How did we get here?: The ghost of Louis Armstrong

  DISCLAIMER: Portions of this interview may be entirely made up.I sat upon my little chair in the little corner of the little office of my little Boy Scout Camp in the little town of Wild Rose. I felt the cool Wisconsin breeze as it whisked the door wide open. It chilled me. I have felt the chill of the Wisconsin wind before, but not quite like this. Never quite like this. Its ethereal quality excited my senses, sent shivers through my very existence.Silently but distinctly I heard the wail of a single trumpet from long ago. Perhaps it was just an echo bouncing from pine to pine for an omnipresent eternity before reaching its destination in my ear drums. I straightened my back disturbed, peering over the counter to spy a silhouette. Or, a shadow of a silhouette. Or, a trick of the light quickly evaporating.“Who's there?” I stammered, showing not my fright.“Louie,” I heard. The rasp of the metaphysical voice swelled in me slightly soothingly.“Louie Braille? Louie Pasteur?”“Louie. Louie.”A lost C.I.T. attempting to find his way back to Staff City? Louie? Do we have a C.I.T. named Louie? Perhaps I had misheard.Before I had the chance to consider considering opening my mouth to speak a querying phrase, the wind swept the papers from my desk, swept the dust into the air, swept me off my feet (metaphorically of course). I sneezed.As my eyes reopened, the shock of the sentience that sauntered toward me froze my feet.“Louis,” I understood. JT: What brings you here this evening?LA: You're making up this entire interview, so whatever you want. Boo-bee-bop-ska!JT: So you're a ghost?LA: That's right. Biddly-da-da-da!JT: How does one become a ghost?LA: I know nothing of the secrets of death, Harry, for I chose my feeble imitation of life instead. Wizards can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, to walk palely where their living selves once trod. I was afraid of death. I chose to remain behind. I sometimes wonder whether I oughn't have. Well, that is neither here nor there. In fact, I am neither here nor there. Doodly-bop-pow!JT: That answer was beautiful. Almost straight out a book. Could you tell me about the first time you picked up a trumpet?LA: I have never picked up a trumpet. Skiddly-dee!JT: You are Louis Armstrong, correct?LA: No. I am Louis Armstrong's ghost. Boodla-boddola!JT: Well could you tell me about the first time Louis Armstrong picked up a trumpet?LA: Certainly! It was a quiet morning in New Orleans. A friend of my mother's played trumpet and taught me a few things. From its first touch on my lips I knew it was something special. Doodly-bop!JT: Is that true?LA: Probably. Riddly-dee-doo!JT: Could you please stop scatting? It's really throwing me off.LA: No! Rip-di-dip-da!JT: What would you say was Louis Armstrong's proudest moment as a musician?LA: Probably when I played trumpet for President Eisenhower himself. Doop-doowa!JT: That sounds like an impressive achievement.LA: No I'm just messing with you. Ike was a two-faced gutless fool. I would never have played trumpet for him if he begged me to. Woop-woop!JT: Could you tell me how you got your nickname “Satchmo?”LA: The nicknames Satchmo and Satch are short for Satchelmouth. Like many things in Armstrong's life, which was filled with colorful stories both real and imagined, many of his own telling, the nickname has many possible origins.The most common tale that biographers tell is the story of Armstrong as a young boy dancing for pennies in the streets of New Orleans, who would scoop up the coins off of the streets and stick them into his mouth to avoid having the bigger children steal them from him. Someone dubbed him "satchel mouth" for his mouth acting as a satchel. Another tale is that because of his large mouth, he was nicknamed "satchel mouth" which became shortened to Satchmo. Boo-diddly-dee-dee!JT: I think I read that somewhere. Listen, thanks for your time, it's been a really wonderful opportunity--LA: Dootin-dootin-doo-doo!JT: That's about all the time I have. Thank you.LA: Anytime, Jon!And with that, Louis Armstrong's ghost disappeared in a cloud of smoke and scat rhythms.