Sunday was the HardLox festival in Asheville, the Jewish Food & Heritage Festival. I wanted to go simply because I admired the wittiness of the name. I asked Mom if she would like to go with me. “Sure!” she said, which is the answer she gives when she isn’t sure what I’m asking.
We arrived and wandered in and out of the booths, looking at handcrafted jewelry and tasting treats for Sukkot. As we were walking, the Beth HaTephila Kol Simcha Choir started performing. Mom asked to walk to the front of the stage. We stood there, listening to various songs and hymns in Hebrew and English. I was mesmerized by the conductor, obviously finding joy in this performance, adoration radiating from her entire body. I watched each of the individual members, also joyful, singing whole heartedly and without abandon. I glanced over at Mom, and she was mouthing the words as well. I glanced over again. We’re not Jewish. We didn’t grow up singing the songs of Israel. But here was Mom, whose Alzheimer’s makes her struggle with everyday language, and remembering words, and comprehending language, singing along with the chorus of songs she had never heard before, deeply engaged. I was silently grateful.
The music ended and we decided to get something to eat. I thoroughly enjoyed my kosher hot dog and mom picked at her bagel. I asked her if she’d like to stay longer or head home. She stared at me blankly. “Let’s go see who the next performers are, and then we’ll make our decision,” I suggested.
We sat on the curb in front of the stage as the Bandana Klezmer band tuned their instruments: accordion, fiddle, guitar, cello, harmonica. They played their first song and Mom said she’d like to stay. We tapped our feet and clapped our hands. After the second or third song, the band mentioned that there was a wide area in front of the stage, and their songs were perfect for dancing. I turned to Mom and jokingly said, “Do you want to dance?” “Sure!” she said, and handed me her purse. The next several minutes were a gift I could not have expected. She laughed heartily as she joined the circle of women and children dancing. She followed along with steps, raised her arms, and clapped. As each song ended, she looked for me with a panic-stricken expression, and I got her attention and motioned for her to continue dancing. After a few songs, she came and pulled me into the circle as well. We joined hands, danced to the right and to the left, waved our arms, and laughed together. Having witnessed so many things that she can’t do these days, this was a wonderful gift of what she can do, and can do with gusto, and love, and joy.