Robert Kincaid works on another yarn project during lunch at the Soldiers Home Christmas Bazaar.
Ray McDade, Bentley and Carson.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
The sign outside the Soldiers Home pointed to a “Bazzar,” but we drove in, anyway. This weekend is the annual Christmas Bazaar at the Soldiers Home, when Chilson Hall fills with a giant decorated tree and tables and tables of shopping opportunities—some gifts homemade by residents, but most from outside vendors.
This year my son came with me, and I was very happy for his company. The Christmas bazaar had been a tradition for Mike Marquie and me (I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately since hanging the wreath he sneakily bought me at our last bazaar), and since Mike’s death it’s made me more sad than happy.
But today we walked in right next to Dorothy’s table, and she was happy to see us. Dorothy collects Bingo prizes through the year to sell at the bazaar, and her table is always garage-sale-level loaded with miscellaneous goodies.
“Did you bring your baby?” she asked. I smiled and pointed to Carson. “Here he is,” I said. Dorothy laughed. “Not that baby!” she said, although she did admit Carson was taller than ever. She meant our canine baby (and we did bring him, but he was in the car).
Carson and I took a reconnaissance round and stopped at Robert Kincaid’s table. Robert comes to Bingo often and always—always—has some sort of creative project in the works. His table offered framed pencil drawings, his trademark macramé-type scarves and purses and a million pieces of ceramic art. But no Robert.
So Carson and I decided to have lunch at the snack bar and plan our attack. As we were ordering, Robert stepped up behind us in line. I told Robert we’d stopped at his table and would like to come back to buy things. That made him happy. Then I asked Robert whether we could buy him lunch for Christmas. “Yes,” Robert said. Robert has never, ever been a talker.
I picked up Robert’s coffee cup and asked where he wanted to sit. “I’ll share your table,” he said. I almost laughed out loud. So far, this was the most I’d ever heard him say.
Until we sat down. I told Robert which pieces we were interested in as he knotted strings of yarn dangling from his walker. I asked how long he’d been working with yarn, and he said, “Not long. Maybe 1955.” This time I did laugh out loud. “That’s quite a while,” I said.
Robert talked about his time in the Navy, starting in 1955, in San Diego. He talked about yarn—how it’s donated, where it’s stored, how he chooses colors and styles. He showed me the sparkly key-holding lanyard he’d made and how it stretches to fit into his shirt pocket, but not quite enough to open his door. He talked about low blood pressure vs. high blood pressure. He talked about his artwork—some pen on paper, some pencil on paper—and how when you’re young you learn one name for all your classmates, and then when you get older you realize they have last names, too—and maybe even middle ones—and who could be expected to remember all that?
A couple times I looked at Carson in amazement. I had no idea Robert had all that conversation in him, and it struck me that if we hadn’t been in the lunch line exactly when we were, we would have missed all of it—and Robert would have eaten alone.
As we finished up, I asked Robert whether $15 would get me two drawings and two little ceramic ornaments. He said yes, very happily, and told me to go help myself and where to find a “plastic bag in a plastic bag full of plastic bags.” I told Robert I’d remind the snack-bar workers that he’d wanted a dish of vanilla ice cream, too, and he smiled. Carson and I went back to Robert’s crafts table and picked out our goodies, and I showed them to Robert as we left. He was very happy, which made me very happy.
Carson and I left Chilson Hall and headed to the nursing center. As we walked past the Bingo room, David Fox wheeled out.
“Carson!” he bellowed. “Is your mom treating you OK?” Carson said I was (!). Then David looked at me and said, “Oh. Hi!” as if he hadn’t noticed me before. It was very funny and, as I told Carson, pretty amazing. “He not only remembered your name,” I told Carson, “but he remembered you were Carson.” David has surprised me a lot lately.
Our next stop was Ray McDade’s room. I had called Ray on our way out to see whether he wanted to join us at the bazaar, but he said he was too busy. Still, he was very happy to see us. Ray had dropped a container of lotion behind his bed, and Carson was just the lanky, limber kid he needed to retrieve it. But it hadn’t fallen more than half an inch, so Carson grabbed it in half a second, and Ray laughed hard.
“When are you going to bring that puppy out again so I can see him?” Ray asked. I told him he was in the car that very minute, and suddenly we were bundling up Ray and headed outside.
Bentley the puppy is a fast-growing beast. When he jumped down, Ray laughed. “Oh my goodness,” Ray said. Bentley, naturally, was calm and sweet and loving. "Calm" is not his natural tendency. Ray talked to Carson about golf and to me about Christmas, but he looked cold. He shook Carson’s hand goodbye and said, “God bless you,” and I started to walk back with Ray.
He held his arms out for a hug and thanked me for coming. I was leaving with a bag of Robert’s very special Christmas creations—even more special now that I had such a better sense of the man who made them—and I got to watch two of my favorite people (one 18 years old; one 89) bond over golf and puppies. And Ray thanked me for coming.
Ray took my hand. “God bless you,” he said.
What I said was: “You, too.” What I should have said was: “He already has.”
The sign outside the Soldiers Home pointed to a “Bazzar,” but we drove in, anyway. This weekend is the annual Christmas Bazaar at the Soldiers Home, when Chilson Hall fills with a giant decorated tree and tables and tables of shopping opportunities—some gifts homemade by residents, but most from outside vendors.
This year my son came with me, and I was very happy for his company. The Christmas bazaar had been a tradition for Mike Marquie and me (I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately since hanging the wreath he sneakily bought me at our last bazaar), and since Mike’s death it’s made me more sad than happy.
But today we walked in right next to Dorothy’s table, and she was happy to see us. Dorothy collects Bingo prizes through the year to sell at the bazaar, and her table is always garage-sale-level loaded with miscellaneous goodies.
“Did you bring your baby?” she asked. I smiled and pointed to Carson. “Here he is,” I said. Dorothy laughed. “Not that baby!” she said, although she did admit Carson was taller than ever. She meant our canine baby (and we did bring him, but he was in the car).
Carson and I took a reconnaissance round and stopped at Robert Kincaid’s table. Robert comes to Bingo often and always—always—has some sort of creative project in the works. His table offered framed pencil drawings, his trademark macramé-type scarves and purses and a million pieces of ceramic art. But no Robert.
So Carson and I decided to have lunch at the snack bar and plan our attack. As we were ordering, Robert stepped up behind us in line. I told Robert we’d stopped at his table and would like to come back to buy things. That made him happy. Then I asked Robert whether we could buy him lunch for Christmas. “Yes,” Robert said. Robert has never, ever been a talker.
I picked up Robert’s coffee cup and asked where he wanted to sit. “I’ll share your table,” he said. I almost laughed out loud. So far, this was the most I’d ever heard him say.
Until we sat down. I told Robert which pieces we were interested in as he knotted strings of yarn dangling from his walker. I asked how long he’d been working with yarn, and he said, “Not long. Maybe 1955.” This time I did laugh out loud. “That’s quite a while,” I said.
Robert talked about his time in the Navy, starting in 1955, in San Diego. He talked about yarn—how it’s donated, where it’s stored, how he chooses colors and styles. He showed me the sparkly key-holding lanyard he’d made and how it stretches to fit into his shirt pocket, but not quite enough to open his door. He talked about low blood pressure vs. high blood pressure. He talked about his artwork—some pen on paper, some pencil on paper—and how when you’re young you learn one name for all your classmates, and then when you get older you realize they have last names, too—and maybe even middle ones—and who could be expected to remember all that?
A couple times I looked at Carson in amazement. I had no idea Robert had all that conversation in him, and it struck me that if we hadn’t been in the lunch line exactly when we were, we would have missed all of it—and Robert would have eaten alone.
As we finished up, I asked Robert whether $15 would get me two drawings and two little ceramic ornaments. He said yes, very happily, and told me to go help myself and where to find a “plastic bag in a plastic bag full of plastic bags.” I told Robert I’d remind the snack-bar workers that he’d wanted a dish of vanilla ice cream, too, and he smiled. Carson and I went back to Robert’s crafts table and picked out our goodies, and I showed them to Robert as we left. He was very happy, which made me very happy.
Carson and I left Chilson Hall and headed to the nursing center. As we walked past the Bingo room, David Fox wheeled out.
“Carson!” he bellowed. “Is your mom treating you OK?” Carson said I was (!). Then David looked at me and said, “Oh. Hi!” as if he hadn’t noticed me before. It was very funny and, as I told Carson, pretty amazing. “He not only remembered your name,” I told Carson, “but he remembered you were Carson.” David has surprised me a lot lately.
Our next stop was Ray McDade’s room. I had called Ray on our way out to see whether he wanted to join us at the bazaar, but he said he was too busy. Still, he was very happy to see us. Ray had dropped a container of lotion behind his bed, and Carson was just the lanky, limber kid he needed to retrieve it. But it hadn’t fallen more than half an inch, so Carson grabbed it in half a second, and Ray laughed hard.
“When are you going to bring that puppy out again so I can see him?” Ray asked. I told him he was in the car that very minute, and suddenly we were bundling up Ray and headed outside.
Bentley the puppy is a fast-growing beast. When he jumped down, Ray laughed. “Oh my goodness,” Ray said. Bentley, naturally, was calm and sweet and loving. "Calm" is not his natural tendency. Ray talked to Carson about golf and to me about Christmas, but he looked cold. He shook Carson’s hand goodbye and said, “God bless you,” and I started to walk back with Ray.
He held his arms out for a hug and thanked me for coming. I was leaving with a bag of Robert’s very special Christmas creations—even more special now that I had such a better sense of the man who made them—and I got to watch two of my favorite people (one 18 years old; one 89) bond over golf and puppies. And Ray thanked me for coming.
Ray took my hand. “God bless you,” he said.
What I said was: “You, too.” What I should have said was: “He already has.”
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