Sunday was a good day. Do you know what makes it a good day? Music. Music makes it a good day. I had to work. But for the first three and a half hours I had the privilege of working from the piano. Yes. It IS a pretty sweet gig as the banjo player pointed out. We had a nice discussion, the banjo player and I, about the love of getting to work in music rather than the drudgery of having to go to work. Any job, even music, can grow tarnished until one remembers the absolute joy of earning a living doing what you love to do.

That Sunday was a record day for me at the piano – not just in compliments (it is hard not to get better when you play more than 10 hours a week), but a record day in the bread in the jar factor as well. I live and work in a music town and when music events are in town the vibe is superb.

Bluegrass Meltdown brings world class headliners to the stage. They lodge in town. They have to eat somewhere. I play at an historic French bakery. Extra travelers are in town. They come here for the music. They lodge in Durango hotels. They, too, put bread in my jar.

Sometime after 11:00 am a young man clad in plaid and blue jeans with a fashionably absent back pocket entered the restaurant. The host apologized profusely that the kitchen was down. “I just want to chill a bit,” responded the newcomer. He seated himself at a bistro table – the one with a direct view of the piano. He snapped a couple photos, maybe a video, sipped coffee, savored a croissant, and conducted business from his cell phone. At 12:06 I began to pack up – to close the piano. He hurried over to compliment on the sustained energy of my delivery and the depth of repertoire. I said he had too much youth on him to enjoy my repertoire. He responded that everyone knows the classics. He said his name was Chris. I introduced myself as Cherry. He said I should drop by the Wild Horse Saloon late that afternoon where he was playing. He turned to leave and I swung my gig bag to my shoulder.

“He’s famous,” said the woman sitting at the nearest table. She whipped out her handheld data. “Yes. Right there,” she said, showing me the screen. “Banjo player with Chain Station.”

And did I go to the Wild Horse Saloon? I slipped in much later for the last song, without a wristband and under the watchful eye and nod of the gatekeeper. Later. After the private lesson student recital at 2:00 pm.

Because you know what makes it a good day? Music. Music makes it a good day.