An Angel for a Blessing

She's slight and striking, with old-fashioned movie diva loveliness and grace, and big brown eyes lighting up her olive face as she looks at him attentively.

He's large—linebacker big, chocolate bar brown, and handsome, once removed—altered by the lingering effects of a stroke that wounded but couldn't bring him down.

They sit at the table, as odd a couple as you'd ever want to dream. He stares at the jazz band on the stage, wheelchair pushed into the table, hiding one huge bandaged leg, the other leg gone below the knee. He drums his huge left hand in perfect time, from habit; the beat of countless gigs replaying through his memory. His right arm lays limp.

She met him and the rest of the jazz masters in the Scamps (the oldest continuously performing musical group in the world), when filming a special about Kansas City jazz. He played sax. She thought of his raucous wailing and boisterous hijinks now suddenly stilled, and her heartache touched her soul, activating the better angel of her nature. So she stopped by the nursing home just to say hello. It occurred to her that he might like greens, so she fixed collards and took him some. Then she had the wild idea to spring him from the captivity of his condition and take him back to the things and people who meant so much to him, back into the world of scatted lyrics and head tunes showcasing the mastery of musicians like he had been, back to the ones who remember and love him still.

“Hey, Eddie! Glad to see you, buddy!"

His mouth moves in excitement, and words rediscovered tumble out of his mouth sideways, falling over each other without order, yet leaving no doubt that they convey his unabashed joy just to be in the mix, in the community that has always claimed and sustained him. And they, his fans, return the joy without an ounce of pity.

Just transporting him is a leap of faith. The attendants load him, but he's her responsibility from there. And so she scans the crowd for someone who can help her hoist him from her compact car, then in again when it's time to leave—trusting the aid of friends or the kindness of strangers. So far, somehow, someone's always there.

She seriously, adamantly rejects the idea that she deserves brownie points in heaven for her time, care, trouble, expenditures on gas, food, and drink. She waves off any mention that her attention has undoubtedly added time and worth to this man's life, or that she is a blessing to him.

“Oh, he's the blessing—to me and to everyone else!” she insists. And with her help, so he is.

She is Glenn Stewart, award-winning filmmaker, jazz activist, angel-friend.

He is Eddie Saunders, renowned jazz saxophonist, stroke survivor, recipient of grace.

If you're lucky, you'll catch them at a jazz jam near you.

Sharon Valleau