By Staff
As last week drew to a close I was struck by an article in the New York Times coming out of Seattle. It was the story of Edward Scott McMichael, affectionately known throughout the city as "Tuba Man." McMichael made his living "busking" – a term I didn't even know the definition of until reading his story – performing on the streets of Seattle for tips.
But McMichael's story stretches beyond shallow images of men and women strumming or sounding their instruments on busy city streets with their cases open, stray dollars and coins dotting the fuzzy lining. He is described, as a boy who quickly took to music, playing with the Seattle Youth Symphony and other orchestras which the Times said, did not pay.
McMichael's legacy may be built in the uniqueness of the fact that it was the tuba that was his instrument or his ability to connect with the people of Seattle. The article states he played everything from classical music to heavy metal to childhood classics like "Itsy Bitsy Spider." "He wore funny hats and said funny things," the article, written by William Yardley, read. "But his mission was to make money by making music in the streets. Outside the stadium. Outside the opera. Wagner? Iron Maiden? Sure, and it could cost you."
McMichael took requests for cash. He was quoted as calling out to passersby, "want to be a part of it tonight?" – words that seemed to say so much more than just their definitive meanings. The people of the city loved him.
McMichael was killed when three teenagers allegedly "bludgeoned" him to death one night earlier this year. Last week, over 1,000 people turned out for a memorial service honoring Tuba Man. And it was that aspect of McMichael's story that struck me.
I don't even know my neighbors.
As I run through a mental list of what I'm grateful for this year, in preparation for next week's Thanksgiving themed column, I found myself this week focused more on presence that presents. And, unfortunately, reminded of the incredible value and fragility of the human life.
At the Moose Lodge, No. 449 in Buchanan, there is a stool missing from the end of the bar, replaced with a single black ribbon and the glow of a candle near an overturned bar glass. It is a memorial to Bert Fowler, who passed away last week. One of my best friends bartends at the Moose a couple of times a month and I would see Bert there, in his spot, each time I made a visit. I never spoke to him. But the memorial is a testament to his place in the hearts of everyone who ponied up to the bar with him night after night.
Also in the news this week, a report following up on a horrific accident that changed the life of the former mayor of Buchanan, Joe Scanlon's life forever, when his wife Lisa was involved in an accident just a short time ago, struck by a driver under the influence.
It doesn't seem to take too much time to change a life forever.
Joe and Lisa – I know. And I found my eyes welling with tears as I read his words, the feeling of losing his best friend, the fear she may not recognize him, her family, her children.
These might sound like small, isolated incidents to some … Surely there is national news of great effect and importance. It's not like I don't keep track of that news. I scour through the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, CNN, NPR for whatever is going on in the world. I'm trying desperately to keep track of the unconfirmed Obama transition team picks and I'm listening to federal officials practically lop off the heads of each of the big three automobile manufacturers like one collective Henry VIII on a bad day.
But at the end of the day, it's the small confined spaces that we return to that hold the most precious places in our lives. The bars, the restaurants, our homes, our friends' homes… Strength in the smallness of community is what has the potential to grow into the presence of over 1,000 at the memorial of a man who played music, they probably felt, just for each and every one of them.
It's the presence.
As the first snow blanketed the city this week, I thought of how quiet a place becomes when stuffed under snow. How a place quickly becomes undistinguishable except for a quiet sense of purity. No color. No rich or poor. Just snow covered. A clean slate. A chance to be better. Do different. Every year. Ruined only by the sound of plastic scrapers chipping at cold, hard ice mounted on windshields in the early morning hours, which is exactly what I heard Monday morning. I schlepped out to my car with dread at the fact that I was already running late and had allotted no extra time to get my car in order before heading off to work.
And then I stopped.
Because my car had clearly been cleared of any snow. Brush marks were distinct along the windshield. No snow sat stacked on the rooftop.
Confused, I went about my day. When I returned home that afternoon, I ran into my neighbor. A woman with a genuinely kind smile and deep brown eyes, and an unrecognizable accent who was heading to her car with her daughter.
We greeted each other though we don't know each other's names and before she shut her car door behind her, she humbly informed me – the neighbor whose name I don't know – that she brushed off my car. Here's to those who make a difference in your life – whether you know them or not.