I park the car at the entrance to the lot, and Madeleine and
I walk up the incline with her fiddle and mandolin teacher, Doug, to a side
entrance of the Pioneer’s Home. We meet
up with another musician, Mick, who also will be playing in today’s gig. The fourth member of the group, Matt, is
already inside with his mandolin. The
four of them are set to play an hour show for the elderly residents of the Home.
A full year before Arizona became a
state, the Pioneer Home opened in February 1911. Perched on a hill overlooking the county
court house and heart of Prescott, it is a massive red brick building. It houses a couple hundred old folks who have
been residents of the State of Arizona for at least fifty years.
Madeleine is somewhat nervous, but Doug’s easy-going
demeanor lowers her stress. As we enter,
Doug says the gig will be more like jamming in someone’s living room than a
concert. He adds that there will likely
be a group of people already seated and waiting. It’s likely the highlight of the day for many
of them who are no longer able to go out.
Doug leads us down a hall, past unoccupied rooms, each with
a bed, dresser, and window. It’s
somewhat depressing, but the natural light and real wood furniture assuage the
institutional effect. The residents are
not confined to their beds or even their rooms.
Eventually we enter a large room with the occasional loveseat and chairs
arranged in rows. The cafeteria is off
to one side and is busy and noisy as lunch service ends for the day. On the opposite side of the room are large
windows that look out on the courthouse plaza.
We are high on the hill and there is a sense, even far from the windows,
that we’re on the edge of a precipice.
It doesn’t feel frightening, but more like we’re on top of a mountain
with nothing blocking the view.
As Doug predicted, there are at least a dozen people already
assembled and seated, ready for the concert.
The musicians gather chairs and prepare to play. The set begins. Doug announces each song, sometimes sharing
some history or lyrics. It is all very
informal and simple and lovely. The
tunes are traditional and the four musicians easily find their rhythm together.
At some point, an ancient-looking man shuffles in during a
song and sits next to me. When the song
is over, Doug nods at him and says, “Hello, Ray.”
Members of the audience regard him and begin to call out,
“Ray, where’s your fiddle?”
He says, breathless, “Well, it’s upstairs.”
This is no excuse. “Well,
go get it,” they call, one after another.
He says he will, but it’s a bit difficult to tell if he’s
pleased that they want him to play or if he’s exasperated at having to make the
trek. He manages to get his stooped body
out of the chair and wanders down the hall.
The group begins another tune, and Ray reappears as it ends,
fiddle and folding chair in hand. He
manages, eventually, to get the chair set up and he prepares to join in on the
next tune. His hands shake quite a bit
as he brings his violin to his chin and he holds his bow in a very
unconventional way. But when he begins
to play, his tremor lessens significantly.
They play quite a few more tunes together, some that Madeleine knows and
others she doesn’t. But she’s poised and
comfortable there on the makeshift stage. During “West Virginia Waltz” one couple gets up and dances around the room.
Eighty years separate Madeleine from Ray, yet while they play, those years
make no difference at all.
When the concert’s over, several of the old ladies fawn over
Madeleine. They want to hold her hand
and compliment her. She beams, glowing
in their appreciation. One asks for a
hug and she obliges. Others call to her,
urging her to never stop playing. I
think of the many proverbs across cultures about honoring the elderly. By the time she reaches me, she is grinning
and full of pride.
“I want to do this again,” she says. “Old people are so cute.”
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