Trombone Barry, March 31,2025

Trombone Barry, March 31, 2025

Trombone Barry is our next door neighbor. His small one bedroom, one bath, 1953 house is only 40’ south of our 1953 stucco two bedroom, one bath house. His bedroom is opposite ours, on the other side of our carport.

My wife bought our house in 1998. I moved here in 2000. Barry moved into his blue house in 1999. The house had always been in his family. Barry’s sister, Donna, owns a house half a block north of us on our street, Fitch Street. Our house is on the corner of Fitch and Tucker.

Last week, Donna told us that Barry was now living in a nursing home. We hadn’t seen him for a few weeks and wondered if he was okay. It saddened us to hear he was gone. We have a lot of history with Trombone Barry.

Healdsburg was a town of eccentrics and odd characters when I moved here in February of 2000 from Edmonds, Washington. I loved the town back then. It was a farming community with some artists, writers, musicians, and craftsman. A lumber yard was three blocks south of our house, across the railroad tracks. We’d hear the lunch whistle blow at noon. There were even freight trains coming through town carrying lumber and logs.

The City Council made a decision that tourism would be Healdsburg’s future. Zoning changes were made. A large city lot on the west side of the Plaza was sold to M. Sehr in 2000. He built the Hotel Healdsburg. Our town was doomed.

One of the first odd fellows I saw in 2000 was Johnny. Johnny was riding his skateboard east on Tucker Street by our house. I was out mowing the lawn.

Johnny was only wearing a red Speedo as he played his guitar and sang while riding his skateboard. Johnny was tanned, blonde, skinny, and mad as a hatter. He eventually tried to burn down a law office building two blocks from our house. Johnny had too much LSD when he was younger. His parents put him in a facility, and Johnny disappeared from town.

The Shopping Bag Man was always walking around the neighborhood carrying a shopping bag. He was about 40 back then. His name is Jimmy and he was a big shot lawyer until a drunk driver hit his car head-on one night. Jimmy has some brain damage but is still articulate, well dressed and groomed, and he speaks a few languages. Oh, he speaks. I avoided Shopping Bag Man as conversations go on forever.

Shopping Bag Man is still here, but I rarely see him walking around. He carries his shopping bag.

Luis lives across Fitch Street from us. He’s Italian and a bachelor. His mother, Amarante, died several years ago. Now Luis lives alone. When his mom died, I went over to check on him. He invited me inside.

The house was like going back to 1980. The TV was old. The furniture was wrapped in plastic. There were plastic runners on the floors. He had a rotary phone.

Luis is skinny and bent over a bit. He dresses simply in the same clothes. He lives on his deceased parents’ social security and some dividends from investments. He drives his 1970s Chevy Biscayne maybe once a year.

I remember one afternoon, Luis was out trimming his shrubbery with scissors and Shopping Bag Man started a conversation with Luis in Italian. This went on for an hour.

Mike is the engineer who lives across Tucker Street from us on the corner. He was an engineer at the Geysers Geothermal Plant north of town. A few fires have started at the Geysers from the power lines coming from the power plant.

I asked Mike why doesn’t the Geysers have its own fire department? The Geysers Geothermal Plant provides 60% of the power between here and the Oregon border.

Mike just stared at me with his blank eyes. Two of the cooling towers at the Geysers have burned down in fires and still, no fire engines up there on standby.

Mike’s son, Man Bun, turned into a Marxist Antifa guy. Man Bun would walk around the neighborhood smoking a joint. His car was covered in Antifa stickers. I told Man Bun not to park in front of our house with that shit. He didn’t take my suggestion kindly. We had a discussion. Both Mike and Man Bun park their cars on our side of Tucker, even though they have plenty of parking places on their corner.

Mike told me this is because he doesn’t want sap from his huge blue spruce falling on his cars. That damned blue spruce is the ugliest tree in town and makes a mess everywhere.

Big John lives about 1/2 block east of us on Tucker Street. He built Big John’s Grocery at the north end of town. It’s a nice and very successful store. Big John is retired now and is 81 years old. I’m 73. Barry is 79. Donna, his sister, is 84.

Big John always wants to buy my 1987 Jeep Grand Wagoneer. John likes cars. He drives around in a 1950 pale yellow Willys convertible. He also owns a ’36 Ford coupe.

John likes to stop and talk to me if I’m in my yard. John knows all the neighbors and the gossip of the neighborhood. We are both saddened by the loss of Trombone Barry and so many other characters. It’s all millionaires moving in now. They tear down the old homes and maybe show up once a month or two in their new multi-million dollar mansions.

But back to Trombone Barry…

Back in the 2000s, probably until 2015, Barry would practice his trombone at all hours of the day and night. It would be 2 AM and he’d wake up my wife and me with his damned trombone.

We were caterers back then and needed our sleep. We’d just come home from work and had another job the next morning. I got fed up and ordered an air horn online.

Air horns are used on boats to warn of trouble. It looks like a shaving can with a horn on top. Push the button, and compressed air comes out through the horn, making a helluva noise.

My Dad had one on Skidaway Island in Savannah, GA. He told me that one afternoon, he was sitting on his porch overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway and saw a tug pushing a barge north, approaching his house.

Across from my parents’ home was Moon River. This back channel went nowhere and ended in the marsh. The Intracoastal went north to the drawbridge to Skidaway Island.

The tugboat captain must have been confused because he turned to port up Moon River. My Dad grabbed his air horn and gave the captain three blasts over and over until getting the tugboat’s attention.

The captain realized his mistake and reversed engines, turned, and with a wave to my Dad, headed north on the Intracoastal Waterway. So I knew about air horns.

The next time, at 3 AM, when Barry played his trombone (his playing was terrible. I think he was tone deaf.) I was ready. I went next door and blasted my air horn right next to his window.

Barry started yelling at me. Barry liked to yell. He’d yell in his house all the time when he was alone. I think he listened to talk radio all night.

I yelled back. Barry quit playing that night, but it didn’t last. He had his schedule. Barry was autistic, or maybe he had Asperger’s. We still needed our sleep.

We complained to his sister Donna, and she put his trombone up at her house so he could play there. Problem solved.

I’d help Barry out. I’d mow his yard from time to time. Barry came to rely on me in emergencies.

About dinner time, my wife and I would hear his loud banging on our front door. Barry only did things at the LOUD setting.

It was his toilet or the smoke alarm was going off. One time his dog escaped. Another time he’d locked himself out of his house. I called the Fire Department for that one.

Winter before last, Barry locked himself out of his car and house. It was pouring down rain. I called the Fire Department again and came outside with an umbrella for Barry and one for me. We waited for the fire truck.

Barry was a San Francisco Giants fan and wore a Giants jacket. I talked to him about the Giants. Barry wasn’t a conversationalist. The fire truck showed up. Opened Barry’s little white GMC pickup door and Barry got his keys.

Barry would walk by while I was gardening and shout, “HI TIM!” It would make me jump. Then he’d say something against the Republicans (he listened to NPR) or about the Giants baseball team before walking up the street to his sister Donna’s place. I learned to just talk about the weather with Barry.

Barry had me take him to the dentist, to the doctor, to his band practice. Barry loved to play that trombone. He was on the band’s float for the FFA Parade every May. I think it was the highlight of his year.

I’ll miss Barry.

TJM

PS: The photo of Barry’s small house and a new neighbor’s $300,000 sports car illustrates what has happened to Healdsburg.