(MAY/JUNE, 2006)

When I returned to Vermont, the first thing I did was have surgery on a hernia I gave myself a two Februarys prior after my hospital dispatch and an irresponsible weight lifting regime.  Lately it had been more visible than ever on my lower-right pelvis, and if I coughed or laughed, it would pop out like a tumor.  Since my health insurance was running out [soon], this was my last chance to get it taken care of, and though it had been described to me as a harmless, virtually pain-free surgery, I came out of the procedure with a long, bloody, pus-oozing gash across my groin, and in excruciating pain.  But pain or not, I had a lot of promoting to do.  My fiftieth and final concert was less than a month away.

——-

My audience, my family, and most of the Goddard staff, were all gone or on their way to an afterparty at my house when I realized someone had taken my car keys, along with the rest of my books and equipment, back to my house without me.  I stood frozen.  I was stranded at the venue while my party was going on without me.  [My concert manager] was still around, thank God, and I called my house from his cell phone.  He left minutes later and I was alone in the parking lot, surrounded by the darkness of the Vermont woods, the moans of swaying trees and the songs of owls and insects.  A custodian came outside and joined me.  He was tall and grizzled, looking at me through his thick, sideways glasses.  “Tonight was a bigger audience than I seen in a long time,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yeah.  People who play way out here don’t get nearly half the crowd you got tonight.  Why — you thought it shoulda been bigger?”  He started laughing.

“Kind of,” I shrugged.  “Or maybe the music…”

“I liked the music.”

We stood there, hanging in that moment.

“So when did you start playing the piano?” he asked.

“Six or seven.”