Whistling and Hand Writing

This afternoon several of us went to the Border Inn to listen to a band sing and play.  The three members of the band consisted of Michael, who played the cello, David, who played the guitar, and James, who played the harmonica and a mandolin.  They were absolutely wonderful.  James played the harmonica extremely well.  One of the songs they played, James not only played the harmonica, he whistled the tune. 

Waves of homesickness washed over me, my eyes burned with unshed tears, and I could feel my nose get red as he began to whistle.  As he continued to whistle the song, the tears started to flow.

 I croaked a whisper to Anita, my sister sitting next to me, "When was the last time you heard Dad whistle?"  She couldn't remember and neither could I. 

 I stopped at Mom and Dad's on the way home tonight and asked Dad why he doesn't whistle any more. 
 He said "I can't, because I don't have all my teeth and it takes a lot of breath, I don't have."

We don't think of the little things our parents do, until they no longer can do them.  Why didn't I think to videotape my Dad whistling, while he could? 

I will never forget the last time I saw John's mother, Aileen, try to write her name.  I was so dismayed to see her struggle to spell and write her name.  This was the same woman who taught 1-4 grades for close to 30 years.  This was the same woman who had the most beautiful hand writing one has ever seen.  Now, she was struggling to print and spell her name. 

I was so stricken, the next day I found all my notes and cards that Aileen has written to me and put them in a safe place.  I also collected the few cards, recipes, and notes from both my grandmothers for safe keeping as well.  

Tomorrow I am going to look for a few things my parents have written to me.  
And I am going to have one of my children record their dad whistling, while he can.