Charlie Schlaufman strapped on his guitar, stepped to the modest stageactually a carpeted hallway opening into a small dining room — and launched a rollicking version of “Rolling in My Sweet Baby’s Arms.”
Audience members, all 12 of them, clapped and sang along. Schlaufman knew they might wake up the next morning with no recollection of his performance. For that matter, they could forget he was ever there within the hour.
He was OK with that.
Because on this Sunday afternoon, he was playing at Nightingale Lane, an assisted-living home in Arvada. Its 28 residents suffer from Alzheimer’s or other age-related dementia. Their memory banks are short- circuited, sometimes utterly erased. The outside world has grown unnavigable.
So they’ve moved here, where once a month, Schlaufman and wife Margie come and put on a show. They are joined by singer- guitarists Becky Blevins, Barbara Jennings and Sean McGaughey.
“We started doing this two years ago,” said Schlaufman, an agent with the Colorado Department of Revenue whose band also performs at two other facilities. “My mother has Alzheimer’s, and so does my mother-in-law. So this means something to me.”
It seems to mean something to the residents too. “We’ve heard that one of the last things you lose is your memory of songs,” Margie said.
The music is a mix of bluegrass, folk and standards. For this crowd, familiarity is a comfort.
Still, more recent material pops up. “Who knows who Sting is?” Schlaufman asked. “He’s kind of a new guy.”
Blevins took the lead on Sting’s “Fields of Gold.”
You’ll remember me when the west wind moves
Upon the fields of barley
You’ll forget the sun in his jealous sky
As we walk in fields of gold.
Then a grab bag of Americana: “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad,” “O, Susanna,” “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey?” and “You Are My Sunshine.”
Margie emceed. She peppered the audience with questions, trying to trigger their memories.
Her aunt, Ruth Albright, lives at Nightingale. Margie reminded her of the spaghetti sauce with olives she used to make. The 86-year-old woman brightened. “Ohhh, yes!”
Carol Musser, 81, sported white hair and a Mickey Mouse sweat shirt. She sang along with every tune.
I asked her if she had a favorite. She paused, struggling to come up with a name, any name. “I’m trying to think.”
No luck. It had all fled.
That is the devastation of dementia. Adults who soldiered through life, tending families and careers, are rendered children again. The world is once more a strange and baffling place.
I thought of my grandmother, a woman of singular wit and spirit who loved the old ballads of her native North Carolina.
Alzheimer’s set in after she turned 80, and her mind slipped its moorings and drifted free in time. She could remember the family mule from 70 years earlier but could not recognize her daughter’s face.
I sat watching the audience listening to Schlaufman and his friends.
And I hoped that somehow the music might summon something sweet and fine from their past.
William Porter’s column appears twice a week. Reach him at 303-954-1977 or wporter@denverpost.com.
