Doug sat alone in his Hospice room, seated in a beige recliner, staring out the window at the snowy woods. His door was wide open. The television was off, no radio played. He was not reading or working a puzzle or talking on the phone. When I knocked lightly on his door he looked up with a response that surprised me.

I looked more closely at Doug and saw missing fingers on the hand lying across his lap.

Lumberjack, I thought.

​The vast unforgiving Adirondack Mountains harbored many a hard-living man eeking out a meager living in the woods just five hours north of hurried, crowded, sophisticated New York City. ​

I approached the solitary man slowly. Keeping my distance, I pulled out my harmonica, showed it to him and began playing "Git Along Home, Cindy, Cindy," an upbeat folk tune often played on hammer dulcimer in the lumber camps up north.

​Doug resumed staring out the window, expressionless. I finished the tune and allowed some time to pass. 

LISTEN: Get along Home Cindy Cindy

​I didn't expect him to speak.

​"My Uncle played one a' them," he said flatly, looking at me briefly, then turning his head to gaze out the window again. 

"You want me to play some more?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said still looking away.

I played several more camp tunes for Doug: "Golden Slippers," "I've Been Working' on the Railroad," "Oh, Susannah," and the like. 

​When I stopped and put the harmonica in my pocket he looked over at me and spoke again.

LISTEN: Golden Slippers

"When you comin' back?" Doug asked me. 

"Next week," I replied.

​"Good."

LISTEN: I Been Workin' on the Railroad

The following week I knocked softly on Doug's door hoping this time I wouldn't frighten him. 

He sat clad in the same outfit, in his chair by the window, but his expression changed when he looked up and saw me. His fear, his apprehension wasn't present and he even cocked a half-smile as I entered. 

​I played more harmonica music as he listened intently facing the window with the view of the winter woods.

LISTEN: Oh Susanna

The next week I brought my guitar and ventured into singing some country music for Doug. He remained relaxed, focused on the woods outside his window.

After several songs he spoke. 

​"You know one about grace or something? My mama sang it."

LISTEN: See if you are right

I began playing the intro to "Amazing Grace" on my guitar then sang all five verses.

​Without looking too invasively at Doug, my solitary friend, I noticed tears in his eyes. He swallowed hard.

LISTEN: Amazing Grace

Doug welcomed my music for several weeks, but I began to see the telltale signs that he was failing.

​He slept more, and some days he was not fully dressed. His favorite snacks, Pepsi and cheese crackers, were left uneaten on the side table by his chair.

It was a typical Adirondack winter day, penetratingly cold, heavy gray, and spitting snow.

When I entered Doug's room as usual, I saw his limp, now non-responsive body resting in his Hospice bed. The hand with the missing fingers lay across his chest as it rose and fell irregularly with each struggling breath.

​No Buffalo Plaid flannel shirt or worn jeans, no work boots were in sight.

I softly played harmonica over him, remembering the shy lumberjack who allowed me into his very private life.

LISTEN

The music I gave him that day was the last sound he heard on this earth.

LISTEN: Shenandoah