Dolly Will Never Go Away Again

“Why don’t you come and play for us here?”

It was a request that came from my mother.

“Here” was a senior community/assisted living facility where my mom had resided for about a year in independent living. 

I wasn’t thinking along those lines, but it was mom asking. So I called the activities coordinator and said I wanted to volunteer to play some music for the residents. 

I was eventually scheduled to come out on a Friday night and play for about an hour. 

A decent number of residents from both assisted living and independent living showed up, and they seemed to enjoy it. I ended the night with “Hello Dolly”, which was basically my mom’s song, being that it bore her name. 

“Music Night” became a regular monthly thing, and the audience started to slowly grow in numbers. 

I noticed that the residents enjoyed singing along when they knew a song, and I started singing with them, until eventually I was singing on every song, something I had not done often with that style of music in the past.

These folks were no different than me when it came to music. 

The music that is popular in our younger years tends to hit us like nothing else does. There were certainly crowd pleasers from the latter decades, such as “Edelweiss” and “Moon River”, but I found my wheelhouse with this group with the earlier stuff. I realized my repertoire from those years could use some expanding. 

I started asking myself questions I had never asked before. 

• Based on their median age, what songs would they have heard on the radio growing up? 

• What songs could they have fallen in love to that would become “their song”? 

• What songs were playing at the dance halls they frequented? 

I started listening to some Mitch Miller sing-along albums of hits from the era, and taking a cue from Stereogum’s “The Number Ones” column, of which I was already a frequent commenter, I researched what was topping the charts in the 40s. I found the answers that my audience (and commenters like Link Crawford) already knew. There were some great songs out there that I had never even heard, or I was only vaguely aware of them.

I started adding songs to my repertoire, such as:

And one that became a personal favorite: “(I Love You) For Sentimental Reasons.” In addition, the residents would request songs for me to learn, such as “Harbor Lights,” “All the Way,” or “My Heart Belongs to Daddy…”

In experiencing the music with people that had a special connection with it, I began feeling the songs on a deeper level myself. 

Singing a song like “Stardust” with its gorgeous melody and vividly descriptive lyrics, I found myself getting transported back to those days right with them, as if I had been there too.

I would tell the residents how meaningful it was to share this music with people that resonated with it and cared about it. I meant every word. No matter what kind of day I was having, hearing those voices singing along made me know I was exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment, and everything felt right.

The joy that would fill the room and the connection across generations that was happening was simply life-affirming. One woman would often stand up at the end and thank me for taking them back to their youth. The same woman also said “yeah, right” in amusement when I announced that the next song would be “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.”

Through it all, my mom was right there in the front row. And when we would end with “Hello Dolly,” people would cheer for her and come up to her afterward. It was as if she were the belle of the ball.

Always the quiet and unassuming one and not used to the attention, nevertheless, I believe she was getting a kick out of all of it.

Bringing her down to music night became more of a challenge, as she wasn’t always in the mood to see anyone or to be seen, or was just too tired. But more often than not, she took her place right beside me in her wheelchair and could still be seen singing, clapping, and smiling ear to ear. On a good day, her joy at hearing the music seemed to be greater than ever. One night, during an upbeat number, a spirited resident grabbed her by the arms, pulled her up out of the wheelchair and began dancing with her. It was both terrifying and exhilarating to see. I felt tears in my eyes. 

On the nights when she wasn’t up for it, the other residents would ask where she was and how she was doing, out of genuine concern. I was moved by the care and camaraderie they showed toward one another, and they way they felt about my mom was truly moving. 

Even when she wasn’t there, they would insist that we end the evening with “Hello Dolly.”

When mom could no longer be easily understood when she tried to communicate, we still had the music, and when I would sing to her, she would sing along or tap her fingers to the beat.

Sometimes she would even name the songs.

As difficult as it was for her, and hard for us as her children to watch her struggle and slowly change into someone quite different, in some ways those last years brought us all closer together than ever and had a beauty all their own. As I once told her, “I do miss the old Mom, but Mom 2.0 is pretty great too!” Amidst the changes, her dry sense of humor never left her, and even when she couldn’t throw out a classic zinger out of nowhere, a withering look said it all.

Sure enough, she sang along.

Not long after, she drifted into a state of semi-consciousness, and within a few days she slipped quietly into the next life. All six of us siblings were there in and out of that room, around the clock, playing her favorite songs, sharing memories, and sitting by her side in those final moments we had with her. We all had a chance to say goodbye to her, each in our own way. A month later, family and friends stood around her urn at the end of the funeral and sang “Dolly will never go away…” to her one last time.  She was no longer physically present, but she would never leave our hearts.

Just a few days after her passing, I was scheduled for my monthly music night with the residents. I fully intended to go, but at the eleventh hour, I knew I just couldn’t do it and cancelled. A few days later, I received a sympathy card in the mail, signed by a good number of the music night regulars, expressing their condolences.

We shared good times together, and now they were there in a time of deep sadness. 

They hadn’t forgotten. 

I could still hear my mother’s voice saying “why don’t you come and play for us?” I believed she would have wanted me to keep doing it if I could. 

Finally, after about a year absence, I returned early last year. I wasn’t sure who would be there waiting for me, but sure enough, there were some familiar faces, along with many new ones, all ready to share in some of the greatest music ever written. 

Without Mom there, I wasn’t sure how to end the evening. 

Those who knew of the tradition told me in no uncertain terms: that there was only one song to sing.

It was bittersweet, as I so wanted her to be there sitting in that front row, but I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be in that moment. 

And I still feel that way every time.

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