Tonight is my 2nd ukulele lesson, held at McCabe's Guitar Shop in Santa Monica. These are my first music lessons since I was in high school, which has given me pause to reflect:

Each and every Friday night, my freshman, sophomore, junior, and senior years, I would either be dropped off or drive myself to the home of Inez Crofts, my 65 year old voice instructor, walk in the rear studio door, which was connected to her greenhouse, and sing warmups for 30 minutes before diving into a half hour's worth of classical voice compositions. I remember the summer twilight as I entered the studio, and the dark, humid Chicago air when I stepped back outside; harsh winter winds hitting my ears like spikes as I'd rush into the greenhouse door, where humidity and heat levels were near-tropical and the blistering cold that greeted me as I dashed to the car.

When Inez' husband of 40+ years passed away, lessons were canceled for a month. When I returned, 16 and unsure how the hell people reacted to losing a spouse of 4 or more decades, I recall walking in her studio door and seeing her lying on the sofa, eyes closed, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. I knocked, crept in, and asked if she was all right. She sat up slowly, wiped the tears from her eyes, and nodded; she hugged me, sat down at the piano, and played a lovely, quiet, classical piece, the hot, summer, Chicago air hanging outside as the setting sun sliced through the fogged greenhouse windows.

I learned a lot on Friday nights. More than I ever knew at the time.