Kathleen's Piano Faith makes the discords of the present the harmonies of the future. --Robert CollyerOne cold December morning some years back, my husband, Mark, and I were driving to the airport, headed to the West Coast to speak at a medical convention. As we voiced our anticipation of warm weather and the excitement of the big city, Mark dashed into a convenience mart to purchase some last-minute items. He returned with a small brown package in his hand and a shivering elderly lady at his side. What a contrast they were -- Mark in a gray wool pinstriped suit and the stranger clothed in a green polyester coat with two missing buttons and a stain on the front. Her half-frozen toes peeked out from time worn sandals. As the determined lady struggled into the back seat of the car, she flashed a tender smile my way. "My name's Kathleen," she announced boldly. I understand you folks are headed down Kentucky way.ö Her husband, it turned out, was a patient at a nearby nursing home, and was not expected to survive through the Christmas holidays. The two had married late in life, never had any children, and when their small monthly allotment dwindled, Kathleen often hitched a ride to the nursing home. Like so many Appalachian women of her generation, Kathleen was fiercely independent--a survivor. She usually stayed at the nursing home all day, for even though her husband was in a hopeless coma, the facility was warm, the food was great, and there was a piano in the day room where she could while away the hours and her cares at the keyboard. As we approached the small, brick convalescent center, I remembered the calling cards in my briefcase. I handed my ivory linen card to Kathleen. ôDon't hesitate to call us if we can ever give you a lift to the nursing home," I said. Kathleen smiled, thanked us for the ride, then confronted the unyielding wind, her thin coat blowing wildly. When we returned home after our trip, baking, buying gifts and an endless array of holiday errands consumed our days. Kathleen called a couple of times to chat, but it wasn't until Christmas that our paths actually crossed again. ôDid you take Kathleen anything for Christmas?" Mark asked late Christmas night. How could I have forgotten? We scurried about the house gathering some remnants of Christmas for Kathleen. As we approached her tiny frame residence, the porch light was still burning. We rang the doorbell and waited. Soon, Kathleen opened the door and invited us in, saying she just knew we were coming for Christmas. As we stepped inside the living room, our eyes took I Kathleen's short-sleeved cotton dress, the tattered sofa and chair, and rugs taped around each window to protect her from the harsh weather. A bare bulb dangled from d ceiling wire, scarcely lighting the room. ôThis is 'Honey.' She's an alley cat plus a better breed,ö Kathleen announced, stroking the animal's soft yellow fur. "And Honey and I have a special present for you." Kathleen picked Excerpted from Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul: Heartwarming Stories for People 60 and Over by Jack L. Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Paul J. Meyer, Barbara Russell Chesser, Amy Seeger, Jack Canfield, Barbara Chesser All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
