Amidst the humid embrace of Toronto's summer nights, the strands of jazz melodies curled in the air, a tender reminder of years long past. It was 1963, an age when the world wore a different face, and 21 Park Road beckoned as a sacred grove of musical exploration nestled within the heart of the city (The Advanced School of Contemporary Music).

In those days, Down Beat Magazine's pages were a gospel, and the piano keys, a sanctified altar. Scholarships and six weeks of ardent study marked the initiation of a lifelong communion with music—a communion that still resonates with a rich, lingering cadence.

Fast forward to 1996, and I found myself engulfed in a heartfelt homage to the maestro, Oscar Peterson (From the Heart - Radioland Jazz/Universal). A fellowship of pianists—Wray Downes, Bernie Senesky, Don Thompson, Dave Restivo, and Mark Eisenman—joined me in weaving a musical tapestry that paid homage to the virtuoso's legacy. I chose the Oscar Levant/Edward Heyman classic, "Blame It on My Youth," an evergreen ode to the trials and tribulations of growing into one's own skin and navigating the intricacies of life.

Yet the tale did not conclude there. May 2001 saw me gracing the Royal Conservatory Fifth Royal Occasion, a night imbued with homage to Mr. Peterson himself. And there, under the tender gaze of the spotlight, I selected "Blame It on My Youth" as my pièce de résistance, in the presence of the man whose musical tapestry had interwoven with the fabric of my dreams. Accompanied by pianists Rene Rosnes, Oliver Jones, and Carol Welsman, we were an invited assemblage of talent, illuminating the night in reverence to the jazz luminary.

And then, a missive arrived in the mail, inked by Dr. Peterson—a benediction from the maestro himself, acknowledging my odyssey from a 17-year-old dreamer to a player of repute. A letter imbued with gratitude, affirming the timeless power of music and the enchantment it weaves through the arras of years.

Now, six decades have reeled by since that summer of 1963. As I curved through the winding lanes to Lawren Harris Park on Rosedale Valley Road and sat on a bench, memories of humid nights and fervent jazz conversations washed over me, like a gentle stream of remembrance. The echoes of youthful dreams and the serenade of improvisations still reverberated, undiminished by passing time, within view of the orange brick building, our temporary summer home.

In those moments, I considered the enduring cycle, wondering which among today's youth would embrace the torch, sharing the music and the tumultuous journey—tales that echoed the sentiments of our shared past. And in that contemplation, I couldn't help but smile and say, "Ah, we can always blame it on our youth."
Bill King