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Humor April 2017

Agelessly Yours

For Whom He Sings, Only God Knows

By Karen White-Walker

I angrily turned toward my disgusted – and moneywise, much poorer husband.  “If Pavarotti offered to privately sing for me at our home — even in the shower –  I’d stuff a fistful of biscotti down his throat!” I cried.

The older I become the more pressing it is to crank out these true-life adventures and misadventures, and the more aware I become of the futileness of holding grudges — especially toward dead people.

Allow me to take you back several years ago when my husband and I stood in that long line in the freezing February cold to see Luciano Pavarotti. Not only was I there to hear that magnificent voice, I wanted to drink in his dreadfully masculine looks with his massive barrel-shaped chest that surely contributed to the quality of his voice’s tone. In Hamilton, Ontario’s, Copps Coliseum, that voice would project and resonate throughout the place. Couldn’t you just imagine what he would look like….oops; I mean SOUND like singing in a shower? C’mon now, what man or woman doesn’t have a Freudian slip once in a while? Hey, we still feel young inside, don't we?

Once seated and all snug and cozy in our great seats kinda near the stage, we waited with great anticipation for the toast of all the world’s tenors to appear. Suddenly who was that timid-looking, sheepish man walking out onto stage? He didn’t look any more like a performer than you or I.

“Ahem,” he began, as the color drained from his face. “We’re sorry to report that due to a cold, Mr. Pavarotti won’t be performing this evening.”

Pavarotti may have been suffering with a cold, but this poor guy looked like he was dying! Disbelief and loud moans filled the place, mine probably being the loudest.

“Your tickets will be honored this summer,” he reassured us.

I looked around and noticed that many in the audience were quite elderly, would they even make it to the summer? What about their tickets?

It was as if my husband had read my mind. "In a few years we'll be in that age group, 'Grandma.'"

Six months later on a stifling summer day, my husband and I hopped into the car and headed for the Copps Coliseum again, but not before having an expensive, luscious lunch at the Black Forest Restaurant.

“I won’t be taking any calls,” I kiddingly instructed the confused looking maitre d’ who eyed me as if I were just another one of those crazy Americans.

Once again, after having paid tolls to get into Canada, we plunked down a hefty parking fee after paying for that dear lunch, and soon found ourselves in first-rate seats with that same exhilarating feeling of seeing “him.” But nope, suddenly there was that same anemic-looking fellow who didn’t seem to even have enough saliva left to begin with “ahem.” This couldn’t be happening again! but sure enough, it was announced that Pavarotti wouldn’t be performing that evening.

I angrily turned toward my disgusted – and moneywise, much poorer husband.  “If Pavarotti offered to privately sing for me at our home — even in the shower, I’d stuff a fistful of biscotti down his throat!” I cried.

In retrospect now, maybe his no-shows were due to the onset of his grave illness, but that was so many years ago, and isn’t the healing aspect of time truly wonderful? All my anger, resentment and disappointment have dissipated, because I’d be willing to travel to Heaven now just to hear him sing — live. As for money for tolls, gas, dinner and parking — tell me there are no expenses in Heaven, for if there are, that would be one hell of a note!

 

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