Editor’s Note: The following is excerpted with permission from Art Above Everything: One Woman’s Global Exploration of the Joys and Torments of a Creative Life (Beacon Press; June 10, 2025).
My dad drummed for presidents once. He drummed for admirals and ambassadors, movie stars and ministers. He drummed in halftime showcases of the NFL and Mardi Gras parades in New Orleans. He drummed in nightclubs from Amsterdam to Yokosuka.
Long retired from the U.S. Navy jazz band that sailed him around the globe, Dad mostly drums in the garage now. His audience consists of Mom and me as we carry groceries from the car. Every time I pass him, during my brief visits home to Corpus, I think, I really should sit with him. Sit with him, listen to him, maybe even sing along when he switches to the keyboard, like I did when I was little. We especially loved the chorus of “The 59th Street Bridge Song” by Simon and Garfunkel: All is groooo-vy. But there are always meals to prepare, errands to run, tías to greet. Before I know it, Dad is driving me back to the airport.
