The shovel runs smoothly along the driveway, pushing the not-too-heavy snow into the growing hill on the side. The sky brightens from dark gray to light gray. Sunrise. I pause, take a deep breath of sharp air. Suddenly, the wind swirls across the top of the snow pushing it back across the just-shoveled section.
“Hah!” I flip my scarf around my neck, square my shoulders, shout curses at the wind . . . and I slip on the sloping driveway, the shovel flies into the air, and I lie quietly on my back.
Another snow day in Iowa.
Snow days are a bit different when you’re an old man. No kids to get to school or daycare. No job waiting to be graced by your presence. No one wondering if you were swept away by the storm or if you are just at Stormy’s swept up in a beer or two.
Nope, here I am. On my back. In the long driveway. Enjoying the snow up close and personal.
It is truly winter. Days are short. The air is cold. Fresh snow is being heaped upon old snow. All the sounds are muted to a quiet hush.
A perfect time to think.
“Just had a good report at my physical,” says my friend Gordon.
“Great.”
“Was pretty sure I had something wrong, but it was nothing.”
“That’s a blessing.”
“Although, maybe it’s something and the doc missed it,” says Gordon.
Most conversations these days go this way. Knee replacements. Hip replacements. And wondering if that strange gurgle is just that extra piece of pie or the tentacled monster from the movie Alien.
“You pay your money and take your chances,” as my old friend the religion professor says.
Lying in the snow is not so bad. Only the sounds of the mourning doves at the feeders float down the hill. Really, this would be a good sledding hill.
A long time ago, Waveland Golf Course was my young family’s designated sledding hill. Full of long runs, steep slopes, and squeals of delight. My oldest always flew down the slope thrilled. And then refused to walk back up.
No kidding.
Ever indulging, I’d pull him and the sled back up the hill. It was only a couple of years later when his uncomplaining three-year-old brother pulled himself and his own sled up the hill did I realize I’d been conned. The innocence of children? Hah, raising children is like falling off a cliff. Survival is the only question.
And now our parents, who also carried us up the hill, are passing on.
“My mother was dying and just couldn’t let go,” says Gordon over coffee.
Death seemed as good a conversation as any as we looked out the Grounds for Celebration window in Windsor Heights. The snow storm was beginning to bury the parking lot and businesses were closing.
“So, what did you do?”
“I held her hand and sang her a song.”
“Your kidding. You ushered your mom out with a song?”
“Yup.”
We both sat quietly thinking about that.
“And what did you sing her while holding her hand?” I ask.
“A song written by someone else, but sung by Art Garfunkel. ‘Another Lullaby.'”
And that darn Gordon softly sang the song right then and there.
Close your eyes my pretty child,
Though the night is dark and the wind is wild,
I will stand beside your bed,
Tonight there is nothing you need fear or dread.
The coffee shop vanished. Only Gordon’s subdued voice could be heard as he sang to his mother.
Close your eyes my mother wise
When the waves are angry and the north train cries.
I stop those ghosts outside your door,
Mama, don’t worry ’bout those ghosts no more.
Two old men suddenly rubbing their eyes is not a pretty sight. If you are ever forced to witness such a thing, order a double espresso, be sure to do carry-out, and flee as quickly as possible. Trust me.
“And did the song work?” I eventually asked Gordon.
“She died soon after.”
You know the snow isn’t even cold as I lie here in my driveway. Lord, the birds are making a ruckus at the feeders. I suppose I should get up. But really this is quite comfortable.
Although what if somebody appears over my stretched out body in the driveway and starts singing Get Down Tonight by KC and the Sunshine Band. Is that a sign? Time to call it quits? The big goodbye?
Nah, I move my arms making a snow angel, it’s just another snow day in Iowa.
Joe
My 96-year-old father, his first hospital visit as a patient, questioned, “Son, when do you need to be back to work?” Of course I said don’t worry, I’m here for as long as you need me. As it turned out, those were his last words. He died a couple hours later. It was a Friday and sure enough I was back at Meredith Monday morning.
Wow, your story about Gordan made me rub my eyes also. What a blessing he was able to comfort his mother that way. Thanks for the story Joe.
Of course, I had to listen to that beautiful lullaby on YouTube. Now this old woman is rubbing her eyes! What a lovely way to cross over that last threshold. Stay warm, Joe!
What a very sweet story. I did not know this lullaby and (sniff) now I do.
Last December, my holiday memory was tested when a grown kid got into bed with me and said — Tell me the poem. What? Sleepy as I was, I mumbled through the familiar lines…not a creature was stirring…and so on. This kid was never a stickler for details but I knew I was making mistakes. The next night, another kid got in bed with me (I’m an old woman – why don’t they let me sleep?) and being slightly more awake, thought I’d try it again. But this kid has always been a fact checker. He brought the text! We identified my weak points, spot checked, and rehearsed. I have grandkids now! I can’t embarrass myself in front of them and when all that was settled, I requested another poem. Grown-up kid says or I could read A Christmas Carol? My eyes flew open because we have the scariest edition with fabulously creepy illustrations and I’m proud to say that I gave it to my kids when they were much too young and they turned out just fine. But you say, aren’t these grown-a** children in bed with you? Well, I am a lucky woman because it had been a long, long time since someone read me to sleep, and about the time Scrooge was staring down the doorknocker, I’m told I fell asleep.
I guess it’s the grand payback for all of those stories and songs and nighttime wakefulness that those dang kids produce. The tables turn. And that will be the only thing I want for Christmas next year. Sing me a song, tell me a poem, read me a story.
What a beautiful story, thank you for sharing. My children are off to college, but when I would take them to story time at the library on a few occasions I enjoyed being read to as much as them. It put me in a reverie. Language is what makes us human; it is how we are wired. And we ignore this at our own peril.
Beautiful! Our perspective changes so much with age.
Kaye
Another great post, and although I find myself telling everyone my old age ailments, I’d love to meet you at Grounds some morning to catch up!
Lovely and thought provoking, as always. Thank you.
My older brother, quite a genius artist, recently passed into the invisible world. He was my mentor, we could finish one another’s sentences. At a certain point he thought this world was too much, he felt so deeply. I said goodbye to him on his terms, with a smile after he made me laugh as I went off to teach my class at the college. He died 36 hours later. Your piece of writing made me wonder what lyrics I might have sung to him. He ran a record store when I was a teenager and introduced me to so much music. The music comes to me all the time, when I hear a song we listened to together. Then I hear Daniel’s voice when he said, “An artist never dies, because the painting is still hung, the song is still being played.” Then I hear him say “music is the key to the soul.” My mind now retreats back, to the song you shared that was sung to a mother at her time of dying.