Bloorp.

Few things are more beautiful than a man and his piano.

Matt’s supremely gifted uncle Tom Baker is also a former musical director for The Second City Toronto (keeping it all in the family, you see). He is the most wonderful pianist and has released a few solo piano albums, which we gave to my jazz-loving father .

We visited him and his wife earlier this week in the country, an hour and a half out of the city where they own a sprawling 50 acres of land. Also in their possession are a number of gorgeous instruments, from a grand piano to a dulcimer (dulcimer!) to a bass recorder.

While playing around with the instruments, we mentioned how much Dad loved the CDs and I wondered if Tom was at all familiar with the song “Emily.”

He was out of the room when I leaned over to ask Matt. As if on cue, he reentered the room and Matt asked the question for me, “Do you know the song ‘Emily?’”

With hardly a moment’s hesitation, Tom made a beeline for the piano room and the sounds of My Song filled the air like they’d been there all along. My heart swelled and I was rooted to the spot.

There was a sudden pause in the melody and we heard Tom cry out, “Oh, shit!” as he tried to remember the rest of the song. Matt, his aunt and I all burst out laughing, then we moved closer to the piano room to watch the music man at play.

But as you’ll see, the song eases its way back into his memory, making it very hard for anyone watching not to smile.

When it was over, Tom rose from the piano, looked at me and said, “I think I’ll put that on my next album.”

My friend Jim did just that earlier this year. I can only keep my fingers crossed that Tom may do the same.

Perhaps the only thing better than having talented friends is having a personal love of their talents, and Jim Clayton is no exceptional to that rule. This enormously talented local jazz musician was recently in New Orleans with his lovely partner Tracey recording a solo jazz piano album at The Music Shed.

Jim was coincidentally performing a vibraphone gig on my birthday almost exactly a year ago, and I had requested the song “Emily” after which my dad named me. I was utterly delighted when he actually played it—even more surprised when I discovered that Tracey had recorded part of the song for me!

He sent me a message a couple of weeks ago, saying he’d been “digging that tune” since that gig and that he had recorded “Emily” on the album. Not long after, I finally got to hear it and now I can happily share it here.

I’m probably biased, but for what it’s worth, I think it’s a gorgeous interpretation. Listening to it transports me back to an era more fitting of my old timey soul, an era when it made sense to describe this beautiful love story unfolding right in front of you with nary a lyric to be heard, and the melody guided you blissfully through the night.

Thursday Night in New Orleans is now available for streaming and I can’t recommend it enough. Thank you for sharing your beautiful talent with the world, Jim. We need more of this.

When Ontario started issuing seven-character (four letters, three numbers) license plates several years ago, I waited eagerly to begin seeing AFAN plates gracing the roads.

I don’t have a car, so I lived vicariously through my parents when they bought a Toyota Corolla around the time that the Ministry of Transportation was implementing the new format. How cool would it be—in the nerdiest of ways—to unintentionally snag an AFAN vanity plate through sheer coincidence?

But it wasn’t meant to be. They registered too late and the letter after the first A was already nearing the end of the alphabet. Which means that hundreds of Ontarians are driving in and out of this province with the license plate I had hoped my parents would get.

That’s okay, though. As long as I can see them and smile and wonder how completely different my parents’ life would have been with such a license plate, that’s enough for me. (Thanks for this photo, Andrew!)

So few people know that I’ve been named after a song—two, to be exact. I’ve asked my dad on several occasions about the derivation of Claire, but curiously, he could only hum a few bars and cite a lyric or two. I say “curiously” because even though my dad’s memory has been faltering in recent years, his recollection of music and song is often spot-on. A quick search reveals that “Clair” by Gilbert O’Sullivan is the likely source.

Nothing, though, compares to my dad’s love of jazz, especially standards, and he named me after the song “Emily” penned by composer Johnny Mandel. I’ve heard several versions, most notably by Frank Sinatra, but it isn’t popular enough to be heard live—in fact, very few people in my life are even aware of the song’s existence.

Cut to my birthday last month, when I attended my friend Jim’s jazz gig to celebrate. Weeks prior I had playfully requested my song and didn’t remember that I’d done so until Jim surprised me partway through the set, not only with a birthday shout-out, but also the beautiful opening notes of “Emily” on the vibraphone.

Tracey was lovely enough to record it for me so I can share it with my dad. And now I can share with you, too.

Is it weird to have friends with the same name as you?

Never mind the fact that Emily has supposedly been the most popular girl’s name for the last dozen years, only to be recently usurped by the not-much-different Emma . I can count the number of Emilys I’ve known in my life on one hand, so becoming friends with those who share my name is just fine by me.

My friend Emily and I got to know each other through work, where we’re known as The Emilys, Emily Squared, Emily 1 and Emily 2 (or Too?), or when we’re standing together and someone says, “Emily!” and we both turn around, that person says, “Other Emily” and looks directly at the other Emily.

She invited me over one night, and one of her friends promptly displayed the above sign on top of her television where it could be seen at all times.

I think it’s still there. And it’s pretty awesome.

I go by a lot of names. Not by choice, I just have an obscene amount of nicknames that I don’t need to share in this introduction quite yet.

But here in my new home on Tumblr, I’ll stick with Emily Claire.

It wasn’t until journalism school that I started going by my first and middle name, feeling inspired by Johanna and her mom, both saying that my three names together sounded like a writer’s name more so than just my first and last name. And it wasn’t until people actually started calling me “Emily Claire” that I realized how much I liked the name.

I used to think I was the only Emily Claire, but Google naturally set me straight. There’s a jazz singer in Toronto whose name is Emilie-Claire Barlow. In setting up this Tumblelog, I couldn’t select my own name as the domain because it had already been snapped up by someone(s) to show pictures of their young daughter Emily Claire.

Which makes me wonder whether this was the same person who had posed the question to Yahoo! Answers a year ago:

“What do you think of the name Emily Claire?”

I eagerly read on, wondering what people would say. Carrie (the asker) selected her favourite answer from Summer M, which read:

It sounds feminie and strong enough to know that she is an independent girl that is not like anyone else and has special quailities=] hope i helped

To which I naturally cheered silently, though it was difficult to ignore Summer M’s atrocious spelling that almost—almost—weakened her answer.

The next four answers were quite the opposite. pilljills flatly poo-pooed the name (No, that’s so old and common). deedee didn’t care for the combination (The names are cute apart, but not so sure if they go well together) and for everbeatinghope, the whole was not greater than the sum of its parts (I think it is cute and classic… BUT I am not a fan of ultra common names… if you don’t care that it is common, then go for it, but if you are looking for something more unique, I’d keep looking. If you’re interested I’ve got a great list of uncommon names).

Someone once told me that if she ever had a daughter, she’d name her Jane. And in a world where parents are increasingly giving their children unusually spelled monikers to set them apart from the other kiddies, I asked her why. Her answer?

A name like Jane almost forces her to set herself apart from all the other Janes that everyone else out there would encounter one day. There’d be Janes, and then there would be Jane. I liked that.

I’m Emily Claire. I’m Emily Claire—or, at least, I hope to be. It’s nice to be here.