Music to my ears

This week has been full of learning experiences. This past Monday night, while at Seth's band concert, a young lady approached me and thanked me for reading a story of mine to her class last year. She told me remembered the story, then told me several key points. I was moved to tears; there are times when my thought processes are running slow, times I haven't heard from editors in months; in the hazy hours of the early morn, it is these occurrences that make me wonder why I write at all. Thanks to the young lady, I remember.

I write for the sheer joy of it. I like the rush of adrenaline as I create a story. If I have a story idea while I'm at the store, I can't wait to get home and start on it. I sometimes find myself so absorbed in the story that everything else is forgotten. Once, I was writing a horror story for a magazine. The deadline loomed and I was coming up empty; finally the day the piece was to ve turned in, inspiration hit me. I worked way into the night and became so engrossed in the story, I didn't hear John come in the room.

His touch on my shoulder sent an icy chill down my spine, and my heart skipped a beat. "Argh! What the hell do you want?" I blurted, spinning around in the office chair. I thought the icy hand of the corpse in my story had come to life and grabbed me. Watching The Ring a few hours earlier for inspiration had taken its toll on my nerves.

"You don't have to scream at me. It's past midnight and I wanted to know when you plan on coming to bed."

"Soon . . . soon. I'll be there as soon as I'm finished." I completed the piece and scampered off to bed a few minutes later. I'll never watch that movie again. It still has me scared silly.

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Late yesterday afternoon, I learned that Seth and his 4-H group were to go caroling at the local nursing homes. I resembled a caffeine-crazed "Kramer" as I buzzed around the kitchen, trying to get everything done before caroling.

Time was ticking away, and just as we were getting ready to leave, Robert zipped out the front door and played a merry game of catch-me-if-you can. Isn't funny how a toddler can outrun an adult for a few yards? I had to break the sound barrier as I raced after him on foot. Finally, after my little jackrabbit was caught and strapped into his car seat, we hastily delivered cookies to neighbors before caroling.

All that rushing around was for nothing. We arrived at the nursing home before everyone else. The home was tastefully decorated, but the mood was depressing as we passed several lonely forgotten residents on our way to the nurses station. I was horrified when the head nurse said that they knew nothing of our group caroling there.

"But you're welcome to walk up and down the halls and sing if you wish," the nurse smiled. "The residents would really love it."

That's what you say know. Wait until I start singing, then there will be a steady stream of bedpans thrown at me, I thought. I can play instruments; as I've said many times before, singing is not my greatest skill.
I was thankful when the rest of the group arrived.

I'll never forget the looks on the resident's faces as we walked by; eyes that were filled with misery lit up in delight as the melodic strains of our singing reached their tired old ears. A woman, bent with age, walked up to every one of us and said, "God bless you." That simple phrase almost reduced me into an emotional wreck. We were the ones that were blessed; we were in the presence of ones who had helped to create our great nation.

I left with a feeling of fulfillment. Once again, the Christmas spirit had touched me.