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For those who were
there, it is a moment frozen in time, never to be forgotten.
It was my father's
90th birthday, and 30 or so of us had gathered at the Alzheimer's care
center where he lived to celebrate with him. He seemed unusually bright
and cheery as he was greeted, hugged and loved by his wife, his brother,
four of his eight children and numerous grandchildren and
great-grandchildren. His brightest smile came when he saw his eldest
surviving son, Dick, for the first time in three years. Although he
couldn't articulate what he was feeling, you could just see the flash of
recognition and feel the wave of emotion.
There were lots of
photos, a couple of brief speeches, a little entertainment and, of
course, birthday cake and ice cream. Dad seemed to enjoy it all --
especially the cake and ice cream.
And then suddenly, it
was time to go. No one was anxious to leave -- least of all Dad -- but
meal time at the care center was fast approaching, and we needed to
clear the dining room. There was just time for one more rousing chorus
of "Happy Birthday to You."
“No -- wait," someone
suggested. "Let's sing something that Dad can sing with us."
On the surface, that
seemed ludicrous. Although Dad was quite alert through the event,
coherent expression from him was limited to two- and three-word
sentences: "I'm fine," "How are you?" and "Oh, no." He couldn't
remember the names of those nearest and dearest to him; asking him to
participate in a sing-along was an exercise in futility. Wasn't it?
A different song was
selected, one of Dad's favorites from years gone by: "Let Me Call You
Sweetheart." Just the mention of the song was enough to evoke tender
feelings from those of us who remember the many times it was sung at
family gatherings and as a
way of passing the
time during long family trips. In my mind, I can still hear the melodic
blending of Dad's bold and brassy bass with Mom's rich alto resonating
in the old Impala as we musically made our away across the California
desert to visit family members on the Coast.
All eyes were focused
on Dad as we began singing: "Let me call you Sweetheart, I'm in love
with you."
His lips began forming
the words of lyrics indelibly etched somewhere in his mind.
"Let me hear you
whisper that you love me, too."
His eyebrows arched.
His eyes sparkled.
"Keep the love light
burning in your eyes so blue."
I was kneeling close
to him, and could hear him singing. It wasn't the strong, vibrant voice
that had embarrassed me as it boomed out mercilessly in countless church
meetings through the years. But it was unmistakably Dad's voice.
"Let me call you
Sweetheart, I'm in love with you."
He smiled happily as
we harmoniously reached the end of the song. Tears moistened most eyes
as we savored the magic of the moment. For a few measures, at least,
Dad was Dad again, leading the family in singing one of our old favorite
songs.
I've thought about
that moment a lot since then. There is real power in the music of our
lives. I'm not sure I understand it, but there is something dramatic
that happens when words and melodies mingle in our minds. It is burned
into our consciousness. It becomes part of who we are and what we think
-- for good or ill -- freezing moments in time.
Never to be forgotten.
By Joseph Walker
valuespeak@msn.com |
