Rock a my Soul

Today, I walked down the hill and visited my 102-year-old friend, Dr. Woolner. When I arrived, he was sitting in his chair, as usual. He had the newspaper in his lap. His first words to me were, “I’m an invalid.” I told him it couldn’t be all bad if he had his newspaper. I reminded him how much he likes the crossword, so he started looking for it. He was a bit sleepy, so his eyes closed every now and then as he looked at the paper. His son was there with him today, and he would “bring him back” by asking questions. Dr. Woolner was struggling.

I haven’t even known Dr. Woolner for a year yet. That seems hard for me to believe. I love that man and his zest for life; however, in my last couple of visits, I have noticed that his memory is slipping a bit more. That is very frustrating to him. While his son and I encouraged him with tidbits of stories we knew, kind of feeding him lines, he still struggled. He got mad. He wanted to tell the stories that just wouldn’t come to him. After we had visited for a while, I picked up a folder of old pictures that sat on the shelf next to his chair. I handed him the pictures one at a time, and stories started to come. This folder also contained some papers with short descriptions of the pictures and little stories. As he read those papers, he came alive. He read about how his family liked to sing together when he was a young boy. His dad worked hard on the farm and had a delivery business, but sometimes, he would just come into the house and play the piano. They would all sing along. “Dad didn’t know how to read music; he just played chords.” As he told me this, Dr. Woolner’s fingers started “playing” music right there on his newspaper.

One thing led to another, and pretty soon I had discovered that this man has yet another talent. He plays piano. I asked, “Do you want to play a song for me?” He said, “You’re going to have to demand it,” so I did. “I must hear you play.”

It was no small task to get him to the piano, but his son helped him out of his chair and over to the piano bench. Soon he was seated and began playing, just the way he had been pretending to play on that newspaper. He was chording, remembering those long ago days when his dad had done the same.

We looked through a few music books to try to discover something he could play for me. He kept going back to the chording, but eventually we decided on “Rock a my Soul (in the Bosom of Abraham).” 

He worked and worked and eventually overcame the urge to play those same chords he had started with. He sang along as he played. I was an admiring audience, for sure.  Every time I said, “Hey, you got it that time!” he said, “I’m working on it.” I was glad to be able to capture a glimpse of his creative process. 

All too quickly, I looked at my watch and discovered I had spent over an hour there. I needed to head back home. Dr. Woolner’s son helped him back to his chair. We were still humming “Rock a my Soul” and smiling. I said goodbye and told him I would be back again soon. He said, “I should hope so.”

My life is so much richer because of my connection to him. I wouldn’t trade the moments I have had with him for anything. Thank you, God, for the life of Lewis Benjamin Woolner, and for allowing that life to intersect with mine.