “Let me introduce you to two of the original hep cats, Walt Connor and Will Cooley. Gentlemen, this is Dmitri Matheny.” We all shake hands and sit down together. 

At each place setting a single card embossed with the now familiar OC logo offers a simple selection of steak, seafood, sandwiches, and salads. I’m delighted. Since moving to San Francisco from Boston a few years ago I’ve enjoyed a steady diet of international and vegetarian fare. I’ve even learned to appreciate California cuisine with its requisite avocado, pine nuts and sun-dried tomatoes. But I was raised on American comfort food from cafeterias and diners. This is my kind of menu. 

Nevertheless, I decide to order something I’ve never tried before, a Crab Louie Salad. Based on the name, I’m fairly certain that I will enjoy at least two thirds of it.
 

Over lunch, Charlie cheerfully embodies his role as table host, guiding the conversation so as to include everyone. In spite of our difference in age (I’m in my late 20s and they’re all in their 60s) we all get along swimmingly. 

Curiously, no one discusses business. Charlie, the candy magnate, talks about his experience as a paratrooper in World War II. Will, a Southern California real estate developer, holds forth about Stan Getz and his involvement in the committee for jazz at Stanford University. Walt, an author and photographer (who may or may not also be heir to a large national department store fortune) speaks with authority about the forgotten history of jazz on the Barbary Coast. I mostly listen, fascinated by these wise old owls. 

As coffee is served, Charlie casually turns the conversation to the unique history and ethos of the Owl Club. Unlike other quote-unquote secret societies and fraternal organizations, Charlie explains, we aren't centered around a particular industry, sport, or school, but a common interest in nature and the arts. 

“Our membership roster includes not only prominent businessmen and CEOs,” Charlie says proudly, “but writers, journalists, military heroes, politicians, global leaders, and many well-known artists and musicians.” 

I'm intrigued. “But no women?”

Charlie smiles. “You know, a hundred twenty years ago when this club was founded, men tended to stay in their unhappy marriages. They needed clubs like this as an escape. Of course these days, if you aren’t happily married, you get a divorce. That’s why so many of our happily married members are now requesting more events to which they can bring their spouses.” 

Taking this as my cue, I pull the glossy jazz festival sponsorship brochure from my breast pocket and lay it on the table. I’m just about to begin my pitch when Charlie interrupts me, raising his hand and saying, “no-no-no, not here.” A red-vested waiter immediately approaches to ask that I “kindly put away the literature.” 

“I’m sorry, I thought …” I stammer, befuddled. 

“We can discuss all that later,” Charlie replies magnanimously. 

At precisely this moment, as if responding to a silent alarm, everyone stands to say their goodbyes. I stand too, shaking hands with Will and Walt, who leave together.

Charlie places his arm around my shoulder and ushers me back through the grand foyer, past the empty bar with its mad jumble of framed art, to the dark alcove where I first entered the building. It looks somehow different to me now. Less off-putting. More cozy.

“What a pleasure,” I say. “Thanks for lunch.” 

“Ah! I almost forgot!” Charlie replies, reaching into his pocket. He retrieves a small box, about 4 inches in diameter, wrapped in white paper. “This is for you.” 

On my way back to the jazz office, I stop by the piano bar at Kuleto’s, my favorite Union Square watering hole. I find a seat by the fireplace and order a bourbon, neat, feeling not unlike a noir detective at the beginning of a perplexing new case. 

I unwrap the mysterious gift box, genuinely curious what I will find inside. 

Perhaps some chocolate truffles from Charlie's candy company? But no.

I place the heavy totem onto the table in front of me and study it.

No card, no explanation.

Just a tiny silver owl. 

Next:
THE OWL CLUB PART 4 — SWEETS

“Untethered.” 

That’s the best word I could find to express the particular brand of loss that consumed me after my father died. 

I wasn’t in mourning so much as weary and resigned to the cruel finality of mortality, both his and, by extension, my own. I was even a little relieved because his suffering was over. 

In a way, Dad and I had already progressed through the first four stages of grief together — from denial to depression — while he was still alive, in hospice care. Only acceptance remained. 

I miss him terribly, but truth be told, I’ve been missing him since long before he passed away. I miss the man he used to be, before Parkinson’s and dementia robbed him of his mobility, wisdom and good judgement. By the time he succumbed to the disease, it had already been many years since we’d had a real conversation. Many years since I could benefit from his sage advice. 

With both my parents now dead, and no siblings or children of my own, it’s no wonder that I felt like an orphan. I’d experienced an inkling of that emotion only once before … when my marriage ended. 

Erica Jong describes divorce as “a ritual scarring that makes anything that happens afterward seem bearable.” She’s not wrong. I was gutted by the loss, not only of my wife and home, but of her family, whom I’d come to think of as my own. And I was surprised to lose nearly all the friends we’d collected over our 14 years together. It’s deeply unsettling and disorienting, after so many years, to no longer be responsible for, or accountable to, anyone. 

But even during the dark days of my divorce, Daddy Bill was there to commiserate and console. He was in my corner always. He never wavered. And now he’s gone. 

Because of the pandemic, I wasn’t able to be with him when he died, but I did visit him frequently during his final few years. I would return to Arizona for a week or more each season, and would sit with him for hours each day before heading off to the evening gigs that paid my travel costs. 
 

It’s difficult to know whether these extended seasonal visits to his assisted living facility were a genuine comfort to my father. He was embarrassed by his circumstances, and often when I returned each morning he didn’t remember seeing me the previous day. But every now and then his eyes would twinkle and he'd say something remarkably funny or insightful. He was still in there. 

Even in hospice care Dad somehow maintained a sweet disposition. For all his charm, however, he mostly avoided socializing with the other residents, opting instead to merely exchange pleasantries at meal time, then return to isolation. He had no interest in group activities or parlor games. He was a man who treasured his solitude, who loved to get outside and explore, but whose world had become oppressively small: a single twin bed in a tiny shared room. He often told me that he felt like a prisoner. It was heartbreaking. 

Sadly, he was no longer a man of letters, either. Books, his lifelong companions, were no longer of any interest. His hands weren’t steady enough to write, his eyes weren’t strong enough to read, and his attention span wasn’t long enough to follow the narrative of a novel or movie. Much of the correspondence sent to him remained unread. He appreciated postcards, greeting cards, small talk, and short conversations, even phone calls, as long as someone could help him operate his device. 

Most days I would just sit at his bedside and watch him drift in and out of sleep, while the TV spewed a continuous stream of conservative news and sports highlights. Sometimes we would talk about the weather or listen to an Eva Cassidy song. Occasionally we would venture into the other shared spaces of the care home, or sit outside on the patio, just for a change of scenery. But Dad needed to remain near the bathroom at all times, so we couldn’t go far. 

When he was able, we would shuffle around the tiny patch of desert surrounding the house. He tried valiantly to do it without his wheelchair or walker, but it was only a matter of time before even these small, slow walks around the block were too much for him. Yet even during our last few walks, although he struggled to finish a thought, he could still recall the latin names of all the neighborhood flora and fauna!

Dad’s been gone for over a year now and the world is diminished by his absence. I miss him something awful. And I must confess, while I don’t necessarily believe in an afterlife, I do find myself talking to him in quiet moments. I wonder what he would think of my life choices. I hope he would approve. 

Thankfully, I feel a little more “tethered” these days as I make a sincere effort to reconnect with distant friends and extended family. It’s especially comforting to spend time with other people who knew and loved him. 

Mostly I just feel grateful for everything he was, and will remain, in memory.

A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s heaven for? 
—Robert Browning 

About a year ago I wrote an obituary for my father. 

I sorted through his letters and personal papers, created a list of his educational and professional accomplishments, and attempted to fashion the mercurial vagabond voyage that was his life into some sort of cohesive linear narrative. 

I tried my best, but tributes never quite capture a subject’s true essence. This is especially the case with Daddy Bill, a great man who eschewed all markers of greatness. He didn’t care a whit about fame, gain, or material success. 

The part of his obit that feels 100% right to me is this: 

Throughout his life, Matheny generously shared his love of nature with others,
inspiring many of his students, friends and family members to develop their own
deep appreciation for the natural world. This is his great and lasting legacy. 

That legacy was underscored for me by the many people who reached out personally to tell me what Bill Matheny had meant to them. There’s no question: the man was beloved. He died without property or prestige, but his reach was wide. He will long be remembered as someone who made a positive difference in the lives of others. 

Unlike my Dad, I’ve always been ambitious and more than a little selfish. I knew better than to expect fame or fortune, but all my life I’ve worked harder than most of my contemporaries, powered by “main character syndrome” and the sincere belief that I was on track to become an historically significant artist. 

I now understand that goal to be unrealistic. 

Mind you, I’m a far better musician than I used to be. My new album will be my best, and I’m not done yet! I'll continue to strive for incremental improvement, greater authenticity, and soul. 

But my talents are limited. At age 56, there simply aren’t enough years left for me to join my jazz heroes on Mount Olympus. Instead, I now hope to live up to my father’s simple example of sharing with, and inspiring, others. 

Like the song says, “the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.”

To K.

Hawks are lazing in the azure sky 

Come walk in the warm sun with me 

Goldenrods and Joe-Pye sway with the wind 

Come walk in the autumn fields with me 

Only the wood thrush’s flute breaks the solitude 

Come walk in the deep woods with me 

Can’t you hear the thunder of the surf 

Come walk by the edge of the sea with me 

The moon is full almost but not quite 

Come walk in the cold moonlight with me 

Night-sounds, night-smells, night-magic abound 

Come walk in the soft dark with me 

The rain is a friend when one is alone 

Come walk in the rain with me 

Now the rainbow hangs with a promise 

Come walk to its end with me 

See how the steeple sticks the sky 

Come walk to the church with me 

One man’s lover is another’s friend 

Come. Take my hand. Walk with me. 

          —Bill Matheny

(To J.)

Please go away and be my friend, 

This cup of fire let pass from you — 

Because I know it’s not the end 

I’ll only spill a tear or two. 

Your laugh, your touch, your kiss I’ll need, 

But these are only part of you — 

Your other gifts to me indeed 

My strength, my will to live, renew. 

The on the other hand reproof, 

Of language and “what’s right for me” — 

(Don’t think I’m really that aloof) 

Of these, at least, I’ll soon be free! 

So think of love quite seriously 

And to your new affairs attend; 

What’s left for now’s enough for me — 

Please go away and be my friend.

          —Bill Matheny

The thunder groans and soon gives birth 

To storm still-born, September’s worth — 

To searing sight of flashing light 

That tears apart the sky-soaked night: 

Staccato sound of pelting rain 

Throbs through my open window-pane. 

Long have I lain in bed awake — 

Such rain this thirst can never slake; 

The awful truth, I am alone, 

Hits home full-force: yes, you are gone. 

          —Bill Matheny