For this post I suppose I’ll return to my grandfather’s music book. I called my mom to ask her about the book, and if she could remember him using it for anything in particular. Unfortunately she couldn’t remember anything specific, she did however inform me of a rather serendipitous coincidence. So, I was born and raised on Staten Island, as was my grandfather, and recently he was featured in an article in the Staten Island advance. The article celebrated musicians hailing from the island, sharing “vintage” pictures of musicians past. My grandfather, Rene Allegre, was part of a big band called the “Modenaires” who played throughout the island. For the most part my grandfather played the trumpet, trombone and french horn for the band, although when needed he could be called upon to play something else. Presumably, my grandfather had this book during his time with the Modenaires. I suppose using it, as one would the top 40 list of our time. Being able to entertain crowds with songs they knew and loved from that era. Although my grandfather was a professional musician, he was a contractor by trade. The man could build pretty much anything. When I was younger I worked for him, in his four garages, which basically meant me cleaning up after my cousins. However, I distinctly remember garage number two. It was a mystery that eluded my sister and I for years. He had fashioned it as a secret room. The entrance was a privilege in which we had to work to gain entrance to. When we were granted entrance, it was bit of a magical day for my sister and I. We were surrounded by twinkle lights and train sets, musical instruments, recording equipment and art projects my grandfather had worked on. It was a look into the softer side of my grandfather, who was usually amongst power tools and PVC pipes. A man who’s car was filled with 2x4s and empty coffee cups, had a sanctuary all his own. And, in this sanctuary was this blue book. Near the recording equipment, strewn about much like everything else my grandfather owned. At that point in his life, he wasn’t playing music as much. He would mess around and play it by himself, but it was rare that he picked up an instrument in front of another person. A stark contrast from his past life, of matching suits and brass songstresses. This bright blue book among the dark wires and recorders stood out, ringing with life.

I remember, after my grandfather had passed, my mom and her siblings collected things of his. Cleaning out the garages I had worked so many years in. My mom, whose one rule in life was to play an instrument until you were at least 18, grabbed the book immediately. She had always enjoyed that we shared a musical connection with my grandfather. The book had been with her for a short while, as she was sifting through his things. And, now as we all know, it’s now in my possession. I suppose it’s interesting how the purpose of this book has changed over the years. For my grandpa, it was a tool of practicality that morphed into a reminder of his youth. For me, the practicality isn’t as strong. It’s more of a sentimental piece.

It’s true I don’t play the piano as much as I should. I’m not really sure why I don’t pay more frequent visits to my friend of 17 years. But, when I do, I enjoy flipping through the pages of “America’s Greatest Standards”. I realize, I’ve romanticized this idea of my grandfather. A rather simple thing to do, when you’ve lost someone you love. I am not claiming perfection. If you flip through the pages of his life, much like those of the music book, you will find tares, spills, imperfections. But, there were some beautiful parts too. And, although he’s been gone about six years now, I’m glad to have been a page in his imperfect book.

My grandfather: second row, second from left.