You don't want to hear us old ladies singing

Four of my readers commented on my last post that I should have recorded our singing.  Ha!  In the first place, by the time I saw the comments it was over.  This was not a big event... there were five of us women.  Three of us are over 80 years old, and two of us have dementia.  Having not been together for maybe thirty years, probably more, we didn't all know the same songs, a couple of the guitars weren't all in tune, and neither were our voices.  It was really more of a homecoming, and I loved it.  We did much more talking than singing.  Lorraine said she is going to have us over again soon.

With that said, I have a silly true story to tell you.

Cliff can't sleep laying down in a bed any more, so I have the bedroom to myself.  There is a bathroom in there, thank goodness, because if I thought waking up four times to pee was bad, it's even worse now, because I'm on a water pill for edema.  

The toilet is right beside the bathroom sink.  I sat down and heard strange noises coming out from under the sink, where we keep our towels.  I was probably in there six times through the night, and every time, something was moving, and it sounded like it was eating something.  We have an occasional mouse, and we have mouse traps and/or mouse poison where they are needed.  But I've never had a mouse whose teeth could be heard clacking every time I was in there, all night long.

I'm not afraid of mice.  But I figured this was something bigger, and I did not want to see what it was.  Rats scare me, not that I've ever had any in my house; and what if something even bigger had made a way to come up from below the trailer house?  Obviously, I had little sleep that night.

I'm usually up at four; Cliff sleeps until seven or so in the morning.  So as he got up, I said, "Go open the doors under the sink in the bathroom; there's something in there, and I can tell it's eating something."

What would there be that would keep chewing on our towels and washcloths all night?

Well, here it is: my husband had put one of those sticky things that we put down in places that spiders like, and a mouse was stuck on it, chewing on it and trying to get away.  He was still alive.  Cliff took care of him.

What a night.  By the time I got out of bed, I was picturing a pack of rats in there.

Most people never see a mouse or spider in their homes.  We just happen to be on the other side of the track, and as long as we can control them somehow, we're happy.  There's nowhere else I'd rather be than living right here, in a trailer house that's seen better days, with my garden and goats and a place to walk in the pasture.

And now you know how the other half lives.

I am excited

I used to occasionally have the pleasure of sitting with folks who played and sang country music: different groups, at different times of my life.  People who just simply loved to sing with others.  Most all of them had guitars, and I had a whole family of next-door neighbors who were always ready to sing around their son's piano fifty years ago; their daughter has a little country band these days.  I learned to play guitar in a group of people who went to church where my family did;.  For a time I sang in a quartet of like-minded ladies;  we would practice once or twice each month, then take our songs to sing to people in old folks' homes.  One way or another, I have always felt a desire to sing with folks, just for the fun of it.  By the year 2000, that had long become a thing of the past.

I am not a social person, and I never have driven a car except when I was supposed to be learning to drive in school; the teacher said he'd let me pass if I promised to never drive again, and I haven't (true story, and he said it in front of the whole class).  So that limited me, because I had no way to get around any people who sang.  I have sung at three different churches in our town because if I attended for awhile, someone would say, "Do you still write songs," or "Didn't you used to sing?"  I'd tell them I hadn't done that for a very long time; but they always kept after me to sing at church, and I would do it, mainly for the opportunity to sing the songs I have written, knowing that those songs will never see the light of day after I die.  But I would much rather have had some people to get together with, and sing just for the joy it gives me.

About a year ago, an old friend I worked with in the 1970's came to visit.  She said she still had some old tapes of me singing, and listened to them all the time.  She said she was in some stage of dementia, and I told her, "Welcome to the club."  She was one of the people in the groups I sometimes sang with when we worked together.  She wanted to get together again, although she said she can't play guitar or sing any more.

That's the last I heard of that, likely because of her failing memory, until a couple weeks ago.  Terri called me and said another lady we used to sing with, Lorraine Ramey, wanted us to come and relive the old days of making a joyful noise.  Her husband was a very good singer and guitar player who loved bluegrass, but he died quite some time ago, way too soon.  

Well, today's the day.  I hardly ever play my guitar alone at home any more, unless I'm tuning it up to take it to church.  So yesterday I got it out just to see if I could even play it.   The thing about this sort of gathering is that you don't have to be good:  If you miss a word or two, or hit a wrong chord, nobody cares.  And by the way, there is as much talking as there is singing when folks get together like this.  

That wonderful lady in Buckner has given me the best gift I could possibly have received.  A singalong!

One more time with feeling, friends, so take it from the top.  This one is bound to be the last one, so let's give it everything we've got.  

with apologies to Kristofferson, may he rest in peace, for me messing with his "One More Time With Feeling" lyrics.