Heaven

 I have no idea of what heaven would be like, but I have my thoughts.

As I look back, the nearest I may have come to heaven, perhaps, was in a piano bar in downtown Minneapolis. Allee Pigalle, it was named, and it drew four devil-may-cares on the prowl that night, must have been about 1978. Twenty somethings.

This was long before the obnoxious invention called Karaoke. The little bar was an intimate setting, where a friendly mistress encouraged patrons to cozy beside her baby grand and join her in whatever pleased. Very skilled in her craft, soon we complied: Bruce, Randy, Wayne and myself joined a previously seated singleton, and bellyed up to the piano bar, cocktails at hand.

Her talent seemed endless, as she seduced and guided us through a myriad of old favorites. Passing the microphone around, we sang heartily, often in harmonious quartet format, all Lutheran boys from Concordia, who had spent many a boring hour in enforced church chorus or congregational song, or even in college choir.

We sang through her variety of show tunes. She had large print song books to dish around in the dimness, and we did our best to entertain the roomful that had come just for the fun that summer weeknight. Eventually she turned a page to the popular show tune “Ol’ Man River” and I remembered hearing it being sung by a deep, rich bass, and recalled it to my memory. Seizing the day, I grabbed the mike and took my turn, careful not to spill the rest of my drink, and did my best to imitate that singer. Using the best vocal technique my dear mother ever taught me, I belted the finest rendition I could muster.

When done, I was pleased, even got a ripple from pre-occupied patrons. Then the microphone was genially passed around to the others and they offered their tunes . . . all except the man at the end of the bar, who had been just silently enjoying the pleasant camaraderie.

Eventually, not wishing to leave anyone out, the pianist kindly gestured to him, saying: “Sir, would you like to sing anything? Do you have any requests?”

“Yes,” the stranger responded. “I want to hear him sing ‘Old Man River’ again.”

And that, my dear friends, is what heaven must be like.

The wooden hand reappears

 

Once upon a time, long before the malevolent Covid had devastated the land, a gentle girl sweetly asked her grandpa if he would please buy a fake hand for her. A startling request to him, especially considering that she already had two perfectly good real ones. The odd request was made between the aisles, in Michael’s art supplies section, where grandpa is particularly vulnerable to these entreaties. 

She quickly secured the prize, as she was pretty sure she would be able, based on previous experience. She played with the flexible hand all the way home, coyly freaking out some surprised motorists, though modestly refraining from twisting the fingers into any gross misdemeanors. Grandpa figured he’d never see the wooden-jointed figure again, but, oh well, the grin on her face was worth it. Impulse purchase.

A long cold winter and endless hours of aloneness intervened, interspersed with rare and protected visits. A dark time, indeed.

But today, without warning, the fake hand reappeared In a modest sketch presented in a text. Wonderful! She’s almost 15 now, and I know you’re tired of me bragging about how talented she is, but please indulge an old grandpa in his dotage, and admire the work of this talented child, who gives a needed break from the tedium and hopes for a future that shows so much promise.

 I will stop now. 

Thank you! No. Thank you!

        He keeps the elevator and lobby Covid-free with thorough cleaning and disinfecting. Cheerful, I greet him daily. His name is Nixon. I know little else about him, he’s a tall, strong, gentle man, a refugee from somewhere I think, might even have been an engineer in another life, but his language skills are so lacking, I can’t find out. But we smile and greet jovially. Never shake hands, of course, and, come to think of it, I actually have never seen him smile. Can tell by his eyes, I guess.

Got my first dose of Moderna today. Easiest experience. The organizers said to not come early and jam up the parking lot, but I am a senior citizen and I cannot help it. No matter. No waiting, No lines. Showed my ID and was directed straight to Angela, my RN at station Number 5 of 20. We joked and she asked a couple questions, and as soon as I had my winter coat off and exposed my arm, it was done.

No pain. No band aid needed. She gave me a sticker that said on it the time I received my vaccine and when I could safely leave. My original appointment was for 9:25. My exit time was 9:25. Ha. The hardest part of the experience was driving the 30 miles to the dance hall in -8 temperatures. Kudos to Waconia Ridgeview Hospital for a job well done at the town event center! Never seen so many old farts in one room, socially distanced! Great job, Ridgeview! Lots of unused waiting lanes, labels, helpful polite volunteers. Planning pays!

When I got back, Nixon was hard at it, diligently disinfecting the elevators. Had to tell him. I jabbed at my arm, gesturing and shouting that I had just received my first vaccine!

He immediately gave a big universal “thumbs up” sign, and said “Thank You, Thank You,” which seemed a very odd response to my obnoxious bragging. Oh yes, I remembered. He doesn’t have an English vocabulary, just limited phrases.

“Thank you, thank you,” he repeated.

Then it struck me. He didn’t know it, but that was a very appropriate, intelligent remark. He made me realize it. I didn’t get that shot just for myself. I got it for Nixon too. And everyone else I love, and those in the herd. Together we’ll all get back to normal. So I will join Nixon and say it now as well. Thank you for getting a vaccine as soon as you possibly can. I am tired of all this. Thank you for helping to end it.

Thank you, thank you.

Six bucks at Cub. Can't remember the name. Help.

 Asiatic lilies, says Sue. Stargazer Lillies is another.