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usually off, as was Raymond's ear. It didn't matter. How could you go wrong near those drums, Jazz Man's drums. It was impossible to not, occasionally, try tapping one's fingers on THE drums to a, "Careful!. Don't mess them up." They, too, were in that basement. Off to one side, but clearly seen like a giant marble Abe Lincoln sitting in his monument in the quietude born of awe, on display. Like an artifact in a shrine, like the Shroud of Turin, they were revered. Each kid took a turn on THE drums. An alternative to "Those are my father's. Don't mess them up," if the man himself were home, "Hey, let's ask your dad, maybe he'll sit in." Slim risk there. Just hint an offer to Jazz Man. When Father Joe showed up, it got really interesting. Joe played a mean jazz guitar. It was clear who taught Marcus his best jazz numbers and style. "Maria- Carmella! Get down here! Hey, Red Hot, com'on. We need class!" You could hear cabinets getting hurriedly closed, God forbid, you sat in before the dishes were away. Joe smiled at the children, "I became a priest because that lady latched on to him," indicating Jazz Man, who was fiddling with the exact drum placements, "You live in a house with her music or in a house of God. It's the same uplift! Momma!" Joe called again, "Ah, here she comes." The upright was pulled over to the drums. Piano ready. Guitar ready. Then the drums. Big hands fingered the steel, stroked the skins, and raised two wooden lightening rods to heaven. A slow rising sizzle which explored the symbols range then lashed out in thunder, bang, of a cracking rim shot, Thor's hammer. Rising seas of restless taps pulled away in a spinning sucking flow that fed an oncoming tidal wave of movement in energy as asynchronous double handed rhythms crashing onto slowly