“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.

Only one more week remaining here in the hunker bunker! I’m fighting the good fight.

Hand rehab is going well: 90 minutes of PT weekly, plus prescribed exercises several times daily.

I’m not yet able to fully extend my fingers or make a fist, but I’ve recovered most sensation and flexibility, and the pain is almost entirely gone, which is encouraging.

Most importantly, I’m able to practice for a little longer each day, so it should be safe to return to work soon.

The stiffness in my fumbling flugel fingers, however, is supremely frustrating!

Passages I could play before with lyrical ease are now difficult to execute.

So it’s back to basics: scales, patterns, and etudes. Shout out to my old nemesis Herbert L. Clarke!

I play each exercise slowly with the metronome, gradually increasing the tempo, only after I’m able to place each note precisely and with equal weight. It’s mind-numbing work, but necessary.

Meanwhile, I’m also battling the bean-counting bureacrats of the deviously labyrinthine Medical-Industrial Complex. Sigh. #IYKYK

In the martial art of Aikido, the Japanese term “randori” (乱取り), literally “seizing chaos,” is an advanced technique in which the practitioner must improvise a defense against multiple attackers.

Opponents strike randomly using a variety of weapons. The unarmed randori master, alone at the center of this chaotic whirlwind, remains relaxed and ostensibly motionless. He anticipates, reacts, and deflects, expending little effort, even as he sends assailants flying in every direction.

What a beautiful and inspiring image!

To calmly face all of life’s battles—mental, physical, financial, existential—with grace.

Seizing chaos! Stillness within motion. You dig?

Fortunately, we don't have to fight every battle alone!

Thank you all for your encouragement and support.

“The owls are not what they seem.”
 —The Giant

Now a full time musician, no longer employed by Kendall Lane, I agreed to stay involved by joining his Board of Directors. 

I soon learned that our board chairman was a newly minted Owl. So was the CEO of my wife’s investment management firm. So were several of our well-heeled friends on the San Francisco arts and culture scene.

Like AA, involvement in the Owl Club is supposed to be a big secret. And like Fight Club, the first rule is you don’t talk about it. Yet somehow its members often find a way to let you know. 

Some Owls communicate their affiliation by wearing a club signet ring, tie tack or lapel pin. Others sprinkle their small talk with offhand references to “The Club” or “The Nest” in much the way evangelicals will casually mention “The Church,” as if everybody attends the same one.
 

For such an exclusive organization, the Owls sure seemed to be everywhere, hiding in plain sight.

One autumn night in the early aughts, I was invited to perform for an Owl Club function downtown. It was my kind of event, a noir-themed variety show. Everybody, performers and guests alike, wore fedoras. 

I was playing a lot of “crime jazz” in those days, and as I recall, our music was a big hit.

After the show one of the guests motioned me over to his table for a cocktail. The gentleman was charming, but after a while our ostensibly informal chat began to feel more like a post-audition interview, conducted in a coded language I didn’t fully understand. 

At first I didn’t see anyone familiar among the shadowy men-in-hats, but as I was packing up my gear, I happened to make eye contact with someone I recognized: Glen Rollins, the well-known vibraphonist and flautist. Glen was casually leaning against the wall with an air of relaxed confidence, totally at home, like he owned the place. 

Is he a club member, I wondered, or is he, like me, merely a hired gun? 

The following spring I received a call from Josh Maxwell, the eccentric jazz professor back home in Arizona, inquiring if I would consider being guest soloist with his university big band as part of their annual “jazz week” celebration. 

I said I’d love to. 

I’d known Maxwell ever since my teens, when the local jazz society arranged for me to take a few music theory lessons at the college of music, and record a demo in their brand new recording studio. We'd stayed in touch over the years, and recently the two of us had even played a few gigs together, in which he would sing, cabaret-style, and accompany both of us on piano. 

You might say we were now professional colleagues, but I continued to regard him with respectful deference. Maxwell was one of a kind. I admired his joyful stage presence and liberal use of obscure hipster lingo in everyday conversation. He was the closest thing our little town had to a real jazzman.

Maxwell was an accomplished composer and conductor as well. After one of the jazz week rehearsals, he ushered me into his office to show me his current work-in-progress: the orchestral score for an original musical theater production all about Teddy Roosevelt. 

I was impressed with the project's ambitious size and scope.

“Wow! Do you think you can ever get it performed?” I asked. 

“Oh, yes,” he replied in an exaggerated stage whisper. “In fact, this will be the 100th Nest Play!” 

Wait, did he say Nest Play? 

Could it be that Josh Maxwell — way out here in the Lonesome Desert — is a member of the Owl Club?

Precisely how many of my associates, I wondered, are secretly involved in this not-so-secret society!

At least one more, I would soon learn.

Upon my return to San Francisco, Tom Hill, a longtime friend and benefactor, surprised me with an invitation to the Owl Club’s famous annual retreat.

“Dmitri, I would like you to join us at The Nest,” Tom announced grandly, “as my guest, for our midsummer encampment.”

I was astonished. 

I had no idea that Tom was an Owl.

I certainly never suspected that a non-member would be welcome at The Nest, even as a guest.

And I never would’ve dreamed that a ne’er-do-well iconoclast like me would be invited.

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. My wife wasn’t. 

“Obviously you’ve been vetted,” she said. 

“What’s that mean?” I asked, not familiar with the term.

“It means you’re going.”

Next:
The Owl Club Part 7 — The Nest

Previous Posts:
The Owl Club Part 1 — Invitation
The Owl Club Part 2 — A Weaving Spider
The Owl Club Part 3 — The Gift
The Owl Club Part 4 — Sweets
The Owl Club Part 5 — Parliament

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.

Arrived in rainy Traverse City to the comfortingly familiar cadence of broadcaster Ed Ronco (formerly of KNKX Seattle!) on Interlochen Public Radio. Led a morning masterclass for Mr. Vieira’s excellent jazz ensemble at TC Central HS, then played tourist, sampling some of the tart and sweet cherry products for which the region is famous. Finished my visit with a short stroll down memory lane, to the Maritime Academy on Grand Traverse Bay, where Tom Knific gave me my first “pro” (aka paid) gig 40 years ago. Time sure has flown! Guess I’ve been having fun.

A rejuvenating day off in Kalamazoo with dear friends Tom and Renata and their two beautiful Labradors, Annabelle and Fifa. Sketched a little duet arrangement of “Mean To Me” for this Thursday’s concert in Hillsdale, then took the dogs to the glorious 24-acre Meadow Run Dog Park in Oshtemo Township. In the evening Lisa joined us for savory mesquite-smoked ribs, Greek salad, oven-roasted rosemary potatoes, red wine, and chocolate truffles. Life is good!

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!

Ann Arbor’s Blue Llama Jazz Club is a spectacular venue with award-winning cuisine, aesthetic lighting and design, excellent sound (right on, Jacob), and a very hip crowd. Warm thanks to owner Don Hicks, artistic director Dave Sharp, and the professional staff for taking such good care of the band. And much appreciation to our guest soloists: my longtime friend vocalist Joan Belgrave, rising stars trumpeter Carter Haugen and saxophonist Tim Grieme, and the man himself, Don Hicks, who played some tasty licks for us on an historic trumpet that once belonged to none other than Miles Davis. What a night!

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!

Big day, big night! Afternoon workshops for two outstanding music programs — Pioneer and Community high schools in Ann Arbor — followed by an evening set at Moriarty’s in Lansing with the ace rhythm team of Jeff Shoup (photo credit), Lisa Sung, and Reuben Stump. Made lots of new friends, one of whom contributed some outstanding “Evergreen Girl” lyrics. Surprise celebrity appearance by the great Randle Gelispie! #respect

Got my morning joe from the roadside diner before decamping to Green Mountain and the Wildcat Trail.

Found a secluded spot lakeside to work on my arrangement of “Shelter” by Jay Thomas.

Shared the trail and spectacular views of the valley with a few ambitious kids on mountain bikes. 

Today’s meal: a mighty satisfying, spicy bowl of seafood pho with Vietnamese lettuce wraps and beer. 

Made camp among the evergreens in the secluded equestrian community of Bridal Trail. 

Grateful for the Icy Breeze, a tour bus air conditioner, white noise maker, and cooler, all in one (not a paid endorsement).

Tomorrow is the final day of this adventure. It’s been grand!

Woke up with the sun, grabbed an espresso from the bikini baristas, and hit the road for Seabeck, a mill town on Hood Canal.

Followed a beautifully maintained walking trail to a small waterfall. Not another human soul in sight.

Sketched an idea for vibraphone and double bass. Not what I’d planned, but could be something.

Today’s meal: steamed mussels with salad, bread, and wine. Almost as good as Bartje's!

Tonight’s lullaby: Clifford Brown with Strings.

Goodnight, Blue Moon.

Getting away for a few days of writing, walking, and relaxing, as I van-camp around Puget Sound.

Visited the Seattle music studio of Bill Anschell for a little coffee and conversation, then continued north to Whidbey Island for a performance with guitarist John Stowell. So grateful to have these two wise mentors and good friends in my life.

Strolled around the scenic island town of Langley, where bunnies frolic among the whale skulls, then dined on rockfish, mixed greens, pinot noir, and cherry pie, overlooking the Saratoga Passage.

It was a good day.

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.

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.

Traveled 296 miles today from Ashland to Sacramento. 

The drive down was relatively uneventful. Saw smoky skies and plenty of fire devastation in and around the town of Weed. 

My beloved Hi-Lo Cafe was closed (sigh, no pie) and the entire downtown area is still without power, but the hot shots seem to be making progress. The Siskiyou Wildfire is now 40% contained. 

Out of the fire, into the frying pan! Northern California is experiencing record high temperatures this week. So grateful to have air conditioning 24/7 in the mobile man cave. Thank you IcyBreeze! 

Tonight’s encampment: a Harvest Host in Arden-Arcade! #AlliterationNation 

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!

Packing up the tour bus for two weeks in Northern California!

It’s thrilling to return to road life, dodging fires, floods, and viruses to share our music with the people.

Seriously, some of these AP photos along I-5 look like something straight out of a Mad Max movie, so we’re mapping a couple of alternate routes south just in case. 

Today I'm grateful for the wise Minnie Pearl, who said it best:

“Take the back roads instead of the highways.” 

In Twentynine Palms, having tucked in for the night behind the big boys at Luckie Park, we were able to start our day with a vigorous game of fetch, or as Scout calls it, “Rowr-Roo.” 

300 miles later we arrived in the Lonesome Desert just in time to witness a spectacular Arizona sunset. I’ve enjoyed sunsets all over the world, but none can compare. Thank you, Daddy Bill.

Today the Jazz Noir band rehearses in Phoenix for our upcoming show at Scottsdale Center for the Performing Arts. Then Scout and I will hit the road again, this time for Truth or Consequences, New Mexico.

We've been listening to books on tape while we drive. Current selection: Dolly Parton, Songteller: My Life in Lyrics.

Nobody’s getting rich on this tour, but we’re having loads of fun, and it’s one hell of a vacation for my dog! #Forward #BoondockerBoondoggle

“Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time,
Ruling from a shadow perch, behind granite and lime.” 
—Scott Snyder 

When Mr. Higgins told me how the Owl Club boasts many prominent artists and musicians among its members, I was skeptical.

I figured there are probably a small number of movie actors and rock stars sprinkled among their highfalutin order. I imagined that any artist members would have to be the type of mainstream celebrities that impress rich people and share their classist, politically conservative views. Even the pedigree of someone like Gordon Fleecing (British, famous) fit with my assumptions about this not-so-secret society. 

But learning that Sweets — one of my personal heroes! — was a member? This blew my mind.

Because Sweets is not some rich white guy, mind you, but an African-American gentleman of modest means. Not a business mogul but a retired school teacher. Not a celebrity so much as a master craftsman, highly respected among our peers in the community of musicians. Hard-working. Dignified. Sincere. Real. 

For all my trepidation about this club and groups in general, I must admit that his involvement intrigued me. 
 

It’s springtime in San Francisco, and another typical workday in my three-ring circus of a life. Morning at the festival office dealing with demanding sponsors. Afternoon at the record company dealing with complacent distributors. Evening on the bandstand dealing with this unforgiving horn. 

The plates never stop spinning and I always feel as if I’m neglecting something or someone somewhere. But tonight brings a welcome pause in the routine. After our show an audience member approaches the stage and offers to buy me a drink. 

His name is Gregory. He’s a guitarist. We barely know one another, yet he speaks to me with the warm familiarity of an old friend. He asks how I’ve been, inquires about my wife and family, and shares some intimate personal details of his own.

Delighted to have made a new friend, I sip my single malt as we sit together, chatting amiably until the lights come up and the club empties out. In the parking lot Gregory hands me a small envelope. 

“We're having a party in the city tomorrow,” he says. “You should come.”

As he drives away I open the envelope. Inside is a thick card embossed with raised lettering: Cocktails In The Cartoon Room.

I’ve never heard of the place, and there’s no address on the invitation, but in the lower righthand corner is the now familiar telltale symbol: the Owl of Athena. 

Well I’ll be damned. 

The Cartoon Room, it turns out, is no place for introverts like me.

I’ve been here before. This massive barroom, with its chaotic jumble of paintings and posters, was overwhelming on my first visit, but tonight the place is packed, shoulder-to-shoulder, with glad-handing, back-slapping, martini-swilling men, all laughing and shouting over the sounds of big band jazz. 

I scan the room for Gregory (no luck) then jostle my way through the crowd and up to the long redwood bar. Before I can utter a word the bartender casually greets me by name. 

“Mr. Matheny. So glad you could make it.” He pushes a tumbler of amber liquid across the counter. “Lagavulin, neat, yes?” A stranger who knows my name and my drink. What sorcery is this?
 

I'm about three fingers in when the far wall slides open to reveal a 25-piece swing orchestra in mid-shout chorus, capped off by a tasty trumpet solo from none other than Sweets Allen. The room erupts into boisterous applause. 

How wonderful! I assumed the music was piped-in, but it’s live, and excellent. I recognize several of the musicians. Are they all members, I wonder, or hired help?

I want to pay my respects to Sweets and the other musicians, but I’m unable to get to them through the throng. The place is a madhouse. The guy who invited me isn’t here. The whole situation feels peculiar, like I’m supposed to do something, but I don’t for the life of me know what it is. So I stay about an hour, making awkward small talk with strangers, until the claustrophobia kicks in and the crowd becomes too much to bear. 

As I cross the Bay Bridge home I ponder my perplexing experience in the parliament of owls. 

“I felt like Alice going through the looking-glass,” I confess to my wife over dinner.

“They were clearly expecting me but nobody said anything.” 

She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe it was some kind of test.” 

“If so,” I reply, “Then I most definitely failed.” 

“I hide in plain sight. 
Same as you.” 
—Gustavo Fring 

I’m not a superstitious person by nature, but I was raised in the south where even educated folks recognize the power of signs and omens. Charlie’s gift of a tiny silver owl felt like such a signifier to me: a talisman of unknown provenance and portent. 

I began to carry the mysterious little figurine in my pocket, where it would gently jingle against my mouthpiece and pocket change as I walked. I carried it everywhere, like a good luck charm, and it seemed to be working. Within a few short years I’d established myself in San Francisco as a working musician, and had sold enough sponsorships to increase our jazz festival budget ten fold. 

In hindsight, this was during the tech boom of the early 1990s. Gigs were plentiful then because there were so many gainfully employed young people looking for a night out, and donations were up, too. The dot com bubble was expanding, the stock market was booming, and corporate support for the arts was ascendant. Bay Area businesses needed somewhere to park all that extra cash. Why not a nonprofit that offers exciting social events and a tax write off? It was an easy sell. 

I didn’t have that perspective at the time, however. Naively I thought I’d cracked the code! I felt powerful, like a double agent: professional jazz musician by night, hot shot sponsorship salesman by day. Oblivious to the unseen economic forces that conspired to pave my way, I credited my own skill and hustle, with perhaps just a little bit of secret “owl luck” thrown in for good measure. 

Over time my magical thinking grew deeper, abetted by echoes. Not only was I carrying the owl totem in my pocket, but I also began to notice similar statuettes in the executive offices of prospective sponsors. 

I would be in mid-pitch, sitting across from some corporate mucky-muck, when I would look over at the shelf behind them, and there it would be: another owl statue. I never said anything, but on more than one occasion I sensed a subtle nod or look of acknowledgment when I spied the owl. 

Like, I saw it. They saw me see it. Now what? 
 

It’s Tuesday night in San Francisco, and I don’t have a gig of my own, so I’m headed over to Sonny’s Place in North Beach to hear the incomparable flugelhornist Sweets Allen. 

For true fans of lyrical swing, it gets no better than Sweets and his honey-toned horn. He’s the real deal, a veteran soloist from the bands of Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, and Tony Bennett. Now in his 70s, Sweets is one of San Francisco’s most beloved musicians and one of the last great gentleman of jazz. 

For me, Tuesdays at Sonny’s are like graduate school. I rarely miss the chance to attend one of these weekly masterclasses.

Tonight Sweets is really living up to his name. His improvised lines are powerfully simple, pure, soulful, logical, and undeniably joyful. The warmth of his sound and the smile on his face combine to lift the spirits of everyone in the club. 
 

On the break I motion for him to join me at my table. Like my father, Sweets is a former school teacher, a wise elder who doesn’t mind sharing his accumulated knowledge. He patiently answers all my questions about music and life. 

“The main thing is to tell a story,” he advises, tapping his finger on the table for emphasis. “But it’s not like reciting a poem or singing a song. It’s got to be your story.” 

“Just be real,” he adds, “and never let the naysayers get you down. They’re everywhere, so keep your head on a swivel.” 

“Like an owl,” I say quietly. 

“Precisely,” he smiles, standing. 

“Which reminds me,” he adds before returning to the bandstand. 

“A little birdie told me you may be joining us.” 

Next:
THE OWL CLUB PART 5 — PARLIAMENT

“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.”

When I first met my hero Art Farmer, he was spending half his year at home in Vienna and the other half on tour.

Occasionally concert promoters would pony up for his New York band, but most of the time Art worked with local rhythm sections. Regardless, he hired the best musicians everywhere, and his ensembles never failed to impress.

"How do your groups always sound so good?" I asked him after a knockout performance at Kimball's in San Francisco. "What's the secret?"

"Dmitri, it's simple," he said. "If you find that you're the smartest cat in the room, you're in the wrong room."

“What did I know, what did I know 
of love’s austere and lonely offices?” 
—Robert Hayden 

When the time came for Daddy Bill to move into hospice care, it fell to me to clean out his stark little studio apartment. 

The task didn’t take long. I’d planned to rent a storage unit for his stuff, but this turned out to be entirely unnecessary. In the man’s eighty-something trips around the sun, he only accumulated enough possessions to fill a few small boxes. 

I was amazed. Not by Dad’s extreme minimalism (don’t forget I used to live with the guy), but by the eloquence of the items he deemed precious enough to keep. In his closet was a sleeping bag, camp stove and hand crank portable radio. Everything else was arranged in neat little dust-covered piles around the room. He had an axe, a battered pair of binoculars, an old fly rod, a few books and compact discs, a coffee cup, some framed photographs, a pocket knife, and a small leather pouch. That’s about it. 
 

The pouch was empty, but when I opened the drawstring to look inside, the familiar scent of Middleton’s Cherry Blend brought tears to my eyes. I was about nine years old when we last visited the Schley Family Farm in Georgia. I still remember sitting next to Daddy Bill, watching with rapt attention as Dr. Schley used his leather-crafting tools to carefully cut, punch and sew the pouch together. Once finished, he ceremoniously presented the soft little bag to my father, as if it was some kind of totem or talisman imbued with magic powers. The Schleys were important people in the Brookstone community, and Dad treasured this handmade gift. He stored his pipe tobacco in that leather pouch for years. 
 

In a drawer under the sink I found a mishmash of papers: old bank statements, love letters, canceled checks, poems, his birding “life list” handwritten on a yellow legal pad, and a stack of picture postcards, many of them from me, which had once adorned the thumbtack-covered walls of his Graham County hermit house. Resting on top, like a paperweight, was a small carved wooden sign: White Thorn Gallery. 
 

As far back as my great-great-grandfather, the Matheny men were all expert craftsmen. Daddy Bill and his brother Jim grew up working alongside their father in the Matheny Cabinet Shop, building and restoring heirloom furniture in mahogany, oak, walnut, cherry, maple and cedar. Almost everyone in our extended family today has at least one precious Matheny antique at home. 

But the only furniture my father owned at the end of his life was a single reclining armchair, purchased for him a few years ago by a generous friend. Everything else had long since been given away. He was funny that way. He gave all our furniture to one of his stepdaughters. He gave our car to my friend Kent. I have no doubt the old man would’ve eventually given that recliner away, too. 

So I followed his example and left that chair behind for the next tenant. I slipped my father’s poetry into my backpack, and boxed up the rest, stacking everything in the corner of Nedra’s garage for safekeeping. 

I suppose I’ll come back for that leather pouch someday. 

And maybe that fishing pole, too. 

I miss you, Daddy Bill.