We’ve all been confused at some point, disoriented, when the numbers won’t add up and the once familiar seems foreign and out of place. It generally passes in a moment when something anchors our perception once again. And life resumes its normal course.

But for some folks, life has no normal course anymore. Disorientation is a chronic condition. We saw this again on Saturday as we played music for the wonderful people at the Clare Bridge Memory Center in West Melbourne. The staff was incredibly attentive and nurturing. The patients, many as fragile as butterflies, fluttered into the gathering room where we met them. Some stared vacantly throughout, some sang and clapped along with familiar songs, and some danced and danced. “They like peppy music!” the feisty nurse in charge called out. And so peppy music they got. It was a party all around. Still, there were souls in distress:

[A tiny lady with a small, tentative voice] “Pardon me, I’ve lost my husband. Have you seen him?”
[Not quite sure how to answer, Patty says,] “No, I hope you find him.”
[In an even smaller and more tentative voice]“I hope so too.”
***
[A larger woman comes over with expressive eyes and speaking in almost a flirty way]“Your music is wonderful. I haven’t danced in…. I can’t remember.”
“You are a good dancer,” I respond.
[Blushing]“I love to dance. I used to dance….”

At this point she looks confused, frowns, picks up her large pocketbook and begins to absently walk toward the door, to be intercepted and redirected by one of the people on staff. Soon she is smiling again, dancing, as if she were in a dance hall with the orchestra in full swing.

There must have been thirty patients in the room, each one an actor in his or her own convoluted drama, each one walking through what must seem like increasingly darkening and menacing woods. But for a moment, some heard familiar music. Some remembered that the music was happy and caused them to smile. Some remembered, if just for an instant, that life is a dance.

A long time ago, a friend of mine, Phil Doster, taught me this John Prine song. The song is called “Hello in There,” and my new old friends at Clare Bridge reminded me of it:

We had an apartment in the city
Me and Loretta liked living there.
Well, it’d been years since the kids had grown,
A life of their own left us alone.
John and Linda live in Omaha,
And Joe is somewhere on the road.
We lost Davy in the Korean war,
And I still don’t know what for, don’t matter anymore.

Chorus:
Ya’ know that old trees just grow stronger,
And old rivers grow wilder ev’ry day.
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello.”

Me and Loretta, we don’t talk much more,
She sits and stares through the back door screen.
And all the news just repeats itself
Like some forgotten dream that we’ve both seen.
Someday I’ll go and call up Rudy,
We worked together at the factory.
But what could I say if asks “What’s new?”
“Nothing, what’s with you? Nothing much to do.”

Repeat Chorus:

So if you’re walking down the street sometime
And spot some hollow ancient eyes,
Please don’t just pass ‘em by and stare
As if you didn’t care, say, “Hello in there, hello.” (“Hello in There” by John Prine)

I hope some of those older folks at Clare Bridge heard us say Hello. Hello….

Sound Traveler is finishing up a very busy and interesting week. Next week we will be traveling to Sarasota for the Sarasota Folk Festival where we will be putting on two shows. We will follow that with an appearance at the Vernals Dance Weekend at O’Leno State Park in High Springs, FL.

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4 Comments to “SongTravelin’: 03.21.11 – “I Can’t Remember the Last Time….””

• March 21, 2011 at 8:50 am
  cyberbeat says:

  That was a good thing to do. People with dementia are still people, and they need to sense that some people still care.
• March 21, 2011 at 10:17 am
  Ellie says:

  What blesses them, blesses you.
• March 21, 2011 at 11:45 am
  Bob says:

  Ellie, I still remember how much you and your family gave to Marsha in her final days. Every small kind act that you did for her, you did for us all, and you did for the God of us all.
• March 21, 2011 at 8:45 pm
  Art Deene says:

  May that which you bestow on others be returned to you many fold. What a fine thing you and Patty have done to allow those people a few moments of enjoyment which would otherwise never have entered their lives.