I never knew my mother was such a jazz aficionado until I started digging through her vinyl collection – literally digging, as these treasures were buried under years of accumulated life in our old family home. The records sat there like time capsules, waiting for someone with enough musical maturity to appreciate them properly. Maybe it’s a blessing I waited this long to explore her collection; my teenage self would’ve probably dismissed Miles Davis as “that guy with the trumpet” and missed the genius entirely.

I’ve developed what I like to call a “vintage ear” over the years, an appreciation that comes with age, like finally understanding why adults made such a fuss about good wine. My father’s side of the family, bless their hearts, are musical in that genetic, can’t-help-it kind of way – there’s a guitarist or singer in every generation, like musical chickenpox that just keeps spreading. But they’re technicians, not lovers; they play music but don’t really feel it. It’s like they’re fluent in a language they never actually use for conversation.

Going through Mom’s collection now feels like reading someone’s diary but missing crucial pages. Each album cover tells a story, but I’m left imagining the chapters in between. What made her stop and replay that one Coltrane solo until the vinyl developed a slight wear? Which songs disappointed her so much she needed to tell someone about it? I picture her discovering some hidden B-side gem at 2 AM, wanting to wake someone up just to share it, but deciding to keep that perfect moment to herself. These are conversations we should have had, could have had, if I’d only known to ask.

The irony of my musical obsession hit me hard during deployment. There we were, in the middle of who-knows-where, supposedly focused on staying alive, and I’m shushing a bunch of armed soldiers because some unknown track caught my ear. Must have been quite a sight – combat gear, serious faces, and everyone frozen in place because some music junkie needed his fix. That track, whatever it was, became my personal soundtrack to surreal moments in a surreal time.

My wife, clever woman that she was, found her own way to deal with my musical fixation. Her “mandatory couples classes” rule initially felt like some kind of relationship boot camp – probably payback for all those times I zoned out during her favorite TV shows. But she was playing the long game, and I was too slow to catch on.

She’d strategically pick music history courses, knowing full well you can’t just read about music – that’s like trying to understand swimming by reading about water. You have to dive in, let it wash over you, and become part of the cultural current. And there she’d be, sitting on the couch with that innocent look, dropping casual questions about artists while I supposedly focused on “important” coursework.

Her technique was masterful, really. She’d start with that seemingly harmless phrase, “They were good, but…” and watch me take the bait every single time. I’d launch into these elaborate musical dissertations with historical context, personal interpretations, and probably way too many air guitar solos. It took me embarrassingly long to realize I’d been expertly manipulated into sharing my passion with her.

She didn’t need to match my enthusiasm for every blues riff or jazz improvisation; she just needed to understand why it mattered to me. While I was busy being a musical know-it-all, she quietly built bridges between our interests. Looking back, I have to admire her strategy – it was like watching someone solve a Rubik’s cube while pretending to fiddle with it.

The real kicker? She managed to turn my tendency to lecture about music into quality time together. Here I was, thinking I was educating her about the finer points of bebop while she was actually teaching me about the art of connection. Talk about your plot twists – turns out I wasn’t the only one who knew how to improvise.

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Here is John Coltrane’s Blues Train