Imagine a jazz club in central Los Angeles the ‘40s: glasses clink, smoke fills the air, the band plays tunes as cool as the winter air. An unconventional woman sits at a table, a cigarette dangles from her slender fingers. Her long legs cross, and her foot taps to the beat; an Arthur Murray trained dancer, music and rhythm are her constant companions. Her pale skin shimmers in the soft light, and her gaze settles on the one who plays the tune of her heart: Howard McGhee, an African-American trumpet player. He plays amidst a group of musicians, but Dorothy Schnell sees only Howard… When Boots McGhee sat across from me in his home in Aptos, California, and detailed the stories of his parents, Dorothy Schnell, a Caucasian dancer, and Howard McGhee, an African American musician, I was transported in time. A child of older parents, I could imagine my father in that same club. How I wish that he was still alive, and I could thank him for introducing me to George Shearing, Louis Armstrong, and other jazz legends. I imagine that Howard McGhee was amidst his record collection, his smooth sounds filling our living room from my father’s turntable.