December 20 2008
This week’s story took place quite a few years back, but it’s Christmastime and bears repeating.
It was Christmas Eve, and a blizzard was battering the countryside and a jazz quintet was scheduled to play at a roadside jazz club, and the weather warnings weren’t going to stop them. It was a Christmas tradition.
They all piled into the bass player’s Hummer and headed for the club. When the roads got bad enough to stop other cars, they made their own roads.
When they finally made it to the club, the only car in the parking lot was the one that the owner drove.
The club was all lit up and looked like a Christmas card. They all put on their Santa’s hats, picked up their instruments, and walked in the door.
The owner and his bar-back were the only two in the whole place. They all had a couple of toddies together and then started setting up the tools of their trade.
The piano player sat down at the house piano, ran his hands over the keys a little, and found it to be in surprisingly good shape.
Even with an empty house, there was something in the air, something special. They all felt it.
The flute player looked at the group, smiled and said, "Santa Claus is coming to town."
The vibes player gave a little intro, and they were off.
About half way through the tune the front door opened, and along with a cloud of wind blown snow there entered a well padded old man with a big white fluffy beard and a Santa's hat like they were wearing, only much better made.
The old boy walked up and stood right in front of them, tapping his foot, nodding his head and shaking his big pot belly. His eyes twinkling like all get out.
At the end of the tune he applauded vigorously, and then held up a battered trumpet case.
"Do you mind if I sit in?" he asked.
The group grinned at each other. "Not at all." Said the flute player.
The old man put his trumpet case on a cocktail table, and while he was getting a toddy at the bar, the drummer pointed to his trumpet case and whispered, "Look at the name on his case."
They all looked and saw S. Klaus spelled out in gold lettering, with a "K" in Klaus.
It was magical.
The old man came back, opened his case, and pulled out a gleaming, perfectly maintained golden trumpet.
The flute player said, "In honor of the weather, we’ll play 'Snowbound,'" you can have the lead and the first solo."
The bass player laid down a slow stately beat. The drummer gently tickled the drums with his brushes, the vibes player softly shimmered a chord or two, and the old man played his horn.
The musicians beamed at each other. There was no doubt about it. The old man was the worst damn trumpet player that any of them had ever heard. . .Merry Christmas.

Till next week
Helga Biermeister
Secretary