Tradition

(For those of you who would prefer a more feel-good story)

“Grandpa, Mom told me you can make music with a comb. She was joking, right?”

“Nope, she was telling you the truth. My dad, Billy, who is your great-grandpa, taught me how to play. Would you like to know how he learned to play the comb?”

“Is this a real story, or a grandpa story?”

“It’s as real as it can be. Ready?”

“I’m ready, Grandpa!”

Billy grew up during the Great Depression when work was scarce, and no one knew where the money was coming from to buy their next meal. Like most cities of that time, his was divided geographically, socially, and racially. People living on the south and west sides of town only traveled into the northern neighborhoods for work. The more affluent northern city dwellers occasionally visited a specialty store or craft shop on the south side. However, they would never cross the railroad tracks to visit anyone or any shop on the west side. West was reserved for the colored folk. The eastern part of town was dominated by large factories that generated wealth for some and a meager living for the rest.

The setting summer sun cast a golden hue over a tired city as it prepared for a well-deserved rest. Billy did what most boys of that era did. He mindlessly walked the tracks, taking in the sights and sounds, trying to imagine what boys in the northern part of the city did for fun. He longed to be old enough to join the Navy and see the world. For now, he would have to be content with walking the tracks.

Trains ran from the eastern factories through the western part of town on their way to the rest of the country. Billy was so wrapped up in his thoughts of adventures to come, he hadn’t noticed his wandering had brought him deep into the west end of town. This was not where he should be. He was turning back to the east when a distant melody caught his attention. Billy scanned the nearby buildings for its source and spotted a faint light flickering through a soot-smudged window. That had to be where the strange rhythm was coming from.

The captivating music drew him like a magnet to steel. Disregarding his parents’ warnings, Billy left the tracks to investigate. He crossed the distance from the tracks to the light as quickly as possible, drawing no attention to himself. The closer he got, the brighter the light became. Billy found an old wooden crate, placed it under the window, stepped up, and peaked in. Men stood on a makeshift stage belting out the greatest music he had ever heard.

Lost in the music, he might have watched the band for a minute or an hour. Billy’s soul was so intertwined with the rhythms nothing could break the spell­—until a man with a deep baritone voice spoke.

“Enjoying the music, son?”

The startled boy almost fell from his perch. Standing directly behind him was a very tall black man. Billy recovered from the shock as best as he could before replying.

“Yes, sir, very much! My parents don’t own a radio, so I’ve never heard nothing like it before. The only music I ever hear is the hymns we sing at church. What’s it called?”

The man’s stern demeanor softened noticeably.

“It’s called jazz.” His voice took on an almost reverent tone. “Jazz and Blues were created by my people and we are very proud of our music. It takes someone with genuine talent to play it right.”

“I really enjoy listening to it. If I knew how to play an instrument like the men on stage, I’d learn how to play jazz. Of course, that won’t happen for a long time because I don’t have any money to buy a horn or one of those curvy things. I can’t even buy a harmonica.”

“The curvy thing is called a saxophone. Do you own a comb?”

Looking a little perplexed by the question, Billy reached into his back pocket and produced a bent metal comb with a couple of teeth missing.

“I found this by the tracks a few days ago. How can I play jazz with this?”

The man smiled and produced a comb of his own, only his was wrapped in wax paper.

“This is called a comb-kazoo, son. You play it by placing it between your lips and humming a tune. It takes a little practice, but soon you can play tunes just like the musicians in the band.”

The man put the paper-covered comb to his lips and played along with the band. It sounded odd, but fun at the same time. He played and Billy listened, trying to learn all that he could. Finally, the man stopped playing and smiled at the mesmerized boy.

“It’s getting late. I’m sure your parents are worried sick by now. Just listen to music and practice. The rest will come.”

“And that’s what your grandpa Billy did. He practiced and practiced until he was the best comb-kazoo player in town. Then, when I was around your age, he taught me how to play. What do you say, Jack, want to learn to play a comb?”

“Yes sir, I do!”