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“Hand me down my walking cane,” sings Norman Blake, “covering” a beloved folk song with Black roots. I especially enjoy the precision of each of his notes on the guitar. One of my good memories from the years before Dave and I found each other involves staying, with my kids, a couple of nights with Norman and Nancy at their home, going out for a walk to try to get a migraine to release me, and accidentally crossing paths with Norman. With his guitar supported by a strap, he was playing as he walked, and I could hear the strong rap of each fingertip hitting the string in just the right place.
The lyrics came to mind as I wrote something earlier today.
Few life experiences prepare a person for the death of a spouse. I thought I was ready, having expected for a long time that Dave’s ailments would take him, and it would be too soon, of course. But I was wrong about being ready. And I certainly would need a “walking cane” many times in the months to follow.
In March 2019, as Dave found walking from one room to another terribly hard, his local doctors agreed to give his situation the “palliative care” label. Actually his primary care doc thought this was a bit of amusing — no rush on these things, and he was sure Dave would be around for a while! — but he really liked Dave, and I’d been pushing hard for that “palliative” label (it can apply when someone is…
