Friday, July 27, 2012
Gary Walling was buried this morning at Tahoma National Cemetery. And at 2 o’clock, the Soldiers Home held a memorial service of its own.
When Gary’s friend Doreen and I talked earlier in the week, we both had figured the chapel would fill to overflowing. Gary was intensely involved at the Soldiers Home—when I met him, he was president of the Resident Council—and he was well-known, well-liked and well-respected.
But when I got there, only a few seats were filled: Doreen and her daughter sat in a pew; Harold was perched on a folding chair in the back; and Ray McDade had parked his scooter behind the last row of pews. I was so happy to see Ray, my eyes teared up.
I hugged him hard. I hugged Doreen and met her lovely daughter. And then I sat by Ray and waited for the chapel to fill.
Richard the volunteer wheeled in Bill Crowell, and again my eyes filled. “Would you please sit on my other side?” I asked Bill. He would, and he did. For a minute, I felt as if I could not get close enough to these two men—my two remaining best friends at the Soldiers Home. Suddenly we all looked old—and terribly mortal.
The service was delayed as we waited for Gary’s family. And still, the chapel never filled.
At about 2:15, Chaplain Dale began the service. He must perform so, so many of these—he knows automatically when to cue Judy, the organist—yet he seems to go off-script to personalize each one. Several people stood for the “sharing” portion, and Gary’s son played a slideshow memorial. There was Gary as a baby—and as a young man, a father, a fisherman cracking open a beer. I had never known Gary like that. By the time I meet residents at the Soldiers Home, all those years, all those milestones, are behind them. I smiled at Ray and Bill, on each side of me, and cried.
I was wistful, but I also was filled with immense gratitude. Gary had a lot of life left in him when I met him; he made the most of it, and he shared it with me openly and lovingly. He also had a lot of—let’s say--spunk, as anyone who knew him would attest. (The last song on Gary’s slideshow was “My Way,” and the lyrics were printed on his memorial program.)
After the service—no traditional rifle shots any longer, Harold said—we all meandered to Chilson Hall for a reception. Doreen sliced cake, and I served Ray, Bill, Charlie and John. I needed very much to connect with them, and eventually we all headed to the nursing center as I wheeled John back to his room.
I hugged Ray and Bill goodbye and on my way out popped into the Bingo room. Gary’s service had been scheduled for 2 p.m., the same time as Bingo. The Bingo room was packed.
Gary Walling was buried this morning at Tahoma National Cemetery. And at 2 o’clock, the Soldiers Home held a memorial service of its own.
When Gary’s friend Doreen and I talked earlier in the week, we both had figured the chapel would fill to overflowing. Gary was intensely involved at the Soldiers Home—when I met him, he was president of the Resident Council—and he was well-known, well-liked and well-respected.
But when I got there, only a few seats were filled: Doreen and her daughter sat in a pew; Harold was perched on a folding chair in the back; and Ray McDade had parked his scooter behind the last row of pews. I was so happy to see Ray, my eyes teared up.
I hugged him hard. I hugged Doreen and met her lovely daughter. And then I sat by Ray and waited for the chapel to fill.
Richard the volunteer wheeled in Bill Crowell, and again my eyes filled. “Would you please sit on my other side?” I asked Bill. He would, and he did. For a minute, I felt as if I could not get close enough to these two men—my two remaining best friends at the Soldiers Home. Suddenly we all looked old—and terribly mortal.
The service was delayed as we waited for Gary’s family. And still, the chapel never filled.
At about 2:15, Chaplain Dale began the service. He must perform so, so many of these—he knows automatically when to cue Judy, the organist—yet he seems to go off-script to personalize each one. Several people stood for the “sharing” portion, and Gary’s son played a slideshow memorial. There was Gary as a baby—and as a young man, a father, a fisherman cracking open a beer. I had never known Gary like that. By the time I meet residents at the Soldiers Home, all those years, all those milestones, are behind them. I smiled at Ray and Bill, on each side of me, and cried.
I was wistful, but I also was filled with immense gratitude. Gary had a lot of life left in him when I met him; he made the most of it, and he shared it with me openly and lovingly. He also had a lot of—let’s say--spunk, as anyone who knew him would attest. (The last song on Gary’s slideshow was “My Way,” and the lyrics were printed on his memorial program.)
After the service—no traditional rifle shots any longer, Harold said—we all meandered to Chilson Hall for a reception. Doreen sliced cake, and I served Ray, Bill, Charlie and John. I needed very much to connect with them, and eventually we all headed to the nursing center as I wheeled John back to his room.
I hugged Ray and Bill goodbye and on my way out popped into the Bingo room. Gary’s service had been scheduled for 2 p.m., the same time as Bingo. The Bingo room was packed.
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