She spent a lifetime raising young musicians. And when I say a lifetime, I mean all her adult years. I guess you could say for the 21 years previous to adulthood she was only raising one young musician – herself – but that would not accurately account for her parents’ hand in the business. Anyway, she raised three – musicians that is – three to whom she gave birth (this story is not about the hundreds of students whom she raised to love music) and she watched them fledge and fly away and continue forward with the music business because each of them, at the approximate age of 16 began to play with bands; marching bands, rock bands, punk bands, reggae bands, celtic bands, worship bands; every kind of music one could imagine. Likewise, these young musicians began to be independent, to learn more from the big wide world of music, less from the mom who gave them birth and especially they learned from the School of Hard Knocks and paying your dues. So it happened, after they were grown from home, that whenever she passed a street musician – which was usually when traveling to San Francisco or Pike Place or other colorful and cultural locations, she was careful to tip the musician – a little change here, a dollar bill there because she was never flush with money. And each time she dropped the money in the hat, she thought of her kids; wished them well. She hoped that someone, somewhere that day was dropping some money in the hat or jar or fishbowl for her children who were making a way for themselves with music.

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He was born three weeks early and came out using his lungs and with the ability to grasp and grip objects. His parents sang a cappella harmonies while his mother nursed him. A few days later he could roll over. Before the age of five weeks he was pushing himself up to a standing position in his mother’s lap. This in itself seemed precocious. But the amazing thing was, he was pushing himself up, bouncing, keeping accurate time to the rhythmic crooning of a traveling black music evangelist. Six months later she boarded a city bus in San Antonio with this little man child held securely in her arms. She was only 19 and a little skittish of the big city, strange surroundings, people and customs different from hers. An old woman with a large and worn shopping bag occupied the seat behind causing her to think of all sorts of fairy tales with old hags. Across the aisle sat a young Puerto Rican looking desperate and hungry, she knew too much about Westside Story. She tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, to melt into the bus interior. But Baby would have none of that. He squirmed until he was turned to face the Puerto Rican. He stuck out his little cherub face and coughed politely. No result. Determined, Baby coughed again. The young Puerto Rican man finally looked up, whereupon Baby beamed at him and then turned his attention to the weathered woman behind to begin the social process of introduction again. Working the crowd. That was 47 years ago. To her certain knowledge, that child has been a consummate showman and performer ever since. He loves people. He reads the crowd.

Child number two had to be rocked to sleep standing up, the one who watched the patterns of the LED music readout on the stereo over her shoulder to make sure the music was not stopping, only advancing to the next song. This made sense. This child was born to parents who worked in radio and had a mortal fear of dead air time. She was the dancer who moved her arms gracefully to the music before she could walk, the toddler who sat at a piano keyboard and attempted delicate arpeggios instead of pounding. As a young adult she was the drummer, the mandolin player, the songwriter and the one woman show.

Child number three was born using his lungs and never stopped. Always self-contained, mindful and confident, he knew what was expected of him and delivered on stage by the age of five. His pitch was as sure and accurate as that of his older siblings. He was able to engage adults in meaningful conversation at a young age. He toured the world with a children’s chorale, sang for weddings, and soloed on the concert hall stage before entering high school. As a young adult he knew his path and located himself in music hubs, playing concurrently with as many bands as possible.

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So now, when she plays the Saturday and Sunday morning gig at the French Bakery, she thinks of her kids. She thinks how encouraging they are – all three of them- how excited for her that she has this unencumbered opportunity to play live music, enter this world they have survived in and loved for decades. She thinks of her oldest child when she makes eye-contact, smiles and acknowledges each guest that comes through the door while she continues to play. She is pretty sure she learned that habit from her son. She thinks of her daughter and a one-woman show as she keeps the music humming without benefit of drum or guitar fills for a few solid hours. When happy guests tip her handsomely – and when they don’t, she thinks of the seasons her kids were busking on the streets to survive. She recalls the street musicians she has tipped over the years. And she wishes, she wishes she had tipped more – tipped it a little further forward!