When my two oldest were in high school, I had the opportunity to attend a great many concerts. Choir concerts, jazz band concerts, and regular band concerts. Most likely that was orchestra? It’s all a blur.
They were wonderful concerts. Talented and passionate kids. Directed by talented and passionate conductors. In fact, I would often find myself closing my eyes so to give the music the full focus of my senses, because good live music is right up there with acts of genuine kindness in experiences that make me feel closest to heaven.
But one concert comes to mind in particular. Luke was performing in the St. George Tabernacle. So that sounded like a great excuse for a road trip down south. In fact, I’m guessing it might have been in the late winter/early spring, because that is when I’m itching the most to go down south. There’s something about the red rock, blue sky, and beds and beds of already blooming spring bulbs and blossoms set against the green grass while all the world up north is still grey.
In any case, I loaded the other three kids in the mini van and we must have all had our fun before finding ourselves on a Sunday night at the tabernacle.
Now that I think about it, it’s unlikely there were strict dress requirements for the public at the tabernacle. But for some long forgotten reason I must have been scrambling for Zack to have nice clothes. And I happened to recall that I had my recently deceased (and by recently, I mean really recently, as in perhaps a week, tops) grandfather’s suits in the back of my van.
And for some reason I encouraged Zack to grab either the pants or the suit coat. The details escape me, but what I do recall was the look on his face when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a couple of used tissues. (They may have even been hankies. Grandpa was definitely a handkerchief kind of man.)
We laughed about it later, but Zack was not just a little horrified. And I had no response for my thoughtlessness.
But from that day forward, I know to check the pockets of deceased people’s wardrobes before passing them on to the next unsuspecting soul.
[Day 103 of Ann Dee Ellis’ 8-Minute Memoir.]