Mesa Vista

I checked, just to make sure. The name of the place is Mesa Vista, and back when I was taking piano lessons, it's where we used to give our recitals. In those days, we would refer to it as "an old folks' home." Now we would describe it as "an assisted care facility." And even now they tout "Entertainment by talented musicians and singers" as part of their Life Enrichment Activities. In the early seventies, I didn't feel much like a life enrichment activity. I felt like I was being sent away to the gulag.
All of Mary Kay Hefley's students lined up just outside the sun room, in the hallway next to the elevator. More than once it occurred to me that it would be easy enough to just walk over, push the button and head on down to the ground floor, walking out into the night. Just leave my music on the chair, and keep on walking. If the residents of Mesa Vista, those who were well enough to make it into the sun room after the sun had gone down missed out on the life enrichment that I brought them, so be it. I was uncomfortable. I was nervous. And my life was definitely not being enriched.
At this point in my life, I understood that making these yearly visits to the nursing home was the right thing to do, but I was also extremely aware of how uptight doing the right thing was making me. My younger brother and I never actually spoke about this, but we had a shrug here and an eye roll there that bonded us through the seemingly endless evening of entertainment. Neither of us fled. We sat and waited our turn and tried not to think too much about what was going on down the hall. That long, dark hallway filled with curious sounds and smells.
It was always a bit of a relief to be introduced and walk out to the piano, past the fireplace on the left and the sea of expectant faces on the right. As I sat down on the bench, I placed my music on the stand, then turned to face my audience. I gave the rushed, perfunctory introduction to the piece I was performing, and turned back to face the music. Those few minutes stretched out like hours, but when I finally hit the DC al Fine, I knew that I could make it. Sometimes, while my brother or I was playing, one of the ladies or gentlemen would decide they had heard enough and begin to scoot out of the room in their wheelchair or walker. On other occasions, one of those residents might take it on themselves to sing along, whether they knew the tune or not. It was, as show biz folks might say, a tough crowd.
And then it was time to go home. We were free to go for another year. The old folks stayed. That never occurred to me back then. It was their home.