Ray McDade, in the Navy cap, holds court at a full table of family and friends at the Soldiers Home Family Picnic.
Bill Crowell, the watermelon and me.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Today was the annual Family Picnic at the Soldiers Home—my fourth. Typically guests are invited to the picnic, but I haven’t been formally invited since Mike died, so this year I pretty much just crashed it.
I didn’t really have a plan. But every year at least two picnic tables fill with residents who have no visiting family, so I had options, anyway.
When I got there, the gazebo area was abuzz: Tables were filling, a long line was inching slowly toward food and people were clapping along to music (in the gazebo was one guy with one guitar and many, many instrumental background tracks). I kind of blazed a path down the middle, hoping for direction. Thankfully, it came quickly.
“Sannnnnndy!” Ray McDade shouted. I knew it was Ray, because he used his best “Bingo! Bango! Bongo!” voice—plus a few more syllables in my name than usual. Bless his sweet heart; he was waving me over.
Ray reigned at one end of a happily full table. I said hi to his wife, neighbors and relatives, and Ray told me to grab a chair and join them. “Sandy keeps me supplied with jelly,” he told everyone.
We all got up to join the food line, but I got sidetracked by Leo Martell, who was sitting alone and needed a Diet Coke. By the time I got to the line, I slid right in with Harold and the high-school grandson of Chaplain Dale—excellent conversationalists for the wait.
Lunch—pulled pork, brisket and/or chicken, with your typical picnic sides and an assortment of desserts—was rather delicious. Ray didn’t eat much, but he talked and laughed a lot. I excused myself to give the McDade table some time together; stopped and talked to Faith, who introduced me to her son; and went inside the Nursing Center to search for Bill Crowell. I had figured his family couldn’t make the picnic, so I thought maybe I could kidnap and “adopt” him—but his room was empty.
I was back to Square One, picnic-plan wise. Again I walked straight through the middle, and again a wonderful man saved the day. I saw a hand in the air, then a telltale plaid sleeve and then a big smile: Bill Crowell himself, at a resident-only table with Lloyd.
I hugged Bill and said hi to Lloyd, then got Bill some more watermelon. As soon as I sat down, he told me he’d lost my phone number. Then he asked again about Valentines Dinner, now only six months away. I snatched the taped paper on the table that read, “Reserved for residents in wheelchairs” and made Bill a handy Sandy cheat sheet: my phone number on top, then every detail he could ever need to know about Valentines Dinner (The staff will make sure he signs up. The staff will arrange for my corsage. We will choose a reservation time together.). He was happy—but a little worried he wouldn’t last six months. I told him he’d better.
People were starting to clean up around us, so I wheeled Bill to the parking lot to pet my puppy. They bonded immediately—only partially because Bill had a picnic dropping or two in his lap.
We came back to say goodbye to Ray and his family but stopped abruptly so we wouldn’t interrupt a touching hug between Ray and his beautiful wife, Della.
I wheeled Bill back to his room and helped him settle into his big comfy chair. When I bent to hug him, he said, “Platonically, I love you so much.” I looked him in the eyes and told him I feel the same way. He took my hand.
“I hope there is someone like you on the other side waiting for me,” he said.
“There are going to be lots of people who love you waiting for you,” I told him. “But not yet.”
Bill kissed my hand. “I’ll see you Friday for Bingo,” I told him. “And in February for dinner.”
Today was the annual Family Picnic at the Soldiers Home—my fourth. Typically guests are invited to the picnic, but I haven’t been formally invited since Mike died, so this year I pretty much just crashed it.
I didn’t really have a plan. But every year at least two picnic tables fill with residents who have no visiting family, so I had options, anyway.
When I got there, the gazebo area was abuzz: Tables were filling, a long line was inching slowly toward food and people were clapping along to music (in the gazebo was one guy with one guitar and many, many instrumental background tracks). I kind of blazed a path down the middle, hoping for direction. Thankfully, it came quickly.
“Sannnnnndy!” Ray McDade shouted. I knew it was Ray, because he used his best “Bingo! Bango! Bongo!” voice—plus a few more syllables in my name than usual. Bless his sweet heart; he was waving me over.
Ray reigned at one end of a happily full table. I said hi to his wife, neighbors and relatives, and Ray told me to grab a chair and join them. “Sandy keeps me supplied with jelly,” he told everyone.
We all got up to join the food line, but I got sidetracked by Leo Martell, who was sitting alone and needed a Diet Coke. By the time I got to the line, I slid right in with Harold and the high-school grandson of Chaplain Dale—excellent conversationalists for the wait.
Lunch—pulled pork, brisket and/or chicken, with your typical picnic sides and an assortment of desserts—was rather delicious. Ray didn’t eat much, but he talked and laughed a lot. I excused myself to give the McDade table some time together; stopped and talked to Faith, who introduced me to her son; and went inside the Nursing Center to search for Bill Crowell. I had figured his family couldn’t make the picnic, so I thought maybe I could kidnap and “adopt” him—but his room was empty.
I was back to Square One, picnic-plan wise. Again I walked straight through the middle, and again a wonderful man saved the day. I saw a hand in the air, then a telltale plaid sleeve and then a big smile: Bill Crowell himself, at a resident-only table with Lloyd.
I hugged Bill and said hi to Lloyd, then got Bill some more watermelon. As soon as I sat down, he told me he’d lost my phone number. Then he asked again about Valentines Dinner, now only six months away. I snatched the taped paper on the table that read, “Reserved for residents in wheelchairs” and made Bill a handy Sandy cheat sheet: my phone number on top, then every detail he could ever need to know about Valentines Dinner (The staff will make sure he signs up. The staff will arrange for my corsage. We will choose a reservation time together.). He was happy—but a little worried he wouldn’t last six months. I told him he’d better.
People were starting to clean up around us, so I wheeled Bill to the parking lot to pet my puppy. They bonded immediately—only partially because Bill had a picnic dropping or two in his lap.
We came back to say goodbye to Ray and his family but stopped abruptly so we wouldn’t interrupt a touching hug between Ray and his beautiful wife, Della.
I wheeled Bill back to his room and helped him settle into his big comfy chair. When I bent to hug him, he said, “Platonically, I love you so much.” I looked him in the eyes and told him I feel the same way. He took my hand.
“I hope there is someone like you on the other side waiting for me,” he said.
“There are going to be lots of people who love you waiting for you,” I told him. “But not yet.”
Bill kissed my hand. “I’ll see you Friday for Bingo,” I told him. “And in February for dinner.”
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