During the COVID pandemic, Greg Tivis, a full-time musician, and I played music for a Happy Hour at the PARC Traditions independent living facility in Bryan, TX. Given the health concerns, we played outside. Most of the attendees were on their balconies, which surrounded us on each side, but a few were in chairs outside at a distance from us. Greg decided to video the performance live on Facebook.
While we were playing, a woman approached Greg at the piano. An aid soon escorted her away, only to have her reapproach Greg with a little dancing. This event spawned a short story that I am sharing with you in this post.
For a brief background, once a week I am in a literature discussion with three friends, Lane Rawlins, Mark Morlock, and David Knowles. All are Ph.D. economists, all retired, and all lovers of literature.
Lane is a graduate of the University of California at Berkeley, and he was the supervisor of Mark’s and Dave’s Ph.D. dissertations at Washington State University. Lane was president of three universities before he retired, University of Memphis, University of North Texas, and finally Washington State University where he started as an economics professor.
Dave was a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam and lived through the experience – no small feat. Dave later did a lot of expert witness work. He also has a suitcase full of his poems and other writings that I am hoping will someday see the light of day.
Mark lives in Chico, CA, where he taught economics at California State University. His current passion is literature. His writing includes a novel called The Secret Watcher of Summit Avenue, that I recommend, but also poems and short stories.
Upon watching the video of Greg and I, Mark wrote a short story inspired by the lady who approached Greg. It is called Marie.
Marie
by
Mark Morlock
The large lattice-covered patio has been set with dozens of folding chairs, filled now to capacity with the aged residents of this assisted living facility, their collective bobbing heads resembling from above whitecaps on a lake in a storm. Marie sits halfway down the left side on the edge, next to her husband Jerry’s wheelchair. Together they have one functioning body. Jerry, who has lost most of the use of his legs, still has a strong mind, while Marie, whose body is still fully operative, is transitioning from the moderate to the severe stage of Alzheimer’s Disease. The skin on her face is rough with furrows, and her delicate hands are painted with liver spots. Her white hair is cut in a severe bob.
Everyone is listening to the music of Dr. Fry’s Traveling Medicine Show, which today consists of Cliff Fry on the guitar and Greg Tivis on the piano. They’re good musicians, and they’re playing music from the antiquarian days of this old group’s youth. Marie listens to the music curiously, as if it were coming from far away. The fingers of her left hand, which rest on the armrest of Jerry’s wheelchair, unconsciously tap out a clumsy beat.
Now the music changes. Greg is playing what Marie hears as a boogie-woogie riff, Greg’s left hand drumming out a driving bass beat while his right hand tickles the ivory up and down the scale. This is her music, and as she listens it envelops her and carries her, skipping and rolling, some seventy years back in time, to a small town in North Texas on a cool autumn night, to when she had just turned seventeen and she and her best friend Trudy had pinned up the hems on their skirts and snuck into Green Gables to hear the locally famous Bill Henson Band. She and Trudy had taught themselves to Lindy Hop, and they sit together, sipping their cokes, hoping for someone to ask them to dance.
After a short time, a man approaches their table. He’s short with a crew cut haircut, and wears an Army uniform with a big Indian head patch on his right shoulder. “Either of you girls know how to Lindy?” he asks with a playful smile.
“I do!” Marie sings out, beating Trudy by a split second.
“Well then let’s get to it,” the soldier says, offering her his hand.
Marie stands, then moves slowly past Jerry and begins a slow walk up the left side of the audience toward the two musicians. Jerry calls to her, but all she’s aware of is the driving boogie-woogie beat and the feel of the soldier’s hand as he leads her towards the dance floor.
“I’m Jerry,” he says. The name tag on his uniform reads Snyder. Jerry Snyder.
“I’m Marie,” she says.
Marie makes her way to the two musicians and stands just a few feet from Clifford. But she sees clear through him, captured fully now by the thrill of that long-ago moment—the lights bright and multi-colored, the vague smell of whiskey and beer, the rambunctious crowd cheering on the dancers. After a few moments she begins lifting her feet, first one and then the other.
On the dance floor Marie and Jerry begin moving together to the fast beat of the band, doing basic steps, getting used to each other’s movements. Then it was time to swing.
“You ready?” Jerry asks.
“Oh, yea,” she replies, her eyes like blue sunlight.
And then they’re off, Jerry leading her around, then out and back in, then out on her own, her skirt twirling up and out, her feet tap dancing back to him.
“You’re good,” she says.
“You, too,” he replies.
And she is. And she knows it. She goes out again, spinning and skipping back, breathing hard now. She moves around him, then he takes her hand and throws her out again and she SuziQs back.
And then…she feels a strong hand on her shoulder, stopping her. She turns to the hand and sees that it belongs to one of the nurse’s aides that oversee her life at the facility. Her face remains bland and emotionless as the aide turns her and leads her away back to her seat, but in her still vivid memory she screams “no! no! I don’t want to go home! I don’t want to go home!” But then, as always when disturbed, the memory flies quickly away.
Back in her seat, Jerry takes her hand. “You’ve been dancing, my darling,” he says, watching the last of the sunlight fade from her ancient eyes. He leans to her and kisses her wrinkled cheek.
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https://www.facebook.com/greg.tivis/videos/10220198834975056
This is the link to our performance at that Happy Hour. From 16.5 through 18.5 minutes in the video you will see the Marie inspiration.
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