Picket Fence

   

   The pile has been there quite a few years.  I advertised on Craigslist for weathered pickets.  It’s probably a good deal I never got any nibbles.  When I decided to convert them to firewood and began unstacking those pickets, I found most of them were rotted beyond any use.

     As I stacked up five or six pickets, lining up the angled tops so I could cut a bunch at a time and get sticks the same length, I couldn’t help but think of Dad cutting all those things.  I don’t remember exactly how he did it.  He may have had a jig or something.

      What I do remember is coming home from school one day while the project was active to find Dad not able to do much, with a big bandage on his right thigh.  He used his Montgomery Ward Power saw, a “Skil Saw”-type machine, to cut them all. 

      Apparently, he had some type of system where he could cut several pickets, one after another, without having to put the saw down.  He would make a cut, draw the saw back to his leg while he lined up the next board.  It worked fine until the blade guard failed to retract and the still-spinning blade contacted his leg.

      I don’t remember how many stitches it took, but he did go to the doctor.  I don’t remember how long he was out of commission.  I do remember the picket fence, not fondly.  I remember trying to paint the thing, the frustration, the fights between us painters that resulted in crimes and punishments.

      The fence was to keep the chickens out of the yard while the new bluegrass lawn established itself.  I also remember the smell of the wet, heavily manured soil when we sprinkled water on it to try to keep it damp enough to sprout the seeds.

      I remember laying down the old 1x12’s side-by-side, end-to-end, when the wind kicked up to try to keep the soil and the grass seed from blowing away. When the wind died down, the boards had to be removed and stacked somewhere off the lawn.  Getting that lawn sprouted and going was a real pain.  So no wonder we had to keep the chickens out.

      I’m not sure, but I guess the fence preceded the seed planting.  Then came the day when the lawn was mature.  The first mowing was fun.  Every mowing since then, eh, not so much.

     After the bluegrass established itself, keeping the gates closed wasn’t an imperative.  Some of the gates disappeared.  The chickens had free range inside the picket fence.  They said thank you to the lawn by fertilizing it.  I remember playing football on the lawn.  Tackling or getting tackled meant landing in chicken manure.

      We nicknamed the yard “Debris Field”, like “Lambeau Field” or "Soldiers Field" maybe.  The picket fence deteriorated.  No one wanted the job of painting it again.  Rather than removing it, we planted junipers all around the inside of the fence.

      I could hardly wait until the junipers got big enough so that we could trim and shape them.  I can wait now, quite a while sometimes.

     After the hedge got big enough to be a hedge, the pickets were in pretty rough shape.  Brother-in-law Jim removed quite a few of them back in the day when he was still trying to heat his house with wood.  He converted the pickets to firewood.

     Not too many years ago, I decided to go after not only the remaining pickets, but the rails and posts, too.  The rails were 2x4’s, mostly rotted, warped, and split.  The process was very difficult because the hedge had thrust its branches between pickets and then branched out on the outside of the fence.  I had to do some major trimming to get the job done.

      Many observers were sure the hedge would die as a result of my major butchery.  Not old Ralph.  He pooh-poohed that idea.  He said his neighbor cut them to within six inches of the ground and they came back.

     In Eastern Kansas they try to kill the cedars.  Try and fail.  Cedars are a weed there, a nuisance in fencerows and a grass killer in the pastures.  The hedge survived, recovered, and still has to be trimmed once a year.

     Once the pickets and rails were removed, there remained the posts that supported the rails.  They were steel fence posts set in concrete, about six inches in diameter and maybe eight to ten inches deep.  I didn’t have a Farmhand at the time.  My extraction tools were the 820 tractor, a heavy log chain, and a piece of the trunk of a 100-year-old locust tree.

      I backed the 820 close to the post, and rolled the big log as close to the post as I could get it.  Cedar branches kept me from getting the log too close.  I tied the chain around the post as close to the ground as I could get it, looped the chain over the locust log, hooked it to the tractor, and eased the tractor forward.

     In most cases, the post went up, then forward, then over the log, bearing its cement overshoe.  That process worked fine on east south and west.  The north was a little harder because I was forbidden to run the heavy tractor up on the north lawn.  I added some more chain and pulled with the tractor out of the confines of the bluegrass.

      All went well except for the south gatepost of the east gate.  It didn’t just have a cement overshoe.  Subsequent cement pours to form a walkway had infringed on the post’s territory.  I made several nudges with the tractor without too much success.  The final nudge was more of a jerk.  The post gave up, all right.  It was determined not to go alone it seemed. 

     It came flying up over the locust log, chain, cement chunk, and all, and slapped the backrest of the tractor seat.  A few inches higher, and I may not have been able to tell this tale.

      I just spent two half days trimming the old hedge.  Trying to do it all in one day is a bit much for the old codger now.  I didn’t do the best job, but from a hundred yards away, you can see that it has been trimmed and you can’t see the misses.

       The picket pile will soon be relegated to the ash heap of history.  As for the lawn, Mom would really be disappointed in me, how I have let that precious grass turn to dust.  It just took too much water, with the hedge demanding its share, too.  It was too hard to keep the weeds out of it.

     It doesn’t look like much, that lawn.  But it’s really no problem, except when it rains.  Instead of treading on bluegrass, you have to walk in mud.  Oh well, doesn’t happen very often. 

Obachan’s Funeral

     “Obachan” died on January 22, 2019 in Seattle.  She was a very generous person.  She had set aside money for family to attend her funeral in Hawaii.  The ceremony in Hawaii was really an inurnment.  Her assisted living facility hosted a memorial on January 25.

     The memorial followed a “wake” on the evening of the 22^nd.  The facility allowed the body to remain overnight (time of death was 9:50 a.m.) and many staff members and residents dropped in to pay their last respects.  Quite different than most places who want a body removed immediately.  Shizuko’s body was cremated on January 24.

     We were in Tucson at the time and chose not to attend that ceremony.  Thirteen of us traveled to Hawaii, arriving on March 9.  That number included children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, and two nieces.

     On Sunday, Michelle’s family took the cremains on a final tour of the island, including a swap meet.  It was a trip that Obachan made many times as a tour guide for the Japanese.

     Monday evening, we boarded a boat and headed out into the ocean on a “Sunset Cruise” where a package containing some of the cremains were placed in the sea. 

     Many years ago, in 1971, we cast a few of Walter’s ashes into the sea, as he had requested.  We were able to do that from the shoreline in those days.  We were supposed to be three miles out on this occasion, but the captain fudged quite a bit on that distance because it was a bit rough, and a couple of us were subject to sea sickness.

      The captain shut down the engine, opened the back gate, and the daughters committed the ashes to the ocean.  We paused long enough to shoot a few more photos, then headed back to harbor.  We 

had hopes of seeing a few whales, but that didn’t happen.

      It was growing dark as we disembarked.  We travelled to a hotel where Obachan loved to dine.  We celebrated her life with a nice meal.  We lacked one who retired due to motion sickness.

      The inurnment took place Tuesday March 12, 2019, fifty days after death, an appropriate interval, I’m told, in the National Memorial Cemetery of the Pacific, also known as Punchbowl because it is the crater of an extinct volcano.

If you are a “Hawaii 50” watcher, you may recognize the monument from the opening shots on that show.

   A clergyman, who was Michelle’s high school classmate, prayed in three languages, Hawaiian, Japanese, and English.  His wife and two other ladies joined him in a traditional Hawaiian song, ending with “Aloha Oe”, sung by all.

      Four or five locals joined the family beneath the small shelter.  Following that brief ceremony, we walked some 50 or 60 yards to the gravesite.  A two-man crew from the cemetery, retired servicemen, took over. 

     They removed a sheet of plywood containing sod from over the grave.  They removed a cover from a cement vault.  The clergyman carried the vase with the ashes from the shelter to the grave site.  The three of them placed the urn into the vault.  The crew did a “Present Arms,” saluted, observed a moment of silence.    

      Under their direction, we all took a turn at dropping flower petals into the vault round the urn.  When all the flower petals were in the vault, the crewmen replaced the vault cover.  They then used shovels to take soil from their truck and packed it around and over the vault.

      I couldn't keep myself from thinking how much it was like setting a fence post, with shovels, dirt, and tamping iron.  When the soil had been removed from the truck and placed in the grave, the men took the sod from the plywood and carefully placed it over the grave.  That was tamped and manicured with soil to fill in the gaps.  When they were done, you could not tell there was ever a disturbance of the earth.

     One worker unearthed a flower vase hidden beneath the sod.  While he was doing that, his coworker fetched a pitcher of water from a nearby hydrant to fill the vase.  The great grandchildren placed some flowers in the vase.

     Everyone was invited to attend another meal at a Japanese restaurant.  Following the meal, we all disbursed to rest and recover.  Half of the mourners left on Wednesday.  Those headed for Denver had to alter plans because the snowy cyclone on the planes shut down DIA on Wednesday.  It was tough finding a flight for Thursday.  The last of us left on Friday, and the funeral was over.

      The entire trip, the meals, the ceremony were typical of Obachan’s generosity.  May she be blessed as she blessed us.    

     

    Obituary

     After living a long and what she always considered a lucky and wonderful life, Shizuko O. Johnson, age 90, passed away peacefully on the morning of January 22, 2019, in Seattle, Washington.  Shizuko was born in the Yoyogi neighborhood of Tokyo, Japan, the seventh of ten siblings.  She was proud to be an Edo-ko, a child of Edo, whose family lineage stretched back to the time when Tokyo was still known as Edo.  As a young girl, she loved helping her father and grandfather host the Obon celebration in Yoyogi annually.  They played the taiko drum and sang while she helped lead the dances.

     At school, Shizuko was the abacus champion and volleyball team captain.  She loved to sing and dance.  One day, while attending a women’s business college, her friend convinced her to give her moral support at an audition with the post-war Ernie Pyle Show which would be performing at the famous Takarazuka Theatre in the Ginza.  On a lark, Shizuko decided to audition too and was selected to join the troupe.

      It was during this time that she met her future husband, Walter Johnson.  They married, had their first daughter, Patricia, and then decided to move to Honolulu, Hawaii in 1949.  Once there, Shizuko began a career as a radio announcer with KHON and KPOI airing a popular Japanese language children’s program.  They returned to Tokyo in 1954 and had their second daughter, Michelle.  In 1964, the family moved to the United States, first to Denver and then to Honolulu in 1966.  Shizuko soon returned to her career as a radio announcer, airing a variety music program for KZOO radio station.  She also worked in the fabric department of the Shirokiya Department Store in Ala Moana Center.

     One day a tour company from Japan called Shizuko and asked if she could take a few visitors around Oahu.  She said “sure!”  This simple trip around the island helped launch the modern Japanese tourism industry in Hawaii.  Shizuko worked as a tour guide for several large Japanese tour companies until she became the first Japanese woman to obtain a Public Utility Commission license authorizing her to carry passengers in her spacious green Cadillac.  For the next 40 years, Shizuko owned and operated an independent tour company offering customized tours to Japanese tourists.  In addition to running her business, Shizuko served as the President of the Japanese Tour Guide Association for many years.

     Shizuko had a great and lasting love for Hawaii, her adopted home for more than half a century.  As often happens in Hawaii, there came a time when Shizuko had to leave Honolulu to live closer to her daughters on the mainland.  Shizuko lived her last years at the Nikkei Manor in Seattle, Washington, making new friends and meeting old fans who had listened to her radio programs in Hawaii every day!  Shizuko’s family is grateful to the management and staff at Nikkei Manor for the loving, professional care they provided Shizuko and for making every day for her and for all residents a joyful experience.  Shizuko taught everyone there how to clap their hands the Japanese way and how to dance the Tokyo Ondo.  She will be remembered for her engaging smile, her sweet, clear singing voice and her endearing flair for lifting the spirits of everyone around her.

     Shizuko’s husband, Walter, predeceased her.  Shizuko is survived by her two daughters, Patricia and Michelle, four grandchildren, Letitia, LeAndra, Izumi and Seiji and two great-grandchildren, Bronson and Ealie.

       (By Michelle Johnson Hansen)

The Cat’s Out of the Bag

      Hemi the Cat came to visit us a while back.  He’s a senior citizen now, having existed more than a dozen years. 

     He has renal problems.  He’s supposed to eat a high-powered cat food available only from his vet, but he doesn’t seem to care much for it.  The result is he has lost a lot weight from his halcyon days.

     He has slowed down some, is quite willing to lounge in your lap for as long as you’re willing to let him.  He still wants to play hide and seek, especially late at night or early in the morning.  Then he is content to spend the rest of the day napping or visiting the sand box.  He drinks a lot of water.

     However, he still enjoys finding ways to annoy.  This trip, he discovered the joys of the step cabinet.  The step cabinet is somewhat of a Japanese antique.  It is a quite versatile piece of furniture.  Apparently, in the olden days, it did double duty as a stairway to the loft as well as a place to store stuff.

      It comes in three pieces, which can be arranged in various ways.  Besides a stairway, it can also be arranged as it is here, as a regular cabinet.  Here it doubles as the entertainment center, meaning for us, it holds the TV and the video player.

       Because it can be configured different ways, it has another unique feature:  the doors and drawers are the same on both sides.  The drawers can be slid out or removed from either side, with identical handles on either side.  What you see on this side is also what you see on the other side.

     Hemi learned early in life how to open doors.  If you linger in bed beyond 6:30 or so, you will hear him meowing and sticking his forepaw under the bedroom door, trying to get it open.  The door is closed and latched because if you don’t do that, he will be on the bed with you during the night.  That would be okay, too, except he can’t hold still.  He has to try continually to make his nest more comfortable, which means you will have a fuzzy tail or a purring nose in your face when you are trying to sleep.

      Hemi discovered the ring handles on the step cabinet.  He can hook the handle, pull it out and let it fall back, making a clinking sound, not unlike the grandkids when they were still in their crawling stage.  He could actually pull a couple of the lighter drawers out.  Unlike the grandkids, he didn’t remove the contents of the drawer and scatter them all over the floor.

      So far, so good.  Another thing Hemi likes to do is crinkle paper.  He likes to march in place on paper, newspaper, book, magazine, loose leafs, it doesn’t matter.  He likes the sound of the crinkling paper.  The hinged door provided a double treat form him.

      Inside are goodies wrapped in cellophane (an old word for you) that make a lot of noise when it is handled (or walked on) like crinkling paper.  The space probably has a smell from the various kinds of seaweed and other goodies.  Hemi found his way into that part of the cabinet.  When we blocked the front door, he went between the wall and the back side of the cabinet and got into the cabinet from that side.

      A piece of foam jammed between wall and cabinet cut off his access.  We managed to pass the rest of the week in peaceful coexistence.  

     Hemi was successfully captured and sent home.  He hates riding in a car.  If he thinks a car ride is imminent, he will hide.  In previous visits, we have spent a lot of time trying to find him when it came time to go home.  We have learned to lock him in the bathroom while we load his litter box and his food supply.  Such actions tip him off that a car ride is on the agenda.

     We have readjusted to life without a pet.  We don’t miss cleaning the litter box or trying to rid ourselves of black hair from clothes and seat cushions. 

     We do miss being greeted first thing in the morning with a chorus of meows, the flopping down on the floor in front of us, the demand to have belly and ears scratched.  We miss having a warm lap companion while sitting in front of computer or TV.

     Viva Hemi.

     

Telescams

      “This is an important message about your credit card.  Currently, there is no problem with your credit card. . . .”

      “This message is from Microsoft.  Your computer has been compromised.  Do not do any financial transactions on your computer. . . . ”

     “You have a serious case filed against you by the IRS. . . . “

      I got a new one last week.  “We can no longer repair your computer.  Would you like a refund on what you have paid us?”

      I get so many bogus phone calls, I have the “Do-Not-Call Registry Violations” page bookmarked on my browser. https://complaints.donotcall.gov/complaint/complaintcheck.aspx if you want to file.  It was out of service during the government shutdown.  Maybe that’s why the robo calls have proliferated the last few weeks?

     One problem with filing is the scammers’ ability to mask their true phone number.  Sometimes, I have dialed a missed-call number to find either a baffled person on the other end who obviously didn’t make the call, or a message that the number I had dialed is no longer in service.  Conversely, I have had strangers call me and ask, “Did you just call me?”  Well, no.  It probably isn’t much help for those trying to enforce the Do-Not-Call registry if they don’t have the offenders’ true phone number.

     Anyway, one of the questions you have to answer as you fill out the complaint is “Have you asked them not to call?”  With that in mind, I stayed on the line or dialed the number I was given not too long ago.

       “Hello, how may I help you?” the seriously accented voice asked.

      “You can put me on your do-not-call list,” I answered.

      “[Unintelligible gibberish] not in my head.”

      “What?  It’s not in your head.  What do you mean?”

      “Not in my head!”

     “Are you saying you can’t put me on the do-not-call list?”

      “Y-e-s, but eef you want computer. . . .”

      “Whoa, whoa, whoa!  I don’t need to listen to all that.”

      “[Unintelligible gibberish] eediuht?”

      “What?  I can’t understand you.  Try again.”

      [Slowly] “Are you eediuht?”

      “Am I an idiot?”

     “Yeah.”

      “Probably, after all, I am talking to you.”

      “Your computer. . . .”

      “I don’t want to hear all that.  Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

      “Yeah?”

       “Do you comb your hair?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Do you look in the mirror to do it?”

     “Yeah.”

      “Do you ever say to the guy in the mirror that’s what a dirty, low-down, no-good-for-nuthin’ THIEF [click] looks like?”   End of conversation.

      That worked so well, when the guy wanting to refund the money I had paid to get my computer fixed (of course, I hadn’t paid anyone to fix my computer), I decided to try it again.

But it didn’t work.  When I asked him a second time to put me on their do-not-call list, he hung up. 

      Life, with all our conveniences, seems always to find a way to serve us lemons.  The cell phone is a marvelous invention.  Wouldn't it be nice if folks didn't abuse it? 

       I guess I’ll try to make some lemonade.  My goal now will be to get the telescammer to stay on the line long enough for me to ask him the pertinent question, “Do you like being a thief?”  Maybe I’ll be able to get an answer out of him.

       The problem is sorting out the genuine telephone calls from the scammers.  You can look up the number on the white pages reverse lookup if you have any doubts.   If the number is a private one, reverse lookup won’t give you the name of the caller.  However, it will tell you what the chances are that the number is associated with scams.

       If the number your phone shows is a bogus one, none of the above really works.  You are left with the ultimate solution, ignore the call.

       The irritating factor is the call always comes when your hands are covered with paint or grease or flour, or your phone is buried deep in purse or pocket.  Or worse of worst, when you forgot to shut the phone off for an important meeting, or while standing on stage (yes, it has happened—to me!).

        Ignore the phone’s demand.  If it’s important, they’ll call back.

      Good advice.  I’ll try to follow it.

     

Tucson Museums

      Tourists.  We played the role during our stay in Tucson.  We took in three “museums”, in quotes because none of the three quite fit the image of a big building with a collection of stuff.

       The Air and Space museum has four or five huge buildings filled with old airplanes, but it also has something like 80 acres of planes sitting in the desert sun where rust threatens not.

     There are a few planes from the time after World War I, such as a biplane or a Taylorcraft.

      Most of the collection dates from World War II.  We caught on with a knowledgeable tour guide who told us about the history of many of the WWII bombers and fighters stored in the buildings.   There were a few helicopters and some jet-powered aircraft in the buildings. 

     Huge behemoths rest on the tarmac outside.  It was a nice warm day with only a slight breeze, so we spent some time taking a look.

     The Desert Museum should really be called a zoo.   Various animals inhabit cages and enclosures.  Something like a dozen different rattlesnakes laze behind glass.  Three different ladies had non-poisonous snakes wrapped around their arms, which visitors could stroke if they wish.  I didn’t wish.     You can spend a few hours wandering around the grounds outdoors.

      You can take a look at some stalactites or stalagmites.

      Or some pig-like animals called javelinas who roam the desert.  RV campers are advised not to leave garbage out because it will attract javelinas, which can be destructive.  They aren’t really pigs.  Joe pointed out any pig would easily burrow under the fence and get out.

     Raptors provided the highlight of our visit.  They put on a show twice a day.  They zoom down close over the heads of their visitors to take meat from their handlers.  Keep your camera down below your face, and don’t hold small children on your shoulders.  They will be in the flight path and could be injured.

     Perhaps the most interesting place we visited was the Biosphere.  Like many folks, I had forgotten all about that experiment.  It was an attempt to create an enclosed space where humans could survive in an otherwise harsh environment, such as on the moon or Mars.

     It’s called Biosphere 2, Biosphere 1 being planet earth.  It consists of huge glass buildings with various types of environments enclosed, such as a rain forest.

     Or an ocean, where they killed the coral by introducing too much CO2.  An ongoing experiment is to revive the coral by finding a species that can withstand higher levels of carbonic acid, the product of water and CO2.

     A water filtration system helps recycle wastewater by using plants to take out the impurities.

     Of course, there is a desert “scene”.

     Underlying the indoor environment is a huge air-handler system.  Currently, it relies on fossil fuels to generate the electricity to operate pumps, fans, lights, etc.  They are working on developing solar power, which would be necessary on either the moon or Mars.

      Finally, there is the huge “lung” that makes it possible to keep an atmosphere enclosed without deadly blowouts of glass panes as pressure varies from changes in pressure from sunlight and the absence of solar rays, day and night, in other words.  As the air expands, the “ceiling” rises.  When the air cools, the “ceiling” lowers, keeping the atmospheric pressure somewhat stable.   

      The experiment started in the 1980’s, I think.  It was privately funded, land and materials mostly donated.  Now, it is funded and run by University of Arizona.

      Originally, eight people spent two years inside.  A second group of people began a term inside, but the experiment was halted, partially due to problems the first eight developed as a result of the isolation.  In a way, it was the forerunner of modern day survivor TV shows.

     The experiment continues, but without the human guinea pigs.  It will be interesting to see the results of trying to create viable systems separated from Biosphere 1.

Lou Gehrig’s Disease

     Fear.  Dread.  Horror.   And increasingly, people’s names.  Recently, I added one more name.

     Two years ago, we delivered a singing Valentine to a young lady, a victim of the disease.   She is in her 40’s.  We stood, two of us on one side of her bed, two on the other side.  On the walls of her bedroom hung testaments to her life:  pictures of her running, accepting a trophy, plaques and awards, along with other photos.

      She had been a competitive runner, a dancer, as well as a model.  She is that beautiful.  Now, she can move a leg a little.  Unable to speak, she controls a computer by eye movement.  Her computer is nearly as sophisticated as the one Stephen Hawking used.  Using the computer, she has authored a book.

      As we sang our two songs, tears ran down her cheeks.  Only by detaching from the situation did I prevent my own tears from joining hers.  It was Valentine’s Day.  We were supposed to be delivering joy.

     It is difficult to describe the emotions we felt as we left her room, the house, and walked back to the car.  Relief or shame that she had to deal with that burden, not me?

     Anger that life should dictate that anyone has to deal with that? 

     Pride in the human spirit that empowers a person to overcome insurmountable challenges?                     

     Joy that we could bring (we hoped) a moment of that same joy to her?

     Humility because we who had normal abilities didn’t do more with them?  Because we had this talent to share with others, yet didn’t share it more often?

      The last weekend of November, we headed to Greeley to the Union Colony Civic Center Festival of Trees.  The Center provides cookies, coffee, and fruit cups to mostly older folks who are available to attend such an event on a Wednesday at 1 p.m.  While the attenders munch goodies, walk around to view the trees that various organizations have decorated and entered into the display, and maybe enter a bid for the silent auction items on display, we sang some Christmas Carols.  We have been a part of this scene for three years, now.

      About 2:30, the ticket buyers (costs $3) move into the auditorium to take in the program presented by the Greeley Philharmonic Guild.  We sang “Java Jive” for the crew serving coffee, chatted with the Greeley Tribune reporter, and headed off for a less attractive job.

      Rex had been informed that one of his and Dick’s old barbershop buddies had just been diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease.  He was in a rehab facility between Greeley and Loveland.  We should drop in and sing a song.

     A year ago, it was a similar situation, but following our Greeley appearance, we went to a hospital where one of our own chorus members was fighting cancer.  Last year, we went to the information desk to get the right room, only to find that Dale had checked out an hour or two before we got there.  Would we have the same luck this year?

      No, Ben was still in his assigned room.  We made our way through the labyrinth toward the room. 

     Dick stopped us and presented an idea.  He would blow the pitch for “Hello Neighbor” quietly just outside the door.  We would make a grand entrance.  It works because we begin the song with an arpeggio beginning with the tenor singing “hello”, followed by lead, baritone, and ending with the bass echoing “hello” on their respective notes.  “Okay?” Dick asked.

     “Okay.  If anybody gets shot it will be me,” I said.  I would be the first one through the door.

     Dick quietly blew the note on his pitch pipe.  I took the pitch and headed through the door.  “Hello!” I sang as I barged into the room.  There were four people in the room, Ben sitting in a chair, his wife standing beside him, one son standing close to the door I came through, and another son sitting on the bed right in front of me.

      They all startled at this unexpected interruption of this skinny gray-haired old guy busting through the door shouting “Hello!”  The man on the bed jumped and turned to face me.  The others all registered shock in their faces, that didn’t disappear when Ted closely followed me in the same manner, the only difference being the pitch of his “hello.” 

      When Dick followed, then Rex, the looks of shock were replaced with first relief and then joy as they saw two faces they recognized.  We weren’t far into the song before Ben had tears running down his cheeks.  With some difficulty, we finished the song. 

     Ben’s wife hugged Rex.  He explained that we had two more songs we wanted to sing for Ben.  She retreated and we went through “Chordbusters March” and “Java Jive.”  Then the old acquaintances greeted one another while Ben’s sons introduced themselves to the two newbies, Ted and I.

      The one son told me that barbershop was the one thing that kept his dad going, that he brought recordings for him to listen to, but our live performance far exceeded the canned versions.  He thanked me profusely for coming to sing.

      Outside in the hall just outside the door, we had drawn a dozen or so listeners from other patients and their caretakers.  When we exited the room, the onlookers dispersed. 

     In the hall, Ben’s wife confided in us that at the moment we crashed through the door, they had just returned from a meeting with the doctors who outlined what Ben had to look forward to in the coming days and weeks.  She said they were at an all-time low, that our interruption had done a lot to restore their spirits.  She thanked us for taking time to come sing for them.

      This time, we had to delay our reaction to our emotional performance.  We stopped to sing for the nurses and others at the nurses’ station.  Again, we drew a small crowd, some in wheelchairs, some using walkers, some staff members.

       We sang one for the ladies at the front desk who said they couldn’t hear us, we were so far away.  That one turned into two as again we drew some listeners.  One of the ladies among those gathered asked for a business card.  She said she would sure like for us to come back.

      We were a few miles down the road before Dick broke the silence by venturing that it was amazing how easy it was for us to bring a little joy to folks.  We should consider ourselves lucky that we had that talent.        

     Indeed.  Gratitude that we have that talent and gratification we get from others who appreciate it.  Those emotions wrestle with all the others that such an outing induces.

     Ben died on December 28.