John and Charlotte Manchester were still living in their home on Northeast Harbor's Summit Road when in the early 1970’s Miriam and I bought the former Catholic rectory nearby.  By then, the burden of advanced years was upon the Manchesters as they lived on alone together.  John was no longer ambulatory or clear of mind.  This man who had been a “go to” person for the whole community was slowly leaving us and Charlotte was caring for him day and night, week in and week out.  John and Charlotte had each been the sort of people who form the fundament of a community for a lifetime.  John had been a tax assessor, a school board member, a church leader.  And, he was a combat veteran of World War One.  Charlotte had come from Switzerland before that war, as a nanny for summer residents.  She had stayed on to marry John and was likewise loved and respected.

 

     At Christmas Eve of that year John was confined to the east bedroom of their home.  He seemed distant but content.  Miriam had invited Charlotte over for a glass of Christmas sherry while I went to keep John company. 

 

     John had been blessed with a beautiful tenor voice, singing not with the metallic crispness of the Irish tenor, but with the rich sonority of the Wagnerian Heldentenor.  Singing would therefore be my link to this old friend who no longer remembered me.  To bring him Christmas I came down the hall to his room singing the bass line to a familiar carol.  John picked up the melody and the years fell away from the old man’s voice.  On we went through all the verses of the familiar carols, one after another until we came at the end to “Silent Night”.  I took the air in the baritone while his tenor descant floated through the air with a moving, angelic quality. 

 

     We had sung for half an hour and not exchanged an unsung word.  John was not done singing.  From “Silent night” we proceeded to “There’s a Long, Long Trail A’Winding”,” Over There”, “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”, “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag”, and a host of other songs from his war so long ago.  We sang multiple verses – lyrics I have never known – harmonies I have never heard.  At the time it seemed I had known those songs as long as John had, but to this day I do not know those lyrics, those harmonies, or sometimes the languages.

 

     When John seemed sleepy and it was time for me to leave, Charlotte returned to his side, and she asked her husband, “Did you have a visitor while I was out, dear?”  “Yes”, John replied, “I don’t remember his name but he was one of the boys who served with me in France.” 

 

      He was right.  It wasn’t I who harmonized those songs from the trenches of 1918.  Mine was the privilege to deliver a mysterious Christmas gift to an old man from a buddy long gone.

 

     May you have joy in your holiday season, and may a mystery of your own bring you warmth to remember it by.

   

 

Bob Pyle