“God created our skin tones with beautiful variety, but all of our souls are the same color.”
~ Dave Willis
Last week, Jenrose Fitzgerald described an idea using photographs of the hands belonging to her many musician friends. I thought my image for her would be cool since I had stitches. If someone else had tripped the shutter, maybe it would have been, but to do it myself, the angle was too contorted. Still, it gave me an idea of what to expect when I’m able to hold a stick again. And that got me to thinking. I don’t get to play nearly as much as I’d like. Everyone I know with whom I’d love to play lives a minimum two hours from here. Folks nearby either don’t want to play with me, don’t know I want to play, or already have a drummer that never takes a vacation so I can’t even play a fill-in gig. Seeing how aged my hand looked made me wonder how much longer I have to play. Like any athlete, you have to use your muscles or they go stiff. With aging you lose muscle mass, too. Double whammy. Despite all that aging business, despite living too far away from my favorite music pals, I’m still mighty proud of my old dried up hands. They’ve pounded a lot of miles around this country, and they can still rock when they need to. I ain’t dead yet. Cue music… but my left hand is gonna sting for a few weeks, I’m pretty sure of that.
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