Any Christmas Here?

"Hey!," I yell into the microphone, "Who vandalized your ceiling?"

"WHAT?" several inmates in wheelchairs ask, looking perplexed, forlorn and sad.

"Look up," I tell them.

A couple do, shake their heads and Paul, an angry man who was at Woodstock, mumbles, "They're our Christmas decorations."

"Seriously?" I ask pointing at the red tinsel randomly draped from the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Paul shrugs his shoulders while wheeling himself out of the dining hall.

"YOU DIDN'T SING IT RIGHT!" a white hair woman in a wheelchair hisses.

Just a few weeks ago, she was completely present, full of joy we show up every Thursday to sing, tell stories and give hugs but a lot can change in a little while and ... she's a different person now ... full of anger.

"Hey," a black man in his wheelchair soothingly calls her by name. "Calm down. It was okay."

I'd sang a "Sons of Anarchy" version of "Silent Night/Holy Night" and she obviously prefers the original.

"HEY!" I yell regaining control of the inmates. "I had to go to Jury Duty the other day! Y'all still have to go for Jury Duty?"


"The money's good," the retired Boat Captain says from his wheelchair. "$25 is good money."

"It's only $10," I tell him.

"Not where I'm from," he snarls.

"Well anyway," I continue, "the Judge made me stand up to explain why I'm unfit for Jury Duty ... so I say, 'Judge'" ... and I strum my guitar ... "Your Honor, I'll tell you why ..."

"I woke up this morning feeling so bad ... it was the worst hangover that I've ever had ... It wasn't wine that I had too much of ... it was ..."

And I stop singing and point to Iris sitting in the back of the room.

"It was her," I yell.

Iris laughs and claps her hands and we launch into a rollicking version of "Double Shot of My Baby's Love."

The Nursing Home inmates come to life, singing, clapping or drooling while they sleep.

"Please come back," they plead as we pack things up to leave.

"Of course we're coming back," Lona affirms while wrapping electric chords.

"Well Merry Christmas then," a large black woman with a child's face says.

"No Christmas is later," Lona explains.

Watching the exchange under the crappy red tinsel, I find myself wondering if there's ever any Christmas in this shithole.