Many are cold, but few are chosen
by Jean Martin
Now, I will have to admit that when the invitation arrived for a party in honor of Frank Jilka’s 90th birthday, it did cross my mind that it would be nice to get out of frozen Michigan and up into northern California for a few days. So when Jack said that we should go for it, we did.
Often when something out of the ordinary, good or bad, happens I play a little game with myself. I ask myself what a much younger version of myself would have thought about such a thing. Often in these scenarios I am about 10 years old, riding my bike north on South Clinton Ave. I don’t know why I’m on South Clinton since we lived several blocks west of there, but that just how it works.
This time, however, it is a slightly older version of me who gets a peek at the future. This girl is an 8th grader in her first year at band camp at Interlochen. Interlochen has been the dream and the goal since about 5th grade, and here she is — frustrated, discouraged and way, way overtired. She had been pounding the practice field all week, even turned an ankle; and she has not been given a spot in the fall marching band. She will be an alternate. She was not brought into the band as an 8th grader because Frank Jilka wanted another warm, yet inept, body on the football field. He needed another oboe for concert season.
So what if someone had visited that fatigued, weary girl in her bunk and told her:
Many years in the future you will be invited to that man’s 90th birthday party, and you will go. While you are there you will see most of the children who are staying over there in the family cabin, and you will meet many of Frank’s grandchildren and a great-granddaughter who is all grown up.
Frank will be sitting in the sun in the backyard of Suzie’s house, just sort of letting the visitors and their well-wishes wash over him. He will smile and nod. You will see that he is enjoying the day and accepting the attention with good humor.
Then his son, Greg will announce that it is time for the Dixieland Band to play a few numbers. People will help Frank down to his seat. He will settle himself and pick up the euphonium that finally replaced his trusty trombone. He will count off the beat for the group, and everything will change.
On the surface he hasn’t looked like the Frank Jilka you knew. It has been almost impossible to see Interlochen Frank in there.
But once they begin to play, there he is. It is almost as if someone flipped a switch. He is right there with the musicians, the music and the audience. Even some of the resemblance is back.
Frank Jilka is 90 years old, and he’s still here.
So what would poor discouraged, 14-year-old Jean think then? She might think that this future event would be a great blessing.
And it was so.