"I am in the habit of looking not so much to the nature of a gift as to the spirit in which it was offered." -Robert Louis Stevenson

So, Lulu and I ventured out into the delicious drizzle this morning. Undeterred by precipitation, we left for the Not A Cornfield at around 9a, making our usual stop at the Little Toyko Starbucks. She understands completely that I must have my triple venti latte for the trek around the track.

As I waited for my fuel, I heard a familiar sound in the room: a most distinctive guitar, playing prominently in a 1940's orchestra. I didn't recognize the tune, but I knew the player -- it was my dad, kicking ass at about 17 with the NBC Orchestra in Chicago. Someone in Starbucks' long music arm has great taste; I hear Dad every year on the original versions of "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" -- but this was so random and cool. I leaned against the wall and listened, thinking that no one could possibly know it was my father providing a little soundtrack for their morning caffeine. A Japanese couple reading the paper. A teenaged boy with his face in a laptop. A couple of cops from the local precinct.

Then I saw a handsome Hispanic man, maybe in his late 20's, tapping his foot to the rhythm and fingering an invisible guitar neck. He was playing along with Dad! I couldn't resist; I walked over to him, smiled, and said quietly, "That's my father playing guitar." His eyes widened and sparkled. "Really? What's his name?" I told him. He said, "He's great!" I agreed, of course, and suggested he Google him. I asked if he played professionally. He said he did, in fact he was on his way to the studio to record. And that he couldn't wait to find out more about this incredible guitarist he'd first heard about in a Downtown Starbucks from the musician's daughter. But this stuff happens to me all the time. His art is immortal. I fucking love that.