Rapp Schoolhouse, Photo by Kareen King
“What do the Dust Bowl, Huntington’s disease, hillbilly music, The Grapes of Wrath, Grandpa Walton, the Ku Klux Klan, Woodrow Wilson, and Bob Dylan have in common?”
I looked at the blank stares from a semi-circle of Assisted Living residents, knowing they wouldn’t be able to answer the question, but loving the idea that maybe I engaged their curiosity.
“That’s o.k.! I don’t expect anybody to be able to answer that question, but it was fun asking it anyway,” I teased. “The answer is Woody Guthrie. Raise your hand if you’ve heard of him.”
A couple hands rise.
“Raise your hands if you’ve never heard of him.”
A few more hands rise.
“Well, once you hear this next song, you will all realize you’ve heard of Woody Guthrie.”
I proceed to sing his famous song, “This Land is Your Land,” inviting the residents to join in.
Over the next 45 minutes, the space was filled with evidence to support my opening statement, with special attention to the Dust Bowl. My reference to Woody Guthrie’s first album, Dust Bowl Ballads, the most successful album of his career, led to some invigorating discussion and reminiscence. The most fascinating story was told by 95-year-old “Millie.” She recalled how she couldn’t see past her hands and proved it by her account of what happened at her one-room school house. Apparently the dust was so thick that her school teacher sent the kids home, a decision that would undoubtedly cost her job had the same decision been made today. Millie proceeded to tell how she and her brother crawled along the ditches, using the fence as a guide to lead them home as they used their hands to grab the posts along the way.
I also shared about Woody’s hardships including his family living through three fires, his mother being committed to a hospital for the “insane,” losing two adult daughters and his mother to Huntington’s disease and one adult son to a car accident, his father’s debts that led Woody to beg for food on the streets and sleep in the homes of relatives at the age of fourteen, three marriages, and eventually Woody’s personal bout with Huntington’s Disease that led him to an early death at the age of 55.
“Can anyone relate to living through at least one tragedy?” I probed, as I watched heads nod and hands rise.
As our time drew to a close, I summarized our experience with the intention of facilitating some introspection for some of who were likely processing life resolution issues.
“Woody once said, ‘Let me be known as just the man that told you something you already knew.’ So, I’d like you to think for a moment about what you want to be known as to others, or for what you want to be known.” I submit.
I then move toward our one-and only centenarian.
“You’ve been on this earth 100 years, “Frank.” For what would you like to be known?”
Frank stares at me and shakes his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Hmmm . . . I want you to think about that for awhile. Let me try someone else.”
I move over to “Jean” and ask the same, getting a similar response. Not wanting to end our time together on a low note, I muster up an idea to redeem the situation.
Calling upon the rules of improvisation which include taking risks, I take the plunge.
“Okay. So, let me try something else. I’m going to go around the circle to each of you and choose one word that comes up for me about you.”
One by one I stand before each human being, look them in the eye, pause, and then assign them their word, hoping it resonates. The words come fairly easily including loyal, inquisitive, ambitious, introspective, feisty, admirable, ornery, godly, poised, and positive.
When I stand before “James,” a man of short stature who has trouble retrieving words and knowing which direction to walk, I pause a little longer, slightly unsure.
“James,” I speak pensively. “I don’t know if the word that comes to me is a word that a man would normally want to be thought as, but the word gentle comes to mind.”
As I remain with him, I see heads nod and I watch tears well up in James’ eyes.
I eventually close our circle with words from John Steinbeck, author of The Grapes of Wrath and a personal friend of Woody’s. “Woody is just Woody. Thousands of people do not know he has any other name. He is just a voice and a guitar. He sings the songs of a people and I suspect that he is, in a way, that people. Harsh voiced and nasal, his guitar hanging like a tire iron on a rusty rim, there is nothing sweet about Woody, and there is nothing sweet about the songs he sings. But there is something more important for those who will listen. There is the will of the people to endure and fight against oppression. I think we call this the American spirit.”
This, and our ritual closing song, “Happy Trails.”
Everyone returned to their rooms, the dining room was set back up, the people came back for lunch, the tables were bussed, I had lunch with my coworkers, and then we all went back to our individual duties, me at my laptop in my makeshift “office,” the private dining room.
About two hours after our Woody Guthrie program, I noticed a quiet presence in my space. I looked up and their stood gentle James.
“I want to thank you for what you said about me,” he said.
“Well, you are very welcome. I truly meant it.” I replied.
“What was it you said about me again?”
Of course, with pleasure, I said it all over again.
