Chris Brockman’s Christmas Story for 2019

 

             Oh Night

 

”I called this family meeting for now, specifically, because Thanksgiving is our traditional day to get together in our home place.  I wanted Thanksgiving itself to be, as much as possible, all it’s ever been, but I wanted our heads to be clear, which they definitely are not after the big dinner.  So here we are, the day after and before leftovers.”

           

Sandy continued, her tone wistful.  “You all know what this is about, so I’m going to get right into it.  I can’t take care of Mom any longer.  As you can see, she’s gotten much worse.  She doesn’t really respond to anything rationally anymore, but she’s still mobile, so someone has to be with her all the time." 

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Her two bothers listened quietly.

           

“The day nurse has helped, but even with that, I just can’t bear the responsibility anymore.  My job is involving as it is, and I’ll tell you, I am tired.  And speaking of my job, I have an opportunity to move up in the firm, but I’d have to move to the Grand Rapids office at the end of January.”

           

“Geez, it seems like . . . heck, it was not that long ago Mom was still singing in her choir and even giving voice lessons,” George, the youngest brother offered.  “When they talk about rapid onset, they’re not kidding.”  

           

“If you aren’t going to be here,” brother Pat asked, “will Mom still stay in the house somehow?”

           

“That’s what we’ll have to decide,” Sandy said. “I know it sounds a bit cruel, but I think we need to consider a dedicated home for her. Even if we could find and be sure of a kind and trustworthy live-in companion, she wouldn’t have the nursing skills that might be necessary. And this big old house is going to require a lot of maintenance coming up. Just keeping it halfway clean inside is an enormous job, believe me.”   

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“So, what about the house itself?”  Pat cut in.  “I know childhood was a long time ago, but, man, there are a lot of happy memories here.”

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“I know, I know, Pat,” Sandy answered. “For the same reasons Mom really can’t stay here, renting it would be out of the question. I think we should do one more Christmas here while Mom can still appreciate it, then put the house on the market, priced to sell. You know I have mom’s power of attorney.”

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Both brothers nodded in agreement, and Sandy continued. “I’ve done some research, and there is an excellent progressive retirement community, Oakdale, not far from here. The facilities are excellent. They do have a dedicated Alzheimer’s wing, and the staff there seems to be competent and compassionate. We would use the proceeds from the sale of the house pay for it.”

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Sandy had expected some avoidance from her brothers, but neither was ready to assume any responsibility, and they agreed to their big sister’s authority and plan in principle. “The director has been gracious enough to agree to meet with us tomorrow, and they expect to have openings soon after the first of the year.”  

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                                ***

           

“Is today the big concert, Andrew?” Judy asked. 

 

“It is,” Andy answered his wife’s query.  “And it’s the best gig a social worker and singer could have.  I don’t know about joy to the world, but joy to these old folks, right here, is what this Christmas program brings.  You can see it, and you can feel it.  We’re even including the Alzheimer’s folks this year, front and center.  You remember what I was saying about how research shows that music can sometimes get through in even advanced Alzheimer’s cases?”

 

“Of course I do, dear.  You’ve told me enough times.  Say, is your memory getting a little thin?”

 

They had a good laugh at this, and Andy retorted, “It always has been.  Part of my qualification for the job is that I can empathize with my clients.   I wish you could come to this year’s concert, but I know you can’t get off work, but you’ve seen our show, how many times?”

 

“Four or five,” Judy said smiling.   ”I’d come anyway if I could.   You four guys are so good with everything you do, but your Christmas songs are special.”

 

“We try,” Andy averred, “and we’re pretty satisfied with what we do.  But, you know, I sometimes wish Santa would bring us a female singer.  Geoffrey’s tenor handles the high parts really well, when we write them in, but a good soprano would be wonderful.  Besides, don’t you think adding a female to the group would increase our appeal?” He didn’t wait for an answer but continued.  “Are you sure you don’t want to take voice lessons and join us?”

 

Judy chuckled with mock appreciation.  “Oh yeah, that would help all right, adding a squeaky wheel to your well-oiled machine.“

 

“Well, at least I’d have a pretty girl in the group I could hit on” Andy quipped, smiling widely.

 

“Listen, Buster, that’s exactly why you don’t need a female in the group.  If you need to prop up your maleness, you can sing to me right here.  You know that’ll work.”

 

                                  ***

 

The scene was bustling in the big main dining room at Oakdale Commons as the staff made final preparations for the annual Christmas program.  The big round tables in the dining hall had been folded up and moved to the back, and the comfortable padded chairs were arranged in rows and others added to accommodate all the guests.   Friends and family mingled with the residents with holiday spirit that was generally festive.  Sandy sat with her mother, Helen, in the front row.  Most of the front-row residents also had husbands or wives, adult children, or even a few grandchildren sitting with them, an arrangement that allowed them to interact as they could and freed up staff. 

 

Sandy had driven from Grand Rapids especially for the program. She wouldn’t have missed it, after having had no family Thanksgiving this year.  She was pleased with everything she had seen and heard so far today, as she pretty much had been over the past year. Helen  had a compact private suite, with a bedroom, bathroom, and sitting room with a window that looked out onto trees and a fringe of lawn.  The green was gone from both, but she knew it would be pleasant when the spring returned.  There was also a shelving unit on one wall with a TV and a music player and room for pictures and memorabilia.  At one end of this was a writing desk with room to slide in a wheel chair and a memo board on which a resident or staff could write the day’s schedule.  Sandy thought the last was a nice touch and might even be therapeutic in some ways.

 

She was disappointed and a not a little angry that her brothers claimed to be too busy to come to the Christmas program.  She knew from the past year’s experience that her brothers still considered her to be primarily responsible for visiting their mother.  She was, after all, by their logic, the closest.  A two-hour-plus drive or a half-day plane hop, though, was hardly close. She was especially annoyed because her brothers knew how much her mother had been invested in music, and music was the most important element of the Christmas program.  The program was billed to include a set by a local acapella group that had a good reputation and included the Oakdale social worker responsible for her mother.  The fact that her brothers didn’t want to share this with their mother, who had shared so much with them, really ticked her off.

 

Sandy arrived early at Oakdale to be sure she could get a good seat for the concert. She staked out two seats front and center for her and her mother. Before the residents came in, another young woman sat next to her and introduced herself as Donna. Donna saved a seat for her father, and they chatted about Oakdale and the program.  The dining hall began filling up, and the residents came in, with the Alzheimer residents last, both Sandy and Donna’s parents among them. Sandy’s mother was led to sit next to her, and Donna’s father next to her.

 

Donna introduced her father, Ray, who responded brightly with, “Good neighborhood, cul-de-sac.” Then his eyes closed and his chin fell to his chest, a position that Sandy had grown used to among residents on the Alzheimer’s floor.

 

Sandy wondered for a second if Ray was referring to Oakdale, but Donna cleared that up with, “Dad was quite successful in real estate before . . .  You have to watch out or he’ll try to sell you a house, four bedrooms, three baths, great schools, and all.” She said it laughing, and Sandy decided she liked her attitude.

 

“I’m pleased to meet you, Ray,” said pleasantly.  “And I’d like you to meet my mother, Helen. Helen made an unintelligible sound that they took for an acknowledgement then went back to looking straight ahead, her eyes open and a smile on her face, as if everything were fine in her world.  The trouble was that this was her countenance most of the time, regardless of what was going on around her. Sandy had long since concluded it was better than an unhappy or blank look.  She even hoped that maybe it was music running through her mother’s mind all the time that caused the smile, and she was good with that.     

 

“Mom was a home maker, and she did make a wonderful home,” Sandy continued the introduction.  “She volunteered a lot, too, with school music programs.  She also gave private singing lessons and sang in several choirs.   I hope—and I believe—that she’s really looking forward to this program.”

 

Sandy and Donna further related their parent’s stories with the immediate intimacy of shared misfortune.  Ray’s dementia had come on more slowly than Helen’s.  He had, however, become more and more agitated over his loss of control over his life.  His insistence on trying to sell real estate to anyone and everyone, including family members, had become increasingly annoying and aggressive, until Oakdale had become the best alternative for him.  He continued intermittently to offer great properties to the other residents, but the staff could expertly talk him down if he became too insistent.

 

Sandy told how her mother’s problems had developed quickly, and how she had gone to live with Helen and tried to balance caring for her and keeping her job.  Hiring a day nurse had helped, and her mother remained easy to get along with, even as she became more and more distant.  In the end, however, she just couldn’t handle it by herself.  She felt at ease talking with Donna in a way she didn’t with most people.  She knew she didn’t have to apologize or justify her decision to not be a full-time caretaker to someone in the same position as she was. 

 

Then, the show was ready to begin.  The Oakdale director stepped up onto the makeshift stage and tapped the microphone sharply.  Sandy suspected it was as much to get the attention of all of the Brookdale residents as it was to test the microphone.  The director thanked everyone for being there—an irony that wasn’t lost on most of them—and especially those family and friends who had interrupted their schedules or come a long way to be with their loved ones for the holidays.

 

“You are in for a treat today.  We have bells; we have Christmas readings, both religious and secular; we have a play written and performed by our Oakdale theater group; and we have, for the fourth year in a row, the wonderful acapella group, Message.  I’ll turn it over now to our own Marjorie Mitchell, who will introduce the performers.  Sit back and enjoy.”

 

Sandy was puzzling over the director’s pronunciation as Mess-ahge, as an attractive, silver-haired woman stepped up and told a few insider jokes that got some good laughs, especially from the residents who were getting into a festive spirit. 

 

“She’s really quite funny,” Donna said to Sandy, who welcomed the injection of humor and agreed.  Raymond lifted his head and asked, “What‘d she say?” rather too loudly.  Sandy looked at her mother who appropriately looked straight ahead and smiled, like a broken clock that’s right twice a day.   

 

The program progressed merrily with Christmas tunes from the bell ringers, young people from a nearby church.  They were followed by residents who recited “The Night Before Christmas” and the Bible Christmas story.  Then, a man and woman from a local Jewish congregation did an exemplary job of delivering The Story of Hanukkah.  The woman sat in a chair and read Amy Ehrlich’s children’s picture book in a strong, clear voice while the man stood and showed the pictures.  The audience seemed to enjoy both the information and the ecumenism of it.

 

This was followed by the ten-minute skit that the theater group had collectively written and had been rehearsing for weeks.  The story line had to do with an older man and an older woman, alone for Christmas, who found each other through a somewhat contrived set of circumstances.  It was, nonetheless, sweet and the audience ate it up. 

 

Marjorie Mitchell kept it all moving smoothly between presenters.  After the play, she announced a short intermission, during which Christmas cookies and apple cider would be brought around for everyone to enjoy.   Sandy appreciated the opportunity to get up and stand. 

 

“How did you like the program so far?” she asked her mother.  Helen smiled, a good sign, Sandy thought, under normal circumstances, but not much of a sign in the present.  She chatted with Donna and tried to involve her mother and Raymond, too, in the conversation, but to no avail.  She really hoped, regardless, that some of this was getting through to Helen and that it was actually a positive experience for her.

 

Marjorie Mitchell returned to the stage to introduce the featured acapella group.  “And now, we come to the main musical part of our program.  For the fourth year in a row, we are very privileged to have the beautiful harmonies of Message, featuring our own master social worker—and I don’t just mean MSW—Andy Washington. 

 

The audience exploded in applause, and Sandy leaned over and said to Donna, “I thought this group was called Message. 

            

Donna laughed and told her, “It’s spelled like “message,” but it rhymes with “massage.”

 

“I like it,” Sandy returned, smiling.  “I hope they can deliver on both.”

 

“We are Message,” Andy said from center stage, “and we love to be here singing for you again.  There is a whole lot of experience here and good memories of the holiday season.  We ask you to tap into that experience and those memories as we give you some of the songs of the season.”  And the music began.

 

First was “Let It Snow,” and conveniently through the wall of windows that looked out onto a courtyard, snow was coming down lightly, but in big flakes.  A perfect setting, thought Andy, for this song to take residents off to other happy places they’d been.  Many in the audience were looking at the falling snow.  There was also a smattering of closed eyes, but not, Andy hoped, from dozing off, rather from all envisioning other snowy times along the road to this time and place.

 

Message continued with “Jingle Bells” and other bright and cheery secular songs.  Their voices blended like oil and vinegar in open harmonies; dark blue ties and light blue shirts in closed harmonies; and the chef, cooks, and wait staff in a fine restaurant in polyphonic phrases.  They rocked the house with a mashup of “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” “Jingle Bell Rock,” and “Frosty the Snowman.”

 

After Frosty had hopped off over the fields of snow, Andy introduced the singers.  ”On my right is our bass/baritone Jerry Rodriguez.  Next to him is our tenor George Lassiter.  On my right is baritone D’Juan Chavis.  And I am a baritone, Andy Watson.  Together we are Message.”

 

Warm applause swept over them.  When it let up, Andy continued.  “We call ourselves Message because we hope our music has something to say, and we hope it relaxes and pleases you.  Here we go.”

 

Their program switched to more reverent religious classics. “Do You Hear What I Hear” provided a neat transition and gave the lower voices a chance to do some beat boxing while Geoffrey’s tenor carried the melody line.  They followed up with “Oh Come All Ye Faithful”; “Little Drummer Boy”; a spirited, folky Hanukkah song, “Don’t Let the Light Go Out”; and “Angels We Have Heard on High.” Then, “The Kwanzaa Song,” featuring D’Juan in the lead, smooth and very rhythmic at the same time, earned an appreciative response. 

 

“Our last song,” Andy announced will be “Oh Holy Night.”  We invite you to sing along, if you like.”  They started with a wordless introduction, then sang the first verse.  A few of the audience members joined in tentatively.  The second verse began and a bit scratchy soprano voice joined in.  Sandy looked over to her mother, amazed that she was singing!  As Helen went on, her voice increased in clarity and intensity.  By the third phrase of the verse, she was singing full on.  When the song reached the last stanza,  she was soaring.

 

Everyone in Message was shocked and amazed as Helen joined in, except Andy.  He had a huge smile that nearly disrupted his articulation, and he looked at each of the other singers and nodded as if to say, “Okay, boys, here’s our soprano.  Let’s see what we can do.”  They continued on, with renewed inspiration.

 

Sandy couldn’t take her eyes off her mother, who had stood up and was singing, quite literally, at the top of her voice.  Call it muscle memory or whatever, she was putting her whole breath into it and projecting amazingly for someone who hadn’t sung a note for two years and had been sitting passively minutes ago.  Helen had had a clear, warm, and melodious lyric soprano voice quality before, and she did again.  The visitors in the audience were appreciatively astonished at the beauty of the sound.  The residents were even more stunned.  On the penultimate ‘Oh night,” Andy stepped out a bit and with upheld palms signaled the group to hold the high note until Helen broke it.  And indeed, she held it for four beats before descending gracefully to the last words.

 

An awed silence followed for a full five seconds for an audience that didn’t want the song to end and wasn’t sure what had just happened.  Then, the applause exploded, along with various voicings of approval.  The singers on stage were also applauding vigorously, looking in Helen’s direction. 

 

Helen sat down, smiled, and looked straight ahead.  Sandy beamed , as well, knowing it was her mother’s greatest performance ever.                                                                                                                                                                               

​Chris Brockman

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