My entry into the discipline of music therapy was not deliberate, rather it appeared on my path as I was minding my own business (or tending to it). It is a story within a story, as (now that I actually think about it) I'd imagine that all stories are. And tucked even deeper in that story is a chapter that was mine alone to experience, and that, at the time, no one else could know. Having come to the realization (after working at the Showboat Casino in Atlantic City for a considerable period in the early 1990's) that what I did resonated with senior citizens, I figured it made sense to reach out to senior communities and see what would happen. The first response to a targeted mass mailing came from the continuing care community of Cokesbury Village, in Hockessin, DE. I was invited to present a music program on one of the units. This was all new to me, so having no idea what to expect, I accessed the situation as best I could when I arrived. I found a group of well dressed seniors milling around in a lounge, some socializing, with some walkers and a few wheelchairs the only visible indications of any issues. Somewhat relieved (but keeping my radar up), I began my little concert. Playing a spinet piano with my back to the residents, I completed the first (very familiar) tune, then turned around to ask them to name the song. Crickets. Wasting no time, I instinctively reached my hand behind my back while continuing to face the residents, playing the melody of the song again and asking the question at the same time. This time nearly everyone responded at once. Aha! I wasn't told beforehand that I was on the Alzheimer's unit, but I figured it out, at least in general terms, pretty quickly. The rest of the hour continued to be a thinking on my feet navigational exercise that apparently got the job done (well enough at least). Once finished, the activities manager on duty invited me to her office and explained that they has just lost their once/week contracted music therapist. She offered me the gig. Huh? Confused, I explained to her that, other than doing a research paper on music therapy in college, I had no knowledge or experience in this, and certainly, no credential (little did I know that I was about to take my first conscious step toward earning one). Her response was that I instinctively knew what to do (she was observing the session) and I would be able to learn as I went along. As I stared at her for a few seconds (or a few minutes. I have no idea), I reasoned that this would be a good potential learning opportunity. So despite the misgivings of feeling that I didn't know what I was doing, I agreed to sign on. That's when it got (even more) interesting. She looked at me seriously and said; "Now that you are signed on to work here, I have to tell you something that I couldn't tell you before, and that you can't tell anyone else". She went on to explain to me that Cab Calloway was a resident of their health care center, after suffering a stroke. The family was determined that there would be no pictures of him in this condition, and was deliberately misleading the media (who were searching) as to his whereabouts. No one knew he was at Cokesbury. But now I did. The idea of playing music for Cab Calloway was not at all intimidating (I had come up mentored by the older musicians of that era, and was accustomed to winning their acceptance, after their initial skepticism of my being too young to really get "their" music). But as a music therapist? I believe I said aloud "I already don't know what I'm doing. Now I have to not know what I'm doing in front of Cab Calloway!" Good grief (yes, I suppose I did sound a bit like Charlie Brown)! As you might imagine, this gave me something to obsess on for the next week, as I put together a program for my first crack at a "music therapy" group. After I arrived that first morning, I looked around the gathering group. Can I say it? This was a VERY white facility (with the exception of some of the staff). Even if I wouldn't have recognized Cab Calloway, I knew I would anyway, as he was likely the only non-white health care resident. My 45 minute (I think. It was a long time ago) program came and went. No sign of him. I was relieved, until a voice said "Let's go upstairs now". I had to do this again? I didn't realize I was assigned to work on 2 separate units. And lo and behold, as I began the second program, Cab Calloway was wheeled in. As I played, I watched him, as he watched me. Perhaps more accurate to say that he studied me, deliberately; listening, watching. Then it happened. Perhaps the biggest smile I had ever seen (and may ever see). I knew what it meant. I had passed the skepticism test. I was in. I didn't take it as anything other than the experiences of finding acceptance with the older musicians, back in the day. But it meant more this time. It was my first "hands-on" music therapy lesson, reminding me that step one is winning acceptance, from which point, a relationship/rapport can grow. I generalized this immediately to understand this process occurring in every music therapy group, in every therapeutic relationship. Unfortunately I didn't have the opportunity to build a rapport with Cab Calloway beyond that initial connection. After I finished the session and looked around, he had already been wheeled out. And later that week, he passed. But the lesson his gesture taught me was just what I needed to learn, as I took my first step on the path of exploring music therapy. And it continued, years later, as his wife entered the health care unit, and I became her in-room music therapist. Stories live on, giving birth to new stories, weaving the tapestry of providence.