Our grandson, Michael, is a musician. He's always been a musician, since early childhood. He plays brass instruments and the trombone is his first love. He got some scholarships and he's now a pore-and-starvin' college student at the local teacher college, studying (you guessed it) music education. He wants to be a teacher and a band director. Music is his life and his love.
Last week he told us that he got his first paid gig. A local brass band wanted him to come play a weekend gig at our hometown casino. He's only nineteen, so he had to be escorted through the gaming floor to the bar where he'd be playing, but they paid him cash money, all the bottled water he could drink, and one menu item from the restaurant.
Milady and I went out to watch him pay. He's the white boy on the far left.
We ate supper, played a little bit, and watched him play. We stayed up past our bedtime, but we saw our grandson make his first money tooting his horn, which is worth commemorating. As Milady said, "It's good to slip our traces once in a while."