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PLACING THE TOOL INTO THE MASTER'S HANDS

I had never seen him before at the very attractive memory community in  Naples, Florida. I had arrived early and I was facing away from the center of the room and opening my guitar case which was on the table.

I didn’t hear him creep up with this wheelchair, but suddenly I heard a week and trembling high pitched voice make an odd request. "Hey man, can I hold your box?" I knew instantly what he meant and a notion told me the exact level of his expertise.

I pivoted in place (A necessary skill in memory units, and emergency rooms were people creep or slide by you with no room or notice), and there was John. Sitting in his wheelchair which he barely filled. His garments hung loosely on his frail frame and his face was gaunt with sunken cheeks, dark bags hanging like hammocks under his eyes. His skin was pasty white. But the globes of his eyes? They were bright.

Like a new mother receiving her baby, John reached out for my prized Martin D 41 guitar. With a struggle, he shimmied an inch or two forward so that Guitar wouldn't hit the arms of the wheelchair. He know, I thought. His left hand found the fretboard. Although his pajamas had no pockets I saw his left hand instinctively palpate for a guitar pick. Like the eager child who waits for magic trick, I handed him mine.

John's right hand landed on the strings beside the sound hole. Both hands now found their way to their positions and with a little bit of adjustment, the Master's hands were fixed. Like a pro ball player with a bat, or a surgeon with a blade John sat poised for an interactive love affair with the tool of his trade. As expected, the fingers of both hands were long and thin with knuckles that reassembled small knots on a twig.

I was eager. The room was empty as John started to noodle a little bit with both hands. I could feel his brain working to find synchronicity. I thought to myself what a wonderful exercise for the brain and the nurse in me was searching for the neuro-lmuscular pathology associated with recall. I know that both of our minds and hearts were racing.

So John started to put pressure on the strings and through the wooden fibers of my well used Martin guitar sounds started to resinate. One minute later John put together the song "All of Me." It was jazz! Dang! My heart rate went up again.. This is awesome I thought. I tried to stay calm because that's what you're supposed to do. He put another song together and I realize that people were now gathering for my performance. But instead, I turned John around to face the crowd. At this point, John was more than willing. And it was then that John's wife Nancy came into the room. I could see the flood of emotions on her face and I placed a chair next to John.

I removed the right arm of the wheelchair so John could saddle the guitar closer to him. He gripped the guitar lovingly and started to play. Slowly putting licks together, he was finding his "mojo." More people started to gather. Then more.

John still made those mistakes which I'm sure embarrassed him, so to distract the listeners by producing a little handshaker for rhythm and I started to sing with Him.

He was now in the "zone" and I was honored to be with him. The next time I looked up there was a full house. And the applauds were stronger, louder.. I saw the delight in his face. In everyones face. John memory was able to get out about a half of the words to each line and I filled in the gaps. By the way, he filled in the gaps that I couldn't remember.

It was then that I saw them. The memory care staff from the kitchen, housekeeping, nursing staff and the administration. There was a line 10 to 15 long and all were singing with lips that quivered and whose cheeks glistened with salty tears. A couple people covered their faces as if the chewing while speaking in a fine restaurant.

John played for 40 minutes to an adoring crowd and he sat majestically in his wheelchair (throne).

Over the next two months John would be wheeled into the room and he would listen to my music. But as time went on I figured he asked his wife not to stop. It's hard to explain, but I guess when you reach a certain level it's hard to listen to others. John was a musician's musician. And me? I started playing music at 43 years old and I use my simple skills to transfer energy. It's just that simple.

Later on I brought John a smaller guitar for him to use but it was still too big. So, I brought an electric guitar and that was too heavy. I kind a new that John had given his last performance and that those bony fingers would never touch the strings again.

So the last time I saw John, Nancy said John was doing badly and asked me to go into his room to see him and play a tune. John lay comfortably on his side with pillows between his knees (he was well cared for) and his eyes were closed. There was a peaceful look on his face and his breathing was unlabored. Nancy proclaimed in a loud voice, “John, Bob is here!”

I sat down and played my best fingerpicking slow and soulful song: Amazing Grace. Nancy kept prompting John to wake up because “Bob is here!” "John, It's Bob!" she would say over and over. He responded with a groan once and then only a dismissive but unoffensive grunt of acknowledgement. And for some reason I stepped into that uncomfortable zone and suggested to Nancy that perhaps his eyes were closed and his responses were less reactive because he was having increased conversations with God? Nancy loved that idea.