Like a Willow
"He's not in his room," I said to the nurse. "Do you know where he might be?"
It didn't take much investigation to find him. All the nursing-home residents had been led, wheeled or escorted into the lounge where a singer called Colin, who also played the guitar and flute, was giving them a concert.
He was spanning the decades in his choices, was Colin, and they loved it. They were all sitting round the outside of the room. The Communist, at nearly eighty-five, was one of the youngest. The rest ranged from merely ancient to As Old as Time Itself.
Some were joining in with gusto: some appeared to be asleep. Yet even the ones who were slumped with their eyes shut were tapping along to the rhythm.
They were having a great time. There seems to be some kind of protective mechanism that kicks in as very old people approach the end of their life, that seems to stop them thinking too much about the things they've lost and will never see or do again.
But it got to me big-time. A roomful of ancient people waving their arms in the air, singing along:
Hi, ho, silver lining,
And away you go now baby,
I see your sun is shining,
But I won't make a fuss,
Because it's obvious.
I've always liked that chorus. Not much of a silver lining here, though, I thought, looking at the Communist making the best of his new, infinitely narrowed existence. Oh damn and blast, I thought, I'm going to cry.
I stood behind the Communist, so he couldn't see my eyes filling up as Colin moved on to If you were the only girl in the world - - and told us it was written about ninety years ago - some people in the room would have been almost in their teens then.
Everyone knew this one, at least partly: the Communist knew every word. Why? Because he used to have a fantastic baritone singing voice, and sang for years in choral groups and West Riding Opera and - - well - - groups that toured nursing homes putting on shows.
He sang as loudly as he could, and to hear what was left of that great voice just set me off again, reminding me of all those times that I used to play the piano, very badly, so he could learn some dull bass line for an opera that I didn't like.
On went Colin, relentless in his one-man bid to make Daphne howl, so he played his trump card, the Second World War.
There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,
Tomorrow, just you wait and see.
There'll be love and laughter, and peace ever after.
Tomorrow, when the world is free
That was bad enough, but then he got to the lines that always get me:
The shepherd will tend his sheep,
The valley will bloom again,
And Jimmy will go to sleep,
In his own little room again
I could see all those people who'd lived through the war, with all their optimism for the years afterwards, now approaching the end of their lives. I stopped even bothering to pretend that I wasn't crying.
Then Colin got to his jolly finale song.
Is this the way to Amarillo,
Every night I've been hugging my pillow,
Dreaming dreams of Amarillo and sweet Marie who waits for me.
Show me the way to Amarillo
Yes, I was weeping like a willow. The Communist, luckily, never noticed.
When I'm ancient, I wondered, what will they sing to me? Simon and Garfunkel? The Beatles? David Bowie?
When Emily's ancient what will they sing to her? Nightwish? Westlife? Take That?
Sometimes it's not a good idea to think too far ahead.
It didn't take much investigation to find him. All the nursing-home residents had been led, wheeled or escorted into the lounge where a singer called Colin, who also played the guitar and flute, was giving them a concert.
He was spanning the decades in his choices, was Colin, and they loved it. They were all sitting round the outside of the room. The Communist, at nearly eighty-five, was one of the youngest. The rest ranged from merely ancient to As Old as Time Itself.
Some were joining in with gusto: some appeared to be asleep. Yet even the ones who were slumped with their eyes shut were tapping along to the rhythm.
They were having a great time. There seems to be some kind of protective mechanism that kicks in as very old people approach the end of their life, that seems to stop them thinking too much about the things they've lost and will never see or do again.
But it got to me big-time. A roomful of ancient people waving their arms in the air, singing along:
Hi, ho, silver lining,
And away you go now baby,
I see your sun is shining,
But I won't make a fuss,
Because it's obvious.
I've always liked that chorus. Not much of a silver lining here, though, I thought, looking at the Communist making the best of his new, infinitely narrowed existence. Oh damn and blast, I thought, I'm going to cry.
I stood behind the Communist, so he couldn't see my eyes filling up as Colin moved on to If you were the only girl in the world - - and told us it was written about ninety years ago - some people in the room would have been almost in their teens then.
Everyone knew this one, at least partly: the Communist knew every word. Why? Because he used to have a fantastic baritone singing voice, and sang for years in choral groups and West Riding Opera and - - well - - groups that toured nursing homes putting on shows.
He sang as loudly as he could, and to hear what was left of that great voice just set me off again, reminding me of all those times that I used to play the piano, very badly, so he could learn some dull bass line for an opera that I didn't like.
On went Colin, relentless in his one-man bid to make Daphne howl, so he played his trump card, the Second World War.
There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,
Tomorrow, just you wait and see.
There'll be love and laughter, and peace ever after.
Tomorrow, when the world is free
That was bad enough, but then he got to the lines that always get me:
The shepherd will tend his sheep,
The valley will bloom again,
And Jimmy will go to sleep,
In his own little room again
I could see all those people who'd lived through the war, with all their optimism for the years afterwards, now approaching the end of their lives. I stopped even bothering to pretend that I wasn't crying.
Then Colin got to his jolly finale song.
Is this the way to Amarillo,
Every night I've been hugging my pillow,
Dreaming dreams of Amarillo and sweet Marie who waits for me.
Show me the way to Amarillo
Yes, I was weeping like a willow. The Communist, luckily, never noticed.
When I'm ancient, I wondered, what will they sing to me? Simon and Garfunkel? The Beatles? David Bowie?
When Emily's ancient what will they sing to her? Nightwish? Westlife? Take That?
Sometimes it's not a good idea to think too far ahead.
posted by Daphne at 6:48 pm
4 Comments:
Wow, that was a really profound read! I can see how it would have been very emotional. I guess what unnerves me is the knowing that that will be us one day (and in my case listening to 80s songs of which you know I'm fond)...
Thanks for sharing a tender and highly nuanced moment.
There'll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,
Tomorrow, just you wait and see.
There'll be love and laughter, and peace ever after.
Tomorrow, when the world is free
That's the final song we chose for my mother's service in the East Riding crematorium last September. She was in the WAAF in the war and she would sometimes sing it in the kitchen when she was feeling happy or nostalgic or both.
I'm not sure how comforting this thought will be, but when you finally get to the age your dad is now, The Rolling Stones will still be able to give you a live concert !
I've just given myself a shiver.
And lighten up before tomorrow or you're gonna eat grass just after Doncaster. Kapiche ?
Lovely post...I've spent a lot of time in rest homes...Mum a nurse there, sister still is, I cleaned when I was a teen and was a diversion therapist for a year or so... Music and songs are something we can always enjoy, no matter how old. I suspect the part of the brain we 'sing' with is very close to our emotional centre, and those old songs get me every time too Daphne. For me, it's my parents' favourites: Gilbert and Sullivan, Porgy and Bess, West Side Story, Carman Jones, etc and hymns - they both sang in the church choir... I can see my Dad looking soppy at mum and singing "...you talk just like my ma, you even walk just like my ma, and I know why I'm stuck on you, because I'm just like my pa...." ah, well.
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