It was the Spring of 1979 and totally normal for an eight year-old to be sitting at a bar at ten o'clock on a Friday night, so long as he was related to a member of the band.
I had never felt such an intoxicating mixture of electric superstar excitement and run-for-the-hills terror. But with her unquestionable faith in my ability to knock it out of the park, and her knack for working a crowd, I took control of my bladder, jumped down from my stool, and made my way to the stage.
When I was done, I received a standing ovation and a bowl of spumone ice cream on the house.
My life changed that night. In ways I couldn't have foreseen at the time, music would now somehow be a part of my life forever. All because she had faith in me when I didn't have it in myself. Because she saw a golden opportunity where my limited imagination was only able to detect failure and embarrassment.
Every eight year-old should be so lucky.
For the next thirty-five years, Barb stood behind every single creative endeavour I pursued without the faintest whiff of doubt that I would succeed. Every band I played in, every song I wrote, every novel or script idea I came up with, every film I scored music for. Not oblivious to the fact that every aunt believes her nephew was delivered directly from the gods, I also sought the unbiased feedback of professionals to my creative work, just in case. Meanwhile, she continued to listen, to stand in awe and smile, to assure me with a zealot's belief that I could do anything - absolutely anything - I put my mind to.
A faith that extended beyond my art to my relationships, my parenting, my work life, and. . .well, pretty much everything else.
Don't get me wrong, she was no Pollyanna. She wasn't afraid to tell me when she thought I was spinning my wheels, wasting my time, squandering my opportunities, or generally full of shit. But in all things and at all times, she was my tireless cheerleader. The sun in my life that simply never, ever went down.
Until October 12, 2013 when at age 60, she ended her battle with cancer and sank into a sweet sleep.
It's funny how life smacks us in the head sometimes and gets us back in the driver's seat. For the past year, I've drifted in and out of what I'm assuming is the mid-life crisis I was certain I had avoided when I turned 40. A period of intense introspection, anxiety, and self-doubt my older friends keep telling me is "perfectly natural" (though, I might add, "completely unwelcome") when you suddenly realize you've got as many years behind you as you do ahead. What am I doing with my life, what difference will I have made, and all that stuff. I've got to admit, it's left me more than a little unhinged at times.
But as I looked into my auntie's face for the last time in the dimly-lit silence of her hospice room, I suddenly remembered that night in 1979. I remembered her stepping down from the stage in the middle of her set and taking my trembling, eight year-old hand. I remembered her prepping the audience, assuring them that this next number was going to blow their minds. I remembered her smiling from ear to ear when it was all over, clapping and cheering wildly.
And as I stood to leave her room for the last time, I blew my cheerleader a final kiss and made her a promise: I would never let fear stop me from doing anything. Ever. Till the day I died.
Love you, Auntie Barb.