Struts & Frets Read Online Free PDF

had around the sides and back was frizzy, almost like cotton candy. He had a short beard, which I always thought was a good idea for an old guy. It covered up that turkey neck that most of them got. He looked skinnier every time I saw him. He had a nurse or aide or whatever they were called who came in and made him breakfast, but I don’t think he could afford any more help than that, so the only other time he ate was when Mom or I came to visit and made something for him. Eating just didn’t interest him very much anymore.
    He didn’t seem to notice me, or else he didn’t feel like talking. He just kept playing. After a little while, I went into the kitchen. His freezer was filled with the same frozen dinners that filled ours. Mom just bought a ton of them atsome warehouse club. I pulled out two and popped them in the microwave.
    While I stared at the revolving plastic trays through the microwave door, I heard the Wynton Marsalis album finish. Right after the microwave timer dinged, the Oscar Peterson Trio stopped. While I was setting the tiny kitchen table for us, Billie Holiday stopped too. All that was left was my grandfather’s piano. It was a little out of tune and it sounded like he couldn’t quite make up his mind whether he was playing lounge or swing style. But I liked listening to him. It reminded me of when I was a kid and my mom used to take me to see him play. It hadn’t happened a lot, because he usually played at nightclubs and other places my mom didn’t think a kid should be. But every once in a while he’d have a gig at a regular concert hall, usually backing up some famous musician on tour. I’d also get to hear him when my mom was going to school at night to get her graduate degree. She’d drop me off at Gramps’s place and we’d sit in front of the piano most of the night. He’d play lots of old big band tunes and teach me the words and I would sing along. He still lived in the same apartment, but it seemed brighter and warmer in my memory.
    He was playing Duke Ellington’s “I’m Beginning to See the Light.” It was one of his favorites, so I knew it really well.I began to sing along:
    â€œ
I never cared much for moonlit skies. I never wink back at fireflies
.”
    I tried to remember what he looked like back then. He used to wear lots of beatnik turtlenecks and berets and heavy sweaters. I remembered that. But I couldn’t picture his face. I knew he used to smile a lot, but I couldn’t remember what that looked like. A year ago he had to retire from playing because he was having trouble remembering songs, and he hadn’t really been the same since.
    â€œBoy, are you going to stare at that food or are you going to eat it?” said Gramps.
    I’d been so zoned out that I hadn’t noticed he’d stopped playing. Now he was standing in the kitchen doorway glaring at me.
    â€œHey, Gramps,” I said. “Dinner’s ready.”
    â€œI can see that!” he said, and sat down at the table. “I’m not completely blind, you know!”
    â€œI know, Gramps.”
    â€œJust mostly.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œHaven’t lost my perfect-pitch ear, though.”
    â€œNope,” I lied. “Have something to eat.” I nudged his tray.
    He shook his head. “You first.”
    â€œGramps,” I said. “I swear I didn’t put anything in it.” My mom doesn’t think he takes his medication regularly, so sometimes she tries to slip it into his food.
    His eyes narrowed and he gave me a weird look, like he thought I might be lying. “How do I know for sure? Why don’t you take a bite and prove it to me?”
    I rolled my eyes to show him I thought he was being totally ridiculous, but I took a bite of his food and chewed slowly while he watched me carefully. I guess he was waiting to see if I keeled over and started foaming at the mouth or something. When he