The Pied Piper

Oh, we had a lovely afternoon!

On Tuesday I drove to Ft. Dodge for another visit with my mom. Again, I brought my accordion and set up my music stand on the patio. The day was hot, but the east side of Journeys was well shaded and the breeze was turquoise. 

I invited Eleanor to join us, and after a few songs, our jolly group had multiplied, including two couples whose husbands are memory-care residents but whose wives live in more independent quarters on campus and visit daily. 

I played the armed services medley which always invites conversation on who served in which branch. I played "I've Been Working on the Railroad" which had been a sing-along the previous week, and old-timey favorites like "Tennessee Waltz" and "Brown Eyes." 

Each time I looked up from my music, there were more on the patio. I paused and counted 15 of us: residents, spouses, aides--spanning ages 20-95 and the entire rainbow of mental acuity. 

Between songs, one man said gruffly, "I need your attention! There has been some serious toe-tapping going on here!" He then grinned, pleased with his joke, and several of us (!!) laughed.

After I'd cased my accordion, a woman in my periphery said, "Thank you." She showed no facial expression, and for a moment I wasn't sure if the voice had come from her hunched stolid form. 

"Did you play the accordion?" I asked, not expecting a reply. But she murmured yes. And when I asked her who taught her, she said she took lessons from a teacher. 

I know that exchange is not riveting, rating about a 1.5 on the small-talk scale. Yet it moved me. This seemingly vacant, immobile woman had reached across the cobwebs of her memory to tap me on the metaphorical shoulder and say: Me too. I played the accordion. 

And then, one of the independent-living wives brought out a stack of plastic cups and a bag of cheese puffs! An aide filled the cups and I passed them about. We crunched in unexpected camaraderie: the food had transformed our spontaneous gathering into a party. 

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In the transitions between songs and snacks, several of us (daughter, aides, wives) asked questions and shared memories to draw everyone in. Topics included shoes worn as children and favorite classes in school. When I asked if anyone in addition to my mom had been a teacher, a sun-dried woman curled in a chair to my right said she had taught P.E. "Did the kids play dodgeball?" I asked. She snorted with delight: of course, she said, it was a favorite. 

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As patio time drew to a close, my mother and I returned to her room. She said again and again what a lovely time she had had--and I agreed completely. We laughed at how our small group had grown into what felt like a crowd. The accordion had served as the Pied Piper's flute. 

This of course inspired us to (re)read 'The Pied Piper of Hamlin" by Robert Browning together (and which you must immediately [re]read yourself)!

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I have never had an accurate sense of time. It took me somewhere between 15 minutes and two hours to read the poem to my mother. (The Internet tells me it takes 43 minutes to read it at 300 wpm.)

But what I want you to know is that my mother sat rapt as I read. She chuckled at the roiling internal rhymes. Her eyes lit up as Browning tugged us toward the Piper's nefarious intentions...then into the opening cavern. 

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My visits with my mother are healing years of misunderstanding. There is a tragedy in that our healing is coming in my mother's final, addled years. 

We could have done better.

We should have done better.

I am ashamed. 

And also grateful for our belated love.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison