Monday, November 11, 2013
Today was my fifth Veterans Day at the Soldiers Home—and the most crowded ceremony I’ve ever seen there.
When I drove in, families were taking pictures on the display tank. Dozens of Boy Scouts awaited their orders at the door to Chilson Hall. And chairs were filling quickly inside.
First I greeted my partners in punch at the refreshment table. (First impression: Whew. “Veterans” was spelled correctly on the cakes.). Then I looked for Ray McDade, who’s always one of the first residents to arrive, and I found his wheelchair-mounted signal flag in the front row. His usual spot.
We hugged and said hi, and on my way back to the cake table I waved hi to Faith, Gus and Harold. I took my post (how did I end up behind the impossible-to-cut carrot cake?), and within minutes it was standing-room-only all the way back to us. Soldiers Home staffers kept bringing out more chairs, and they kept filling. Finally, a gaggle of Scouts stood and opened a couple of prime rows in the center.
A man dressed in unofficial military gear waltzed behind the refreshment table with his family and just stood there. They were a little close for comfort—and right in front of the empty punch bowl I had to fill. So when I said, “A row of chairs just opened up in the middle,” it's possible I was being half helpful and half territorial.
“We’re staying here,” the man said, not exactly pleasantly.
And I realized—here stands a veteran, for crying out loud. On Veterans Day. I adjusted my attitude (and my position), and we co-existed just fine.
The ceremony was familiar but shorter than ever. The junior ROTC presented the colors. Gary S. read the proclamation from the governor. The Puyallup Valley Community Band played all the standards. And the guest speaker, an Army major, got too choked up to speak for more than a minute or two so simply expressed gratitude. He got a standing ovation.
There were touching moments throughout, but I didn’t cry, and I felt guilty about that. The time finally came when I had to ask the veteran next to me to move so I could make the punch. (He did so graciously.) And before we knew it, a swarm of Scouts and kids and ROTC members swooped up our offerings. I was worried there wouldn’t be enough by the time the actual veterans got to the table, and we actually did run out early.
We were so busy cutting and ladling and stirring and serving, I never saw Ray leave.
But I did personally offer punch to the veteran’s family I had to displace. It seemed the least I could do.
Today was my fifth Veterans Day at the Soldiers Home—and the most crowded ceremony I’ve ever seen there.
When I drove in, families were taking pictures on the display tank. Dozens of Boy Scouts awaited their orders at the door to Chilson Hall. And chairs were filling quickly inside.
First I greeted my partners in punch at the refreshment table. (First impression: Whew. “Veterans” was spelled correctly on the cakes.). Then I looked for Ray McDade, who’s always one of the first residents to arrive, and I found his wheelchair-mounted signal flag in the front row. His usual spot.
We hugged and said hi, and on my way back to the cake table I waved hi to Faith, Gus and Harold. I took my post (how did I end up behind the impossible-to-cut carrot cake?), and within minutes it was standing-room-only all the way back to us. Soldiers Home staffers kept bringing out more chairs, and they kept filling. Finally, a gaggle of Scouts stood and opened a couple of prime rows in the center.
A man dressed in unofficial military gear waltzed behind the refreshment table with his family and just stood there. They were a little close for comfort—and right in front of the empty punch bowl I had to fill. So when I said, “A row of chairs just opened up in the middle,” it's possible I was being half helpful and half territorial.
“We’re staying here,” the man said, not exactly pleasantly.
And I realized—here stands a veteran, for crying out loud. On Veterans Day. I adjusted my attitude (and my position), and we co-existed just fine.
The ceremony was familiar but shorter than ever. The junior ROTC presented the colors. Gary S. read the proclamation from the governor. The Puyallup Valley Community Band played all the standards. And the guest speaker, an Army major, got too choked up to speak for more than a minute or two so simply expressed gratitude. He got a standing ovation.
There were touching moments throughout, but I didn’t cry, and I felt guilty about that. The time finally came when I had to ask the veteran next to me to move so I could make the punch. (He did so graciously.) And before we knew it, a swarm of Scouts and kids and ROTC members swooped up our offerings. I was worried there wouldn’t be enough by the time the actual veterans got to the table, and we actually did run out early.
We were so busy cutting and ladling and stirring and serving, I never saw Ray leave.
But I did personally offer punch to the veteran’s family I had to displace. It seemed the least I could do.