Mrs. Billings, a favorite teacher in high school, bucking the anticipated argument about relevancy, liked to promote the classics like Plato and Chaucer.

Like a mantra, she’d repeat, “It’s not good because it’s old. It’s old because it’s good.

Not normally a yard sale gal, as I took my dog for a walk on a recent Sunday morning, I found it impossible to avoid the annual neighborhood sale. With well over a hundred households in several adjoining blocks participating, It’s become quite an annual spring event.

We walked past sidewalks, entryways, open garages and alleys overflowing with old books, outgrown clothes, dime store jewelry and working but obsolete electronics.

Testament to the adage “One man‘s trash is another man’s treasure,” my neighbors were ready for commerce. Some homeowners confessed to me that, in past years, they brought in over five hundred dollars for the day.

“Smells are free.” That’s what my dog, India, must have thought as I lingered on a short alley across the commuter tracks. It was early in the day and the residents/vendors were just putting out their wares, tagging prices on some items, enjoying a mug of coffee brought out from their nearby kitchen.

I quickly scanned books and bric-a-brac on one metal table and took more time looking at an odd gallery of music related posters on folding chairs behind the table.

The homeowner, like me, was in his sixties. We smiled at each other when we recognized we shared similar tastes in music. Of course, we grew up with the Beatles and the Stones, some members, into their eighties, still tour. But it was clear, we were both deeply affected by the jazz greats.

My eyes settled on a framed poster of Miles Davis. Cheaply framed in black plastic and Plexiglas, it sported a small yellow label in the top right corner identifying the modest asking price of five bucks.

It was a promotional photo for “Kind of Blue,” which came out in 1959, only a few years after I was born. It became one of the biggest selling jazz albums of all time.

The image showed the thirtyish musician (in only two years, we can celebrate Miles’ hundredth birthday) sitting wistfully on a stool in a practice room. He’s cradling his head in one palm, holding his horn with his other hand.  A musical score is open on a stand next to him and a grand piano is nearby.

He looks small. Humble or burdened? I couldn’t tell. Lost in thought. Far from the image of a music legend. Oh, so human.

Did he know he was changing the world?

Born near St. Louis, he went to the Big Apple to study music at Julliard. A friend of his father’s gave him his first trumpet when he was nine. He dropped out of Julliard and started his education in bebop under the tutelage of Charlie Parker, playing with his quintet in the ‘40s.

His career spanned decades, ever the innovator, always respectful of the artists and traditions that went before. He played with Bill Evans, Herbie Hancock, Wayne Shorter, John Mclaughlin and many other greats. He played under many labels and was popular in other continents.

He left the be-bop scene and structure of alternating soloists and started doing more with orchestrations. Using French horns and a variety of instruments, he seemed interested in making them pour out sounds like human voices.

Recognized for being musically innovative and brave about many professional choices despite being able to take more lucrative paths, he suffered from depression, heroin addiction and all the financial issues that brought on.

He faced legal challenges and his own poor self-opinion as a frequent domestic abuser. A quote in his Wikipedia entry on actions taken towards his first wife seemed especially poignant.,“A lot of it really wasn’t her fault but had to do with me being temperamental and jealous.”

The purity of his creative  intent, his loneliness and perpetual desire to take things forward — all this came through in the Kind of Blue poster image.

I took India home, six blocks away, and drove my car as close as I could to the alley where I saw the poster. More neighbors were milling about although It was still before ten o’clock when I found my way back to the metal table.

The man who lived in the adjacent house said, “I was hoping you’d come back. If someone stopped here, ready to buy, I’d have to go with it.”

I smiled as I carried the framed poster to my nearby, but illegally parked, car.

Being any kind of artist wanting to be a good person is no small thing.