Piano Man (May 2010)

“Have you seen the truck yet?” asked the owner of the place, an older man with gray hair, whose eyes narrowed but sparkled , a half-smile crossing his craggy face.

OK.  Full disclosure: I’m making this up.  I wasn’t there.  I have no idea if his eyes sparkled.  But I can still see it.

He was speaking to my uncle, who later told me the story, although the facial expressions, as I say, are all mine.

This was at a hotel, a resort really, where my uncle was a guest, and the truck in question had a history.  It was functional and used daily by the landscapers, but it had been featured in the 1995 film, “The Bridges of Madison County.”  My uncle was a fan of the film, and the owner invited him to sit in the truck, soak up the ambience, knock himself out.  So he did, sitting for a few minutes in the driver’s seat, remembering the movie, and later he thanked his host.

“I could imagine myself, reaching over to the glove box, Meryl Streep beside me,” he said, and the older man raised an eyebrow, grinned and spoke in a quiet but firm voice, whispery and powerful.  “Glad I made your day, Ron” he said as he patted my uncle on the shoulder.

All right.  That is a total lie, sorry.  I don’t know what he said, or what he sounded like.  I don’t know about the shoulder pat, either.  I apologize, really.  My imagination is out of control.

But can you blame me?  This was my uncle, after all, and here he was, sitting in a famous pickup truck and having casual conversations with the owner of the Mission Ranch in Carmel-by-the-Sea, the former mayor of that town and by all accounts a very nice guy.

This was Clint Eastwood, by the way, in case you hadn’t picked up on that, or why I got a little gushy there.  Clint and I go way back.

His acting break came the year I was born, 1958, when he was cast on “Rawhide.”  By the time I was a teenager and old enough to pick my own movies, he’d already passed from celebrity status to iconic, cigar and serape, then .44 Magnum.  He was John Wayne to me and mine, appreciated not so much for his acting ability but just for his presence on our radar.  I’d say that most of his films from that era were forgettable but then.  I don’t seem to have forgotten much.

Clint Eastwood turned 80 this week, on Memorial Day, and any life that long has its share of stories.  It’s also an age that is beginning to intersect with mine in uncomfortable ways; it’s less interesting these days to marvel at moments of history someone has witnessed when I realize I’ve witnessed a lot of them, too.

This may be most of it, too; famous people who lived adjacent to my life pass on every week now, it seems.  So maybe this is just appreciation and relief, knowing that a movie star I grew up with is still making films, still active, still alive and well.  It’s not like I have Josey Wales posters on my wall.

And some of it, of course, is simply the vicarious nature of listening to stories my uncle told me a week or so ago, as we shared a car ride for a couple of hours and had nothing to do but talk.  He gets to Carmel as often as he can, and has over the years, so he had quite a few Eastwood moments to share.  Stories of a good-natured famous person who was always friendly, who always made a point to say hello, who would sweep in off the golf course, casual and hair blown all over by the wind, smiling and making jokes.

My uncle likes to go to the Mission Ranch piano bar in the evenings, have a drink and listen to the music.  One night the piano player was late, and Mr. Eastwood, an accomplished jazz pianist, suddenly slid in front of the keys, closed his eyes and began to play.  After a few minutes, he finished, acknowledged the applause, pretended to peer into the empty tip jar and shake his head in disbelief, then laughed and left.  As I say, a friendly guy, and another fun moment to share.

Reminding me that there is a curious soundtrack to my life, and all sorts of people have been making the music.  And sometimes, in a dark theater, making my day, too.