Y’all, I just have to wax enthusiastic for a minute over a fundraiser I attended recently here in Beaufort. “Fun raiser” might be a more accurate name – and Lord knows I needed it – but I hear they raised a lot of funds, too.
It was Valentine’s Day. My first without Jeff. I sat with Debbi and Brad, both of whom also lost their spouses last year, and Elaine, who lost her daughter almost two years ago.
Like me, I imagine none of them was feeling particularly upbeat about this Valentine’s Day – or even about this fundraiser. But there we all were at Tabby Place, dressed to the nines – well, more like the sevens in my case – and putting on our happiest faces for the good folks at Alzheimer’s Family Services.
Lots of local restaurants had come out for the cause – their logos lined the walls above tables of food – and the main entertainment was a couple of guys on Dueling Pianos.
As is often the case at our local fundraisers, the nibbles were tasty, the music was lively, and the company was delightful. But what made this fundraiser different from all the other fundraisers?
I’m pretty sure it was the singing.
No, not the singing of the paid entertainers – though the dueling piano guys (Marty and Greg) certainly did a lot of it – but our singing. The party-goers.’ And not just our table, either.
Marty and Greg were taking requests, and all over Tabby Place, people were singing along. Loudly. With gusto! In fact, I got the distinct impression that this was a room full of people who needed to sing, deep down in their bones.
When we sang American Pie, the piano guys skipped the whole middle section of the song, which was disappointing, since I know EVERY SINGLE WORD and have very few opportunities to prove it. But that was okay, because when they (prematurely) got to the part about “the three men I admire most,” one of them held the microphone to the audience, and we shouted in unison, “THE FATHER, SON, AND THE HOLY GHOST.” And it felt like a prayer meeting. Some kind of fancy tent revival.
We sang Don’t Stop Believin’ – who doesn’t love that one? – and when it ended, we definitely held onto that feelin’…
We belted the dark lyrics of Bohemian Rhapsody with an oddly cheerful energy – “Mama, ooooohhhh… I don’t wanna die… Sometimes wish I’d been born at all” – and people were damn near giddy by the end, when we all sang, “Nothing really matters, anyone can see… Nothing really matters, nothing really matters to me.”
I’m telling you, it was cathartic!
I watched old married people slow dance to Unchained Melody. And I sang. “Oh, my love… my darling… I’ve hungered for your touch… a long, lonely time.” And I cried. The crying felt good.
One of my daughter’s former classmates was there, all grown up and sophisticated in smart girl glasses, and dating a lawyer – also a grownup, complete with a mustache. They were not the only young people there, but they were among the few. I watched them adoring each other – and just being young together – and my heart swelled.
The piano guys played That’s Amore. And the crowd sang on.
Late in the first act, strains of an old Garth Brooks favorite filled the air, and I realized I was in a large room full of country music fans, because unlike me, almost everybody there knew the verses – not just the chorus. But I did know the chorus!
And as we all sang it together with raucous abandon – “I’ve got friends in low places” – I suddenly heard that lyric with fresh ears. And I knew it was talking about most of us in the room – the old, the young, and everybody in between. We had all been in low places, or had friends who were, and here we were together, supporting each other, celebrating life and love and people who toil in the fields of suffering and compassion – like Alzheimer’s Family Services.
I got a lump in my throat and had to stop singing for a minute.
When the party was over, I drove home – alone – and for the first time since I lost my husband, I didn’t sob in my car. I sang. And I was still singing when I walked through the door into my empty house. (I am finally – finally – remembering to turn on the porch light when I leave. I think they call that “self care.” It’s a new thing for me.)
As I got ready for bed that night, it occurred to me that there are many ways to celebrate Valentine’s Day. And many reasons. And singing makes everything better.
