At the Nursing Home

Today, as on every Tuesday, I went to our local nursing home to play the piano.  I have been playing there for the past several months.  At first I wasn’t sure I liked it all that much.  The place smelled sterile and my audience was far from rewarding — I might get a few weak claps from the kind little lady in the corner, all the while hearing “What the heck is SHE doing here?” from the mean little lady in the other corner.  But after a few weeks, I actually began to enjoy going there.  Other than the few people present who seem to think its the haps to be unhappy, for the most part, the residents are so pleased to hear the songs they loved long ago. 

Like when I played “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, a woman walked up to me at the piano and began to sing along.  Her voice was excellent, especially for her age, and by the end she was really swingin’ to the beat while all her room-mates clapped or hooted from their wheelchairs in encouragement.   As I talked to her afterward, I found that she had been born and raised in a nearby village, and that her father had built one of the most popular soda shops there.  I found also that some cottages my parents had owned were also built by her father.  “You know,” she said, staring intently at my face.  “You look exactly like my mother.  My mother played the piano… she made a living playing the piano.  Couldn’t read a note, could my mother.”

Then there is The Biscuit Man.  He worked for Nabisco years ago, and now is in the Alzheimers ward at the nursing home.  It seems he wears a permanent smile on his face, and his faded blue eyes are always happy.  When I play, he sits at the closest table or at a spot where he can watch.  After each song he claps enthusiastically.  During one such occasion he leaned forward a little and whispered, “Where have you been all my life?” I hated to break it to him that I wasn’t even born. 

Addie plays cards with a vengeance.  Every time I come she is sitting at the table shuffling the deck.  Often it is so quiet that all you can hear is the murmur of the radio and “Fffllliiipppp, thump; ffffllllliiipppp thunk” of Addie’s favorite pastime.  Cowboy Bob smiles toothlessly with his cowboy hat perched on top his head, delighted to simply be in the room.  He likes to sit by the window and look out at the garden.  My great-grandma, Charline, sometimes comes in to listen too.  She doesn’t know me anymore, but she still hums along with the music… and its amazing how I can see the reflection of her face in the face of my baby sister.

Uncle Iggy, whose real name is Ignatius, is the most entertaining of the residents. His memory is still rather good, and he always recognizes me when I come to play.  Since my Grandpa, who is Polish, announced that I am a “regular Polish girl, name and all” Uncle Iggy has made me his language mission field.  I have learned ”Gere dubre” and “Dze mi buzchi” so far… “Good day” and “give me a kiss”.  I only use the first one.  Today he was playing cards and seemed to be rather pleased with his performance, especially after his partner said, ”I hope you know what you’re doing, because I sure don’t.” 

The fact that the music, which is mostly hymns and folk songs, brings just a little joy into their lives brings me joy myself.  There are so many people who just buzz in and out to pay a visit out of duty — but I hope that this never becomes a ‘duty’.   Sure, it’s not quite the most romantic of places.  It doesn’t always smell good and sometimes no one even likes the music I play.  But maybe, this time, I don’t get to see anything but the practical side of things — while other people may be receiving the “romantic” end of it.  I just enjoy all the different personalities you can meet — the stories you can hear.  Sometimes “romance” can be found in the most unexpected places.

Advertisement