Christmas caroling

Our choir went caroling to three rest homes where long-time church members now reside. My first goal was to NOT get lost, because the last two times there were choir outings, we got lost. Both times. This time, we finally got smart and rode in someone else's car (thanks Lucia), had a map with directions (thanks Beth) and had a navigator (thanks Wendy). Things were looking good.

As we walked through the halls of the first nursing home, inhaling the antiseptically sweet, warm air of an old folks' home, I was having second thoughts. Why did I agree to go caroling? I don't even know these people who we're visiting. I've never liked nursing homes. Or old people, for that matter. These places are always so sad and depressing, as if they are a depository for old people who have become too inconvenient to be part of their former lives any longer. The country music that was piped in throughout this institution didn't help.

We arrived at the selected church member's room, crowded in, and our group of well-wishers, aging from 7 to 70, began to sing. Apparently this patient had been a choir member for decades so she knew all the words to all the verses of our carols. It was sweet. Although her body was contorted and she remained perfectly still with her eyes closed, her mouth was moving with the song. Clearly, she enjoyed the familiarity of the music. It must be enormously soothing to hear the same songs that you used to sing 80 or 90 years ago. Ah, the timelessness of Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

On our way out, we walked past a lounge area with a few residents, so we decided to stop and sing a little for them, too. One of the workers sat down to enjoy our performance, and I then I began to hear her singing along ... in harmony! As she sang, she stroked what little hair remained on a female resident's balding head. What kind of people work at rest homes? The kind who stroke an old lady's thinning hair while she sang Christmas carols in her ear.

It made me think of my own father, who is nearing the end of his life. He is still at home (in America) with the help of visiting hospice workers and my mother (a.k.a. the saint), but has lost mobility and has little awareness of the outside world. Two of our grown sons live in the same town as Grandma and Grandpa, so they've been visiting almost daily, often to transfer him from bed to wheelchair or back. In return, Grandma feeds them home-cooked meals every Sunday night as a respite from the usual junk food diet typical to single men in their mid-twenties. This inter-generational arrangement began about five years ago, when the boys would mow the lawn or clean the gutters in return for Sunday night dinner. Slowly it has evolved into care and feeding of Grandpa as his condition worsened. Whereas Grandma and Grandpa used to babysit our sons 20 years ago, now our son babysits Grandpa so Grandma can attend church. Our boys have always had a close relationship with "G-ma" and "G-pa" because we lived next door to them for 15 years when the boys were growing up. Grandma's house served as a handy refuge whenever your brothers were picking on you, or your mother wanted you to clean your room. You could just head next door where Grandma would give you cookies and you could lie on the carpet, use the dog's belly as a pillow, and watch a baseball game with Grandpa. All would be well again. They were fortunate to have Grandma and Grandpa as part of their daily lives and even if the boys don't realise it yet, they're fortunate to be part of this stage of Grandpa's life. My dad is also fortunate to have support from them and from the rest of the children and grandchildren who have visited. Most of all, my dad is fortunate to have my mother, who is probably singing Christmas carols into his ear and stroking his thinning hair as we speak.

Off we went to the next rest home - without getting lost, thanks to the fine navigating skills of our mapigator. We had acquired a few more carolers by now, including our conductor who managed to bring some order to our chaotic musical skills. Without him we started Silent Night way too high at the last place. It's a terrible feeling to start singing the first 2 or 3 notes, and then realise you're going to sound squeaky tying to get all the way up to "All is calm."

We arranged ourselves in a lounge where there were about a dozen residents, and we started singing. During the third song, a little old lady came hobbling in, waving her arms as if she was conducting the music. She called, "Is that my husband?" If she was disappointed to see our conductor instead of her husband, she didn't show it. She sat down with some difficulty, and continued to conduct every song. She was not just some joker waving her arms around, trying to imitate a conductor. No, she knew what she was doing and clearly had a background in music. Perhaps her husband had been a choir director ages ago. Perhaps our music took her back to those days.

As we arrived at the third scheduled nursing home, we acquired about 5 more singers including two teenage boys, their dad, and their grandmother, and filled into their lounge area to sing. You'd think that most Christmas carols would be familiar to me and Curt, but being American expats in New Zealand, we keep discovering (belatedly) that familiar titles are actually different tunes. We're used to a different version of O Little Town of Bethlehem which is in a minor key, but the version here is peppy and upbeat. The NZ carol songbooks had two versions of Away in a Manger, but neither of them were the one we were used to in the US. It keeps us on our toes. For our final song at the nursing home, we decided to sing We Wish You a Merry Christmas. Easy enough. Everyone knows that song, right? Wrong. This version is a round, lickety-split like a fugue, and about 12 pages long. We're sightreading it and it feels like we're riding in a runaway sleigh, which seems strangely appropriate in spite of the 75º weather outside.

After singing at three nursing homes, we still have one mini-performance to go: we have to sing for our supper at the parsonage. Curt and I managed to find the parsonage all by ourselves(!) without getting lost, we all entertained our hosts, and then everyone started munching. I looked around at this group of people who have taken us into their lives, invited us into their homes, and shared their goodwill with us, and I was filled with emotion. This morning at church, I kissed the downy head of a 2-week-old baby girl born to our conductor and his wife. This evening I saw music trigger deep memories in 100-year olds. Merry Christmas.