On vacation in October, staying on North Padre Island, Corpus Christi, TX, I had to stay in shape for my upcoming trumpet performances. So, I went to the nearby Todd Hunter Gazebo in the southwest corner of Don and Sandy Billish Park. Sat down with my Jupiter pocket trumpet and played songs by memory for 45 minutes to an hour.

Meanwhile, people would occasionally drive by in their golf carts, pickup trucks, or cars and others would walk or jog by on the half-mile concrete path that encircles the park. I was an oddity to the locals. They were friendly.

One afternoon, a woman was walking on the path alongside her two young grandkids on their small bicycles, the bright-eyed girl slightly older than her brother. I was playing “You Are My Sunshine,” made popular by Gene Autry. We chatted. I told the girl a knock-knock joke with the punch line, “Howard you like to be my Valentine?” She beamed, and her grandmother asked me if she could record “You Are My Sunshine” in a video. She said she’d like to share it with her own mother who is in her 90s. Of course, I said yes, and she pointed her phone camera at me. I did it perfectly. That was fun, but it was not the end of the story.

The next day, when I came back to the gazebo for another session, I found on the concrete floor a huge yellow sun drawn in chalk with long spikes radiating outward in all directions. And alongside was the message, “You Are My Sunshine.” Smile…warm heart. It lasted for several days until it wore off.

One afternoon, two men stopped by to chat. Politics and voting were on their minds. Someday, this country may be in civil war again, they warned. Talked about loving their wives and how they communicate that to them. Talked about their jobs and retirement. One said he is a helicopter pilot and thinks his boss may be trying to force him to quit. Keeps assigning him night duty only. “How much longer till you can retire?” I asked. “Twenty-two months,” he said. “You can stick that out,” I said. “Yeah, I can.”

Another day, four boys were riding their bicycles down the street. When they heard me playing, the oldest boy turned into the gazebo, and they all parked to listen. We chatted. They are brothers. One had played trumpet but quit. After awhile, I asked, “How old am I?” The oldest one studied me for a few seconds and said, “58.” One at a time, the others said, “55,” “52,” and “63.” No, no, no, no! “Can you do arithmetic?” I asked. “I was born in 1940.” Three faces bore puzzled looks, but within about three seconds, the fourth said, “You’re 86.” Yes! Then, I asked if I could guess their ages. One by one, I said, “15:” Yes! “12:” Yes! “14:” Yes! and “7:” Yes! They were no more amazed that I was. And in a few more minutes, they said goodbye and rode off.

So it went, day after day. I played songs like “Home, Home on the Range,” “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows,” “Let the Rest of the World Go By,” “Y.M.C.A.,” “Hey, Baby!,” “The Godfather Theme,” “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah,” and many others.

I felt like the Pied Piper. For a few days, I was the Pied Trumpeter, preparing to play a short show at my high school reunion on 10 October. That story will be my next post here.