Seniors enjoy musical concerts together

Almost every group that I spend time with has become mainly senior citizens. Of course the faithful members from years past have been getting years older. But it seems that the new members we attract are not the young people anymore. However, we will keep these organizations alive and well for them when they become seniors, because then they will enjoy the same musical programs we hear now at every meeting.

I'm not complaining. I love these times together. In fact I sometimes seem to have the leading bass part as we join in these organ recitals. I used to feel left out. I had no ailments to talk about. When I was diagnosed with Parkinson's I still was at a loss, because the symptoms of that vary some from person to person. But when the doctors discovered that I had already had a heart attack but didn't know it, I had lots to talk about -- and it was an organ. I could join the recital with my friends.

I remember reading Leonard Ernsbarger's columns shortly after he found out he had diabetes. He filled several columns with what he had learned and how he was experiencing his disease. I thought that now I could do the same thing.

It was hard to get started because how can you talk about an experience you didn't know you were having? I told about a time when Lester took me to the emergency room because of a pain in the neck. (You notice I am resisting any description of who that pain in the neck might have been.) They found nothing wrong with me so that obviously was not a heart attack. I couldn't remember any other time it might have been.

One possibility of Parkinson's disease is seeing things that are not there. I think they call them hallucinations. Others call them dreams. For example the other night I woke up when the late Dorothy Tyer was at my bedside asking in a firm voice, "Are you dreaming?" I was startled to see her and think I asked how she happened to be there. Then Lester, who was right beside her, asked the same question and said I was shouting in my sleep. Dorothy disappeared when Lester spoke and I couldn't see where she had gone. I answered Lester that I guess I was dreaming, but where had that woman gone? I said she looked like Dorothy, but Lester said there was no woman there, and wanted to know what my dream was about. I'm always willing to tell one of my colorful dreams to whoever will listen.

I gave him the short version, which was that I was a teacher of a bunch of third graders and they were all running away in different directions. That's enough to make any former substitute teacher shout out, isn't it?

After things settled down I began replaying the dream in my mind. I was sure it would have made a good short story if Lester had let me finish it. I'm sure the ending would have been that I finally got control of all the pupils and had the idea of forming them into teams to decide on a project and think how they would carry it out, and then I would have judges ready to find a winner. The children voted me "Teacher of the Year:" before the authorities came in to tell me that I was fired for not following the teacher's guide book.

See, I think I am not reacting to the disease or the medicines for it, but it is my writing urge that is seeking an expression. I could have three volumes of books of short stories, each one crazier than the last. And what's more, if you are my friend you probably would be in at least one of them.

Maybe it is better to talk about what my cardiologist said on my last visit. "You are too old to have surgery, so I will just give you these huge pills to take." Or was that one of my Parkinson's dreams?