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How Does It End?I received a call a few weeks ago that my grandmother, now 85 and living in Seattle, was not doing well. She had suffered another heart attack. My grandmother and I are extremely close. It was her unconditional love that is a big part of who I am today. So when I got this call, I knew I had to get out to see her. I'm sure that many of you know the painful experience of losing someone close to you. It's part of life's journey. I hope you will indulge me just this once, as I share with you a bit about the people and music in my life. There is a message at the end, I promise.
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The painful experience of losing someone close to you is part of life's journey—and often an opportunity for profound realizations.
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This is really a story about two lives in music: my grandmother, Glenora, and her older brother, Gaylord Jones—both Seattle-based musicians. Gaylord passed away earlier this year in January. His story is also worth mentioning because, like my grandmother, he discovered the piano and the sounds of jazz at a very young age. By the time he entered West Seattle High School in the early 1930s, he had already formed a professional jazz orchestra under his own name, the Gay Jones Orchestra. As did many of the swing orchestras of that era, they performed for society events where young and old would come to socialize and dance. He arranged popular music and became a hometown celebrity in the Pacific Northwest.His younger sister (my grandmother) took a slightly different route. In her teens, she and two other friends formed an all-female vocal trio and called themselves the Harmonettes. They fronted many of the local bands and appeared regularly in the area's largest ballrooms: the Trianon, the Century, and the Spanish Castle.In the late '30s and early '40s, big-band music was in full swing. Unfortunately, its popularity quickly waned after World War II ended. As the country turned its attention to finding work for returning G.I.s, a new type of popular music was finding its footing: rock 'n' roll.It was at this time that my uncle reluctantly retired his orchestra. He had married a singer who was a frequent soloist with his band, and they settled down in Port Angeles, just north of Seattle. He decided to start a salmon-fishing charter company and purchased his first boat, which he appropriately named Satin Doll. He would later become extremely successful in this venture, chartering for celebrity clients such as Bing Crosby and Eddie Bauer.My grandmother continued working as a music teacher. She taught at various music schools in the Seattle area. She had earned her bachelor's degree from the University of Washington and, later in life, would return to earn her master's degree in library science. She is a voracious reader. But her real passion was teaching music. I know, because she was my teacher.In the late 1980s, big-band music experienced a renaissance. My uncle began organizing local jam sessions. It wasn't long before the Jones' All Stars were at it again, performing in clubs and halls up and down the West Coast. In 1993, the Seattle Museum of History and Industry awarded him the Certificate of Recognition as a Seattle Jazz Pioneer. He also received a chapter unto himself in the jazz history book Jackson Street After Hours: The Roots of Jazz in Seattle.It was an inspiration to see him at the piano again, performing his arrangements. I received regular mailings of CDs, articles, and other memorabilia from his concerts. His story consistently renewed my faith in the power of music as a life-driving force.So there I was, sitting in my grandmother's room after our last dinner together on a cold Sunday afternoon this past October. On the wall behind her was a collage of photographs and programs from halls and ballrooms she had performed at throughout the 1930s. She asked me to put one of her brother's CDs on her stereo and forward it to the track with the Sydney Clare and Con Conrad tune, "Ma, He's Making Eyes at Me." As the instrumental prelude began, I could tell that it was a very old recording. She smiled to herself and tapped her foot to the time. And then, out of that little CD player came this coy, 14-year-old voice—her voice—singing the lyrics in an instrumental break, "Mercy, let his conscience guide him." I can't tell you the feeling that rushed over me seeing her at the mature age of 85 and listening to her as a mere child. When the tune finished, I was sort of lost in the ether. My eyes would fix on her, then over her bed at a striking photo taken in 1936, and then back on her. I realized how quickly time moves forward, and how inside, we never really grow old.It was then that she looked up at me and asked if I had heard the story of her brother's last words. With a chilling sensation that I was about to hear something profound, I muttered "no." She began by telling me that, in his last days, he had returned from the hospital to his home in Port Angeles. His children were there with him. Music was played continuously on the CD player.On his final night, his daughter Cheryl was in the kitchen when the nurse came in and said that his breathing was irregular. As she rushed into the bedroom, my great uncle opened his eyes and look up at her. He whispered, "It ends on a crescendo," and then drifted away.Thank you, Uncle Gaylord, and thank you, Grandma, for being such guiding forces. Your wisdom and your music are the beacons in my life.Derek Mithaug, director of career development, is a Juilliard faculty member and an alumnus of the School.
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