"What, you again?" The Principal grimaced as Phil shuffled into his office, the Grade 4 teacher hard at his heels. With a sigh, the big man rose to his feet. "What was it this time? Tapping out the Mickey Mouse Club song with your pencil on the desk? Squealing your finger round the inkwell rim? Or no - let me guess - the comb and paper kazoo?"

"No, sir." Phil grinned up at Mr. Reimer, but with some uneasiness. The playground consensus was that Mr. Reimer was OK. Not like Mr. Addams, who had taken an ugly pleasure in wielding the strap even for minor offences. Still, this was Phil's fourth trip to the office since September. Even nice principals could only be pushed so far. "I was - um - playing the desk drawer."

The silence stretched a beat too long. Phil gulped.

"Of course you were." Mr. Reimer sighed. "Very well, Miss Kotowski, I'll take it from here. Philip, sit."

Phil eased himself onto the edge of the chair he had been waved to, the one known to the guys in his class as the Chair of Doom, and tried to ignore the glare his teacher gave him as she swept out of the office.

"So. You disrupted the class, distracted the others from their work, and upset your teacher." Mr Reimer gave him a long, thoughtful look. "This is happening too often, Philip. Why?"

Phil shifted under that steady gaze. "Math is boring. I know all that fraction stuff, and Miss Kotowski keeps going over it again and again. What am I supposed to do?"

"Keep quiet, maybe, so your classmates can learn their fractions too? Not everyone is as quick as you are at math, you know. Some kids need a little more time to get it. If you're fooling around, it's hard for them to concentrate. They might even fail because of your behaviour. Do you think that's fair?"

"No." Phil bit his lip. "I guess not. I won't do it again."

"Good." The principal dropped back into his big wheeled chair, his stern look lightening into something suspiciously like a grin. "Now. Tell me how you play a desk drawer. This is one I must admit I haven't heard before."

"Oh wow, it was great." Phil bounced upright, his remorse vanishing. "You know those metal rods that hold the desk together inside? I stretched a buncha elastics between them. When you pluck them, it sounds like a banjo. The desk is hollow, see, so it reverberates. Isn't that neat?"

"Very." The Principal's lips twitched. "Can you tune the elastics?"

"A little. But they snap too easy. I was thinking fishing line might work better, it's - ." He pulled himself up short as the principal's brows rocketed into his hairline. "I won't try it, though. Honest. It was just, like, a thought. I bet it would work, though."

"Mm." Mr. Reimer frowned, and tapped a pencil on his desk. Phil waited uneasily. His mom always said he had a knack for talking himself out of trouble, and then right back into it because he didn't know when to shut up. Could be he had just done it again.

"Tell me, Phil," the Principal's gaze sharpened, "have you ever heard of a washtub band?"

"Uh - yeah." Phil blinked at the question. "My Dad and some of his buddies had one when they were in the army. They used empty barrels and siphon hoses and stuff to make the instruments. He's told me lots about it."

"Has he? Here's something you might want to talk over with him, then. The music teacher is starting to organize the Christmas Concert, and he's looking for some acts that are a little different this year. What would you think about putting together your own washtub band and performing a piece or two? Jingle Bells, Deck the Halls, that sort of thing."

"Oh wow!" Phil thrilled at the offer. "That would be so great. I know some guys that would love to do it, and my sister can play the guitar pretty good. Silent Night." Songs were running through his head with feverish speed. "And maybe the Three Ships carol. It would be easier, you know, with slower tunes."

"Silent Night?" The big man quivered with amusement. "By a washtub band? That would be different. Well, see what you can come up with and talk the selections over with Mr. Dumont. But," he gave Phil a hard stare, "this all depends on your behaviour, understand? If I see you one more time in this office before Christmas, you and your band will be out of the concert. No second chances."

"I understand." Phil jumped to his feet. "You won't see me here again, no way. Thank you, Mr Reimer, thanks a lot. Oh man, this is gonna be the best Christmas Concert ever."

As it turned out, it wasn't the best Christmas Concert ever. That came two years later, when the Junk Barrel Band, back for its third season by popular demand, received a standing ovation that rocked the gym rafters for "I saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus", complete with exuberant and very moist sound effects. He felt the stage floor vibrate beneath him with the applause and saw tears of laughter and pride stream down his father's face. It was then that Phil knew that he would be a musician for the rest of his life.

His parents had no objection at all when he told them, on the way home that night. There had always been music in his family, as far back as Phil could remember. His mother liked to joke that Phil had cut his first teeth on his father's harmonica. It might even have been true. Certainly his dad loved nothing better than to sit down in the evening at their aged pump organ and encourage his children to join with him in belting out the sentimental old wartime tunes.

Both Phil and his sister had learned to play a number of instruments very early. Elly preferred to stick with her guitar while Phil played anything and everything with equal pleasure. If he had a special love, it was the battered army bugle his Dad had brought home from the war. Not only did it add some lovely brassy flourishes to the old tunes, it was perfect for blasting his sister out of bed in the mornings.

In high school, Phil worked the music teachers with relentless zeal for all he could get out of them. Wherever their enthusiasms lay - jazz, classical, or rock and roll - he delved into the genre as deeply as they could take him. It was fortunate they all recognized and appreciated his talent, or he would have been tossed out of band class a dozen times over for improvising gleefully in the middle of concerts instead of sticking to the music as written. It was just too hard to discipline himself to playing a piece the same old way every time, when there were so many creative ways to liven things up.

The day Phil graduated, the Grade 12 band teacher shook his hand with enthusiasm, gave him a glowing recommendation to the Faculty of Music at UBC, and bade him goodbye with undisguised relief.

It was tough, staying in university long enough to finish his music degree. There were so many more interesting things to do than study, like jamming with other jazz lovers or composing his own "blues". Women were also a serious distraction. Phil liked women. A lot. He was delighted to discover that most women, in turn, liked musicians. Guitar players did best with the chicks, drummers almost as well. Still, a horn player with a nice smooth line could also do just fine.

Only the fear of losing the scholarship that was paying a healthy chunk of his tuition kept Phil's extra-curricular activities from taking over his life. No way could his parents, on the modest income they earned in their jewellery store, have paid the costs of university. Without the scholarship, he would have had to take some hard-labour grunt job each summer, instead of the far more enjoyable gigs available for the round of outdoor weddings and reunions. So, despite temptation, he worked hard at his studies.

Once he had his degree safely in hand, Phil set out to enjoy life to the max. He spent the winter playing in a cruise ship band, hit Mardi Gras in New Orleans on the way home, and flew to England with a friendly Brit saxophone player to audition with a theatre orchestra in Coventry.

While he was waiting to hear from the orchestra, he looked up his Aunt Phyllis, after whom he had been named. That piece of information, gleefully spilled by Elly in a vengeful sisterly moment, had caused him some acutely humiliating moments on the playground. It was a pleasure to discover that Aunt Phyllis was a charming woman with a delightfully accented rasping voice, a dry sense of humour and a chain-smoking habit to rival his own. Inheriting her name no longer seemed so cringe-worthy after he had spent a pampered two weeks in her lovely home in Cheltenham."

When the theatre job fell through, Phil's dwindling finances drove him in desperation to a position as music director at a summer camp for under-privileged children. It was insanely hard work in primitive conditions with deplorable equipment. Tough, wary and street-wise, many of the kids were difficult to work with. In a moment of desperation, Phil challenged them to create a Junk Band like the one he had started in school. To his surprise, they leapt at the idea. Their enthusiasm and creativity kept him harried and stretched to the limit for the rest of the season, but it also made the end-of-season Camp Concert a roaring success. When the last hoots and hollers of applause had died down, his grinning band members presented him with a crudely worked medal made out of a bean can lid, painted with the words "Best Music Mate Ever". It still smelled faintly of beans and was incredibly ugly. He cherished it beyond gold.

That fall, Phil returned to Canada and started working toward his Teacher's Certificate. It was a part-time effort, sandwiched between his job in Montreal with a theatre orchestra, his weekend gigs with a jazz band, his travels, his yoga, and several light-hearted flings with women who, like him, were interested in a good time rather than a long time. Still, he worked hard at his courses. Someday he would teach music to young people again. Phil used his Christmas break with the orchestra in 1981 to visit his sister Elly, now married and living in Milborough, Ontario with her husband John and their two children. It felt good to be with family, and to see Christmas through the eyes of a child once again.

It was a great visit, but it was weird to see just how different his life had become from his sister's. He couldn't quite decide which was better, his easy-going but sometimes lonely life of freedom or Elly's domestic sometimes-bliss, mostly-chaos. It may have been the uncertainty that made him go down without a struggle to Elly's blatant schemes to set him up with the attractive divorcee next door. He normally steered clear of women with kids; they made him nervous. It was time to take a chance.



Connie turned out to be great company. Her son Lawrence, an intelligent and thoughtful boy, was fun to know as well. Still, at the end of the holidays, Phil said good-bye to them with few regrets. Connie was looking for a serious relationship, and he wasn't ready for that kind of commitment. When she showed up at the jazz club in Montreal where he was playing and dropped some tentative hints about a longer-term relationship, he did his best to let her down gently.

There were times when he wondered if that had been a mistake. Life as a free spirit was getting a little old. More and more, he felt the urge to settle, to have a real home of his own. In the Spring of 1982, certificate in hand, Phil started applying for teaching jobs; ones that would keep him tied to one place for a while. That much commitment, he might be able to handle. But the moment the post office box clanged shut on his letters of application, reaction set in. Phil quit his job, threw his stuff into a suitcase, and let the road and the music take him where they would once again.

It was a good six months. Still, when an offer came to teach trumpet at the university in Milborough, Phil accepted with an eagerness that surprised even him. A quick phone call to his sister to make sure her guest room was empty, and he was on his way. Two days and a thousand miles later, his aging Triumph turned into the Patterson's driveway.



Staying at the Patterson's seemed like the logical thing to do until his first paycheque came. It was also a good opportunity to try out family life for a while. Now that he was ready to settle into a "real" job, perhaps he was ready for the rest of the package, too. Once the new job was under control, he gathered up his courage and asked Connie out again.



It didn't take long to realize that he'd blown his chance. Connie was still friendly, but she was no longer interested. Her mind was on an old boyfriend, Dr. Ted McCauley, with whom she had a troubled off-and-on relationship. In Phil's opinion, McCauley was a first-class jerk. But he was also a doctor, handsome, and wealthy. The odds weren't great that a homeless vagabond musician could compete with that.



Phil decided he wasn't interested in a steady relationship anyway. His true love was music. That was where his heart and his attention belonged. Women were just a diversion, an attractive nuisance. Didn't all the great musicians put the maidens second to their muse. It was just as well things hadn't worked out.

With the job going well and the paycheques flowing, it was time to move out of the Patterson guest room. Family life was nice for a while, but it had its flaws.



Phil found a sweet deal on a room in a house with a drummer and saxophonist, both vegetarians, which he wasn't, and music and yoga devotees, which he was. That was all the compatibility he needed in roommates. He also invested in a recording system a hundred dollars better than he could afford. Jazz was all about the blues, after all. The tragedy of disappointment in love might just be what was needed to inspire him to compose the next huge hit.



After some nights of happy musical wallowing in his lovelorn misery, it was time to record his pieces. Phil pulled together the best musicians he could find willing to work for beer. Among them was a slim, dark-haired, green-eyed flautist with a lovely lyrical line. Her other lines were pretty good, too. Before Phil knew it, he had lost his inspiration to wail the blues and was writing stuff that rhymed with "dove" and "stars above". He knew it was idiotic and didn't mind a bit. For the first time in his life, he was completely, madly, head-over-heels in love.



Georgia was intelligent, warm, sweet-tempered, and best of all, endlessly tolerant of all his oddities. It took a lot to ruffle her. For a guy like him, who operated on pure impulse and hit the emotional highs and lows with all the verve of a ping-pong ball, she was the perfect mate. Phil knew how incredibly lucky he was to have found her.



There was no doubt in his mind that this romance was the Big One. But every time he came close to committing himself to anything long term, panic set in. He had lived a vagabond life too long not to be nervous about cages. Even ones that looked perfect.

It was Georgia who, with a minimum of fuss, solved the dilemma for him.

"There's no point in paying rent on two places when we're together all the time. Why don't you move in with me? You can have the other bedroom, and there's lots of room in the storage closet for your equipment." She gave him the warm, easy smile that always melted him into a helpless puddle. "We might as well find out if we're compatible as roommates before we worry about anything more complicated."

Phil couldn't have agreed more. He abandoned his roomies and their chants, New Age music and chick pea curries without a qualm, and moved in that weekend.

It was great, sharing an apartment with Georgia. He didn't think he could ever get tired of having her around. Still, there were irritations in living together that set him on edge. For one thing, his parents made no bones about the fact that they didn't approve. His mom in particular was forever dropping great clanging hints about marriage, respectability, and what the neighbours might think. His sister, while totally cool with co-habitation, insisted on telling Georgia the most hideously embarrassing stories of his childhood, the ones he fervently wished could be left dead and buried.

All those annoyances faded into insignificance when a really major crisis hit. Georgia insisted he go to a doctor to get his persistent cough checked out. After much prodding and poking with a chilly stethoscope, the doctor pronounced a verdict that shocked Phil to the core.

He had to quit smoking. His lungs were already beginning to suffer and would only get worse. If he wanted to continue playing the trumpet, he had to beat the tobacco habit. Right now.
Phil was horrified. He had smoked since his teenage years, and earlier attempts to quit hadn't worked out. Cigarettes were his solace and his security blanket, the only way he could relax when stresses were high. He didn't know how he could survive without them.



It took perseverance, self-discipline, and a great deal of suffering to win even a shaky victory over his addiction. Georgia did her best to help him, although he didn't always appreciate her efforts. It took months of misery before he finally could be sure he had beaten the worst of his cravings.



Having won the toughest fight of his life, Phil decided it was time to take on another challenge he had been putting off for some time. Instructing the brass section in the university band wasn't the kind of teaching he had promised himself he would do after those tough kids in England had so thrillingly "got it". For a whole year, he had been teaching his nephew to play the trumpet. Surely a whole classroom of kids couldn't be any more devious than young Michael.

Phil mustered his courage, took a deep (smoke-free) breath, and applied for the position of music teacher at the Milborough junior high school.



As he expected, teaching music to school kids was tough, frustrating and a constant test of his patience. As he hoped, it was also deeply satisfying.

But working with kids took stamina. In the interests of self-preservation, Phil started - reluctantly - exercising. He walked to the school instead of driving, did a few push-ups, played pick-up games of soccer with the older kids after school. He was surprised to find how quickly it made a difference. With his muscles twanging back into tune and his lungs cleaning out their years' worth of accumulated soot, he had more energy than ever before. That summer, for the first time in years, he revisited the skills learned in his years in Boy Scouts, and took Georgia camping. It was fun, but a bit tame, tenting in the provincial park campgrounds. The next summer, he talked John into joining him for a rough, tough, men-only stretch of real wilderness camping. They packed up a tent, a canoe, a couple of fishing rods and a case each of beans and beer and headed out for one of the thousands of lovely, lonely lakes in Parry Sound.

They were looking for adventure. They found it.





That harrowing brush with death taught Phil to appreciate life as never before. It also convinced him that a guy better grab the good things in life while he could. He gave himself a few weeks to make sure he was fully recovered and sane. Then he asked Georgia to marry him.

The moment she said yes, he was scared stiff. Visions of "the ball and chain" clanged through his fevered mind, and the sound of prison doors slamming haunted his dreams. Georgia, he realized with indignation, had been quietly changing him, reshaping him into husband material. He had (he told himself) given up smoking for her, cut down on his drinking, given up late nights and his jazz clubs and all kinds of crazy behaviour. None of that had appealed to him for some time. Now it was suddenly precious, and it was all being stolen from him. In the sneaky way of women everywhere, Georgia was bent on wresting away every last bit of freedom.

It didn't help his mood any that the incoming Grade 7 class was made up of the most fiendish lot of kids ever inflicted on a suffering world, with about as much music in the lot of them as in an average turnip. Their mothers were worse. The principal of the school was an idiot, always on his case grumping about discipline.

Under the burden of it all, there was only one thing to do.



It might have been OK if the wedding had been swift and simple, like cutting his throat. But Georgia wanted a big wedding with all the hoopla and frills, and Elly was backing her all the way. Someone as insignificant as the groom didn't have a hope of resisting the female juggernaut of wedding planning. For ten painful months, Phil suffered. Indecision, regret, frayed temper, stupid fights with Georgia over incredibly small things. He became a nervous wreck. It seemed like the wretched event would never be over. And he wasn't sure it should be happening at all. Suddenly, it was all done. And everything was fine. Georgia gave him that wonderful smile and he knew just how incredibly lucky he was to have her for a wife. With the tension miraculously gone, he danced and laughed his way through the wedding reception, buoyed up with a relief that was more potent than champagne.

As a responsible, married man, life was good. It felt surprisingly right to be settled, and not like a cage at all. To add to his satisfaction, Phil found his work at the school more interesting every year as he experimented with new ways to excite kids about music. His Junk Band experience came in useful many, many times.



The only downside was the limited time he and Georgia had together. With the wedding over, she was making up for lost time by putting in long hours on completing her Master's thesis in Audiology. Since she was also working part-time at the local hearing clinic, Phil ended up with most of the cooking duties. His repertoire, once limited to delivery pizza and KD, expanded to include stir-fry, pot roast and curried chicken. Cooking was, he decided, like conducting a symphony. He let his creativity loose and was proud of his many fine, if unusual, compositions.

The day Georgia graduated, Phil glowed with pride in his brilliant, talented wife. He was even happier when she was offered an Audiologist's job with the Milborough school district and the financial strain lifted.

With two salaries coming in, Georgia decided it was time to adjust their standard of living upward. It had never bothered Phil that their kitchen chairs were mismatched and the coffee table had beer-can rings dotting its surface. Apparently it bothered Georgia. By the end of the school year, all of their comfortable old furniture had been banished and replaced. It didn't seem like a big deal to Phil, but Elly squealed with delight over the new look and Georgia beamed with pride, so he supposed it was worth it. He would have preferred a new bike.

The next step was inevitable. Much as it went against Phil's lingering vagabond instincts to be saddled with something as depressingly binding as a mortgage, he went along meekly when Georgia announced, on the first day of Spring Break, that they had an appointment with a real-estate broker.

They were shocked to discover how much housing had inflated over the past few years. Phil remembered Elly and John worrying about the size of their mortgage when they bought their house in 1979. Now, a decade later, a similar house went for at least five times as much. The search was long and disheartening as they tried to find something they could afford even on two salaries. At times, he wondered if it was worth it.



After three months of hunting, and many despairing moments, they finally found a house in their price range. It was smaller than they had hoped for and needed work, but it was structurally sound and in a great location. They knew, the moment they saw it, that it was the home for them.



Phil hadn't realized just how much his life had changed until the rainy weekend in October when they moved into their new house. In his bachelor days, moving involved tossing his clothes into an old hockey bag and his audio equipment into the back seat of his car. This time, it took six trips with a borrowed half-ton truck and more back-breaking labour than he'd ever intended to do in his life. Not surprisingly, tempers became a little frayed in the process.



Once everything was finally unloaded and safe inside, their spirits rebounded. No matter that it was in sorry need of painting and a chaotic mess of boxes and furniture, it was their new home and they loved it.

It wasn't long before the first glow wore off. The first and most infuriating problem was the dog next door.



After too many frustrated, sleepless nights, Phil finally came up with a brain-wave. He went to all the other homes in their neighbourhood within hearing range of the barking. Most of the hollow-eyed inhabitants were more than willing to contribute to a solution to the misery. They pooled their money and bought the dog. Once the beast had been safely bestowed on friends who lived a long, long way out of town, peace once more descended on their little slice of paradise.

The second problem had no solution, and it took Phil and Georgia some time to accept it. After four years of marriage and some acutely embarrassing medical moments, they knew they would have no children of their own. There were times when this depressed them. Other times, Phil thought it might be just as well. He wasn't at all certain he had what it took to be a good father.



They talked of adopting, but decided against it. While both would have loved children of their own, there was also pleasure in coming home after a hectic day to a peaceful house. There were advantages, too, in being able to focus totally on their careers. They both worked with children every day; their interest in young people could be channelled into more dedicated efforts to help those kids lead better, richer lives.

When that wasn't quite enough to ease the hurt, they decided to "adopt" two children and their families through an international aid organization. Each month they contributed the amount they had planned to put into an education fund for their own children. It was humbling to find that such a meagre amount was enough to not only support the two families, but to provide a well for safe drinking water for their whole village. There was comfort in knowing that out of their disappointment had come some real good.

If they no longer needed to plan for a younger generation, there was reason to worry about the older one. Phil found it unsettling when his parents discussed the possibility of selling their house. His mother had always enjoyed her home and her flower beds so much, it was hard to believe she no longer felt she could take care of them. Up until now, both his parents and Georgia's had enjoyed good health. He couldn't escape the uncomfortable feeling that their luck was running out.

In the spring of 1993, Phil came home from school to find Georgia tearfully packing a suitcase. Her mother had fallen badly and broken a hip in several places. Her father, who had always seemed so strong, was as frightened and helpless as a child. Georgia flew out the next morning for Montreal, where her parents lived.

She came back a week later, very worried. Her mother was being well cared for, but the breaks were multiple and complicated. Her father was not taking it well. Georgia felt she needed to do something to help.

While they were still debating what to do, a new and very different decision had to be made. Milborough was growing up fast around them. Their neighbourhood had been rezoned to commercial. When a major retail outlet bought up the houses on either side of them, theirs suddenly became hot property. A fierce bidding war erupted for it.

At first, they refused to sell. They loved their little house. After the countless hours spent on fixing it up, it was unthinkable that it should be torn down. But the retailers were determined. The offer kept getting better and better.

"Phil." Georgia ran a distracted hand through her hair as she watched a real estate agent stride up to the house one Saturday morning, his face taut with determination. "Do you realize - if we sold at the crazy price they're offering, we could afford a down payment on a house in Montreal. I could stay with Dad while Mom is in the hospital, help take care of her when she comes home." She turned to him, her brow furrowed with worry. "There are jobs there for both of us. I've been looking. But I know how much you love this house. If you can't stand the thought of leaving, I'll understand."

Phil swept her up in a hard hug. "Hey, I'm the wandering minstrel in the family, remember? Too long in one place and I get itchy for new faces, new music. The music scene in Montreal is great, there's no hardship for me in going back there. The weird thing is, I've been refusing to sell because I thought you hated the idea of moving. But if you're ok with it ..." He grinned as the door bell rang. "Come on. Let's make this guy's day."

It turned out to be a good move, and not only because they hired a moving van this time. In Montreal they found an older home that was perfect for them. Phil was hired on as the music coordinator for a number of schools. He found he had a real knack for organizing programs and loved giving kids a chance to pursue a wider variety of musical interests.

Best of all, Georgia's mother recovered slowly but surely. Within a year, Georgia was able to go back to full-time work. By then they were well settled in Montreal, with a great circle of friends. The time went by quickly.

The experience with Georgia's mother didn't make it any less of a shock when, five years later, the phone call came for Phil this time. His mother had been diagnosed with cancer. As quickly as he could, he hunted up a colleague to take over the summer classes he was teaching, and headed out to Vancouver to join Elly and the rest of the family at his mother's bedside.



It was a frightening time. It helped that the family rallied around in support, not only Elly but their cousins on their mother's side as well. There were good moments in the midst of the worry, times of laughter and warm family unity. To their relief, their mother came through her surgery well. She would be able to come home, at least for a while.



It was a temporary reprieve. The next February, he was once again called back urgently to his mother's bedside. It would be the last time.

His mother slipped away quietly in her sleep a few days after he arrived. It tore Phil's heart out to see her lying there, so still and - empty.



When the family gathered the next summer for the memorial service, Phil gave the eulogy. He spoke of his mother's courage, the amazing sense of humour that did not desert her even in the face of death. Marian had always been the quiet parent, the one who was content to stay in the background while her husband took centre stage with his music, his clowning and his stories. But Phil realized now that his mother had always been the strong one, the rock on which the family had rested.

As he spoke of his mother, he was thinking not only of her, but of Georgia. They had celebrated their tenth anniversary just the year before. And he realized he had not appreciated the moment enough.

Phil and Georgia still live in Montreal, and are very content with their lives. In the summers, when school is out, they travel a great deal. Their favourite route is to England first to visit Aunt Phyllis, who is still going strong and as entertaining as ever, and then on to France or Italy for leisurely tours of the wine-growing regions. They talk occasionally of retiring, but without much enthusiasm. Phil realized why recently, when he had a chance to help out April's band at their Halloween concert.



It was as big a kick to feel that stage vibrating under him with the applause of excited kids as it had in Grade 6 when he played with his Junk Band. Seeing April's delight in the weird and wonderful music they made was an incredible high, too. As he drove home through the starlit darkness that night, Phil knew there was no real choice for him. He will be sharing the gift of music with kids for a long time to come.