Marching in Richmond

“Is someone playing the flute?” I ask myself out loud, striding down 31^st on my morning walk. The gentle melody floats through the Diablo winds. I recognize it, but can’t identify it. I figure it’s someone practicing inside the house with the windows open, but as I get closer to the source, I see that it’s a dark-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses.  He's standing on the sidewalk, under the shade of a massive magnolia tree, a baby strapped to his back in one of those baby papooses.

I am walking in the middle of the street (yes, I still practice social distancing), but pause now to chat. He’s momentarily stopped playing the short, black, flute-like instrument. Grinning at me, he waves the instrument toward me in greeting.

“Hi!” I say, “that was lovely!”

“Oh....” he smiles shyly, “I was just practice....”

“Is that a recorder? Or a piccolo?” I ask. I have no clue about wind instruments. If it’s not a piano or a cello, I’m at a loss.

“Actually, this an Irish Tin Whistle. It is easier than a recorder. It has no holes to punch on the back. You can get them for 10 or 15 dollars, but this one is more. It is bamboo. It is 150.”

“Ah....well, I imagine the sound is better?” I offer. Who knew anything about the Irish Tin Whistle? Not I!

“Yes, of course, it is better. It is different. But I think maybe not necessary. For Christmas gifts, for your grandchildren (Yes, I’m a grandmother with strangers on the street), you can get it. All children, I think should have one. It is not so difficult to play.”

The baby on his back stares at me from his round pale face, big brown eyes unblinking. Music makes him serene? Or maybe he just enjoys being outside, under the magnolia tree, the dry air ruffling his thick black hair.

“I think it probably takes a lot of skill to play,” I say, thinking how I probably wouldn’t be able to get a peep out of it. I’ll never forget the time I visited my best friend in 5^th grade, Eileen O’ Brien, and she tried to teach me how to play the flute. (She was quite accomplished.) I tried and tried, blew and blew, pursed my lips just like she showed me and still......not a sound came out of the instrument!

“I am just practicing now....” he answers, modest in his skill. “It is a good instrument though. You can take it with you.”

“Unlike the piano!” I jest.

He is unfazed. “You can take an electric keyboard and play it.” He makes a motion in the air with his hands across an imaginary keyboard. We both laugh.

“Well, I’ll let you continue your practicing,” I say, waving goodbye.

He nods, starts to play again. The baby stares at me before a bird distracts him, landing in the magnolia tree.

As I march up the street, the single strain of the tune follows me. Ah, it’s Mozart! The Turkish March.

Grinning, I take up its rhythm, not even minding a brief gust of heaty wind whipping the leaves around me.