They are old, but they love singing. So on Sunday afternoons, Jeremy sings to them. The residents who can still sing, do.
Jeremy visits the nursing home after playing piano at the Methodist church. He sits at the upright in the cafeteria and plays the classics.
Wheelchairs roll in by the dozen. Residents park in rows. Early birds get seats up front. Stragglers sit in the nosebleeds.
Jeremy has been playing music since age six. He can play any tune in the hymnal like a bona fide Cokesbury jukebox. He does it with a smile.
He sings “Old Gospel Ship,” “I Saw the Light,” and “Church in the Wildwood.” When he finishes, the residents of the nursing home clap. Some louder than others.
Now the real fun begins.
They swarm Jeremy. They tell him stories. They touch him. They hug him.
“I was a logging man,” one old man tells Jeremy. “I cut wood in South Alabama, did I ever tell you that?”
“No sir.”
An old
woman touches Jeremy’s face. “You look just like my son, you’re so handsome, just like my son.”
Another woman wheels toward Jeremy in an electric chair. She hands him an old envelope. “Would you autograph this? You’re going to be famous one day, I just know it.”
He’s puts his John Hancock on the paper. She wheels away like she’s just confiscated Elvis’ underpants.
It’s lunchtime. The cafeteria comes alive with smells of canned corn, Salisbury steak, and creamed potatoes. I sit with Jeremy, we talk over plates of lukewarm apple pie. But our conversation is cut short.
Jeremy only has a little time left to make his rounds.
He jokes with the old man who is from New York. He laughs with the elderly woman whose husband was a florist. He talks to Luanne, who misses her daughter. He holds hands with Ernesta.…