When I was fifteen, I came across a box of photograph scrapbooks and daitries in my father’s office. It turns out that these were records and documents for the Gilbert clan that were part of the lost tribes of Israel. The Gilbert clan was persecuted and driven out of Ireland. They fled to Germany for several generations. But they fled hostility and attacks, seeking refuge in America specifically North Carolina.
In 1889, my Grandfather lined up on the Oklahoma border and participated in the Land Rush. He managed to stake a claim in the Oklahoma Panhandle. His name was John Gilbert. He was a tall, strong man who created a farm and improvised on an old organ in the house.
On Saturdays he would go into town and collect men who were passed out from drinking. He would bring them to his farm and feed them, and nurse them back to health. Many stayed on with him to work the farm and others went on their way, sober and grateful.
When I was about eight years old, my father came and took me out of school. We drove to Oklahoma to see my grandfather who was on his deathbed. When we arrived, he opened his eyes and saw me. He managed to raise himself up and stood. He hugged me tightly and kissed me on the top of my head. He passed away a few hours later.
Across the years I still feel his presence, and know that my own inclination to improvisation came to me through his passion for for making music in the midnight hours on that Oklahoma homestead. My father was the youngest and he was always given the job of shelling corn. For my father, shelling corn was his term for wasting time...so when people would ask my Father, "where's Johnny?" He would reply about my improvising at the piano as "He's inside shelling corn."
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