The Day Sinatra Made Me Cry in Public

In this week’s installment from Jean’s corner of CCC life, what starts as a simple outdoor concert — the kind you attend mostly because it’s on the calendar and the weather’s decent — turns into an unexpected brush with memory. A Sinatra impersonator, a rollator walker packed like a day‑hike, and a crowd of fifty neighbors set the stage, but the real story is how a single song can reach backward and tap a place you thought had finally gone quiet...AI

I saw Frank Sinatra today. Oops — I left a word out of that sentence. I meant to say I saw a Frank Sinatra impersonator. Good thing I cleared that up, lest you think I’ve hustled on over to the Land of Delusion, given the fact that he died in 1998. I was never a fan of his music, nor were my parents, so I didn’t cut my teeth on his many hit records the way a lot of my ninety-something neighbors did. But my Continuum Care Community booked him for the second time, and since the reviews were glowing after his first performance, I thought, What the heck, it’s something to do.

So I loaded up my rollator walker with a sweater, a bottle of water, my phone, a notebook and pen, and my apartment keys, then headed for the park nestled between the Memory Care and Assisted Living buildings. (Permanently in my walker are: binoculars, ear muffs, gloves, a bird call, sun glasses, and two books.) I don’t need a walker, but I use one outside because I’m proactive about preventing sidewalk falls. I’ve seen enough people with bloody faces and broken hips get picked up by ambulances to know the smart money is on those of us who aren’t too proud to admit we’re old and tend to shuffle along instead of picking up our feet properly.

But I’m not a shuffler. Yet. I know that for a fact because — being proactive again — I took the Fall Prevention Study offered here last year. My only walking issue is that every five or six steps, the heel of my right foot hits the side of my left foot. I’ve known this since childhood because the side of my left shoe was always scuffed up. What I didn’t know was why. Turns out I walk with asymmetry: my right leg strides 21 inches and my left 24. I also walk with my feet only four inches apart when they should be six. Knowledge is power, or so they say.

A lot of my fellow residents were afraid to do the study for fear our “overlords” would use the information to move them down the road to Assisted Living. Paranoia is alive and well in senior communities like mine. If you failed the study — which I did not — you earned some physical therapy appointments, not an eviction notice.

The Sinatra singer was in his 60s, I’m guessing, and even with the classic hat and suit he didn’t look much like the real McCoy. But he sounded like him, and he had some of Frank’s characteristic moves down pat. With audience members from all three buildings plus the townhouses, we were fifty strong. The weather was perfect. The sky was bluer than it’s been all week and the sun was shining.

And wouldn’t you know — even though I’m not fond of that kind of music — I ended up with tears in my eyes during the last song he sang: My Way. I was sitting in the back row, and in my view was a Memory Care patient in a wheelchair with his wife sitting behind him. During that song she leaned forward and put her arms around his neck while the performer sang, “Regrets I've had a few...I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption.”

I felt like I was looking at a snapshot of my past life when I was Don’s caregiver. Those twelve and a half years were a test by fire, and I’m proud of how I handled them. But by the end of the song the wife was wiping tears from her eyes, and so was I. She’s still living the stress and devotion I went through. It’s strange how you can think old wounds are healed, but a damn song comes along and reminds you that some wounds never fully close. They may scab over, but bump that scab and the hurt comes back.

Places like this always book entertainers who play the era of music residents grew up with, built families to, danced to, so we hear a lot of '40s and '50s stuff. When an entertainer takes requests, I usually ask for a Bruno Mars song and they will say, "Don't know that one, but I'll learn it before my next gig here." Even after nearly five years of going to these musical events, I’ve yet to make it through one without tears (or hearing Uptown Funk). Sometimes they’re happy tears, but usually they're a jolting flashback of longing for what can no longer be. 

Another highlight of my week: I went to a Father’s Day banquet. At first, women weren’t allowed to sign up unless they were dining with a father or father figure, but eight of us raised a fuss. After all, for Mother’s Day they served the women afternoon tea and cookies, but the guys were getting a ribeye steak dinner with baked potatoes and asparagus. The injustice was noted. The ribeye was wonderful, and it was the last big meal I had before starting my GLP‑1 shots the next morning.

Then a few days later we had another musical event put on by a local favorite, The Beer City Blues Band. This time it was right outside my building on the piazza — impossible to avoid, not that I wanted to. They play more contemporary music, so fewer memories get stirred up for me. Not to mention I love their sound.

We have an active charity foundation that funds all our musical programs, including one‑on‑one music therapy sessions down in Memory Care, our summer concert series, and monthly birthday party entertainers. You might call it lucky, but I knew before I bought into this non‑profit CCC that our sister campus was heavily supported by this group. It’s kind of a shame, though, that the senior places where more Medicaid recipients end up don’t have the same kind of charity foundation. Maybe they do and I just don’t know about them?

Our charity sponsors golf tournaments, fancy‑ass balls, fashion shows and parties, and I suspect the reason they raise so much money is because the donors hope to live here someday. The guy who lived and died across the hall from me gave so much money they named our street — and a golf tournament — after him.

Music has always had a way of slipping past my defenses, but living here has made that truth unavoidable. Every concert is a gamble — you never know whether you’ll walk away smiling, crying, or both. But I keep showing up. Maybe that’s the point. These small moments, these shared songs and shared tears, remind me that living life doesn’t stop in a place like this. It just keeps unfolding, one performance, one memory, one unexpected pang at a time. ©

See you next Wednesday.

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