Friday, December 9, 2011
Every year, the Soldiers Home holds a big public Christmas Bazaar in Chilson Hall. And every year, Mike and I would make a day of it, taking a “recon” spin around the perimeter, and then really shopping the second time around.
In one of my favorite memories of Mike ever, we are at the Bazaar at a woodcarver’s display, and Mike is absolutely in love with the walking sticks. He really, really wants to get one for my dad. I tell Mike to save his money, but we decide to think it over as we browse, and sure enough, we end up back at the walking sticks.
Mike talks to the woodcarver in depth. Mike hefts, holds, spins, assesses and weighs every walking stick against the one next to it. Finally, after at least half an hour, Mike has narrowed his options. The finalist sticks lean next to each other against a table until, after even further consideration, he chooses The One. We negotiate a bit of a bargain with the nice woodcarver (who, by now, considers us immediate family)—$40—and Mike just sits there. I look at him, and tilt my head a little, and Mike just sits there. He is not budging. The nice woodcarver looks at him, and tilts his head a little, and then looks at me. I try to act as if I had planned this all along, and fork over $40. Mike is elated beyond words. I am happy he is happy, but I did not plan to buy my dad a $40 walking stick for Christmas.
But I love my dad, and I loved Mike and my dad does like a nice walk. So when I wrapped the walking stick I never wanted, I signed it, “From Mike” and wrote on the tag to my dad: “Ask me the story behind this.” Which he did. And we all laughed hysterically, and my dad used the walking stick “from Mike” and thanked him for it over and over, and my heart warmed like an enlightened Grinch.
This year, however, there was no Mike (and no woodcarver). When I got to the Soldiers Home, I stopped in Ray McDade’s room first, to see whether he’d go bazaaring with me, but he had just gotten back from Wal-Mart, and he had a giant ferocious blister on his heel. I stopped in the therapy room to see whether my friend Tara wanted to come, but she was working and couldn’t get away. Then I stopped at Gary’s room, but he wasn’t home.
So I walked into the Soldiers Home Christmas Bazaar by myself for the first time ever. It was gorgeous and crowded and festive, and I launched into our recon round and spiel (“Just looking this time around!”), but it just wasn’t the same.
Dorothy dozed at the table where she was selling some garage-sale-like things. I ran into Wesley, which was a happy surprise—I hadn’t seen him since he stopped calling Bingo—and even happier when he told me he hopes to call Bingo again. I talked to Greg the new Bingo caller, bought a cute painted ceramic piece from Ann Lawson and stopped at a booth whose vendor looked familiar.
“Did you sell homemade Christmas wreaths last year?” I asked. Last year, although I tried to protest, Mike bought me a gorgeous, elaborate wreath, and I promised to treasure it forever. So far, I have: It’s hanging on my door right now.
The vendor remembered. I reminded her how Mike also had bought Christmas cups filled with cocoa mix for my family, and how she had disguised them in a big bag and hidden it under Mike’s blanket so I wouldn’t see them.
We both smiled. I was just about to start my second, serious round of actual shopping when my phone rang.
I walked outside to talk—and suddenly realized I didn’t need to go back in. I guess there really wasn’t anything there this year that I needed.
Every year, the Soldiers Home holds a big public Christmas Bazaar in Chilson Hall. And every year, Mike and I would make a day of it, taking a “recon” spin around the perimeter, and then really shopping the second time around.
In one of my favorite memories of Mike ever, we are at the Bazaar at a woodcarver’s display, and Mike is absolutely in love with the walking sticks. He really, really wants to get one for my dad. I tell Mike to save his money, but we decide to think it over as we browse, and sure enough, we end up back at the walking sticks.
Mike talks to the woodcarver in depth. Mike hefts, holds, spins, assesses and weighs every walking stick against the one next to it. Finally, after at least half an hour, Mike has narrowed his options. The finalist sticks lean next to each other against a table until, after even further consideration, he chooses The One. We negotiate a bit of a bargain with the nice woodcarver (who, by now, considers us immediate family)—$40—and Mike just sits there. I look at him, and tilt my head a little, and Mike just sits there. He is not budging. The nice woodcarver looks at him, and tilts his head a little, and then looks at me. I try to act as if I had planned this all along, and fork over $40. Mike is elated beyond words. I am happy he is happy, but I did not plan to buy my dad a $40 walking stick for Christmas.
But I love my dad, and I loved Mike and my dad does like a nice walk. So when I wrapped the walking stick I never wanted, I signed it, “From Mike” and wrote on the tag to my dad: “Ask me the story behind this.” Which he did. And we all laughed hysterically, and my dad used the walking stick “from Mike” and thanked him for it over and over, and my heart warmed like an enlightened Grinch.
This year, however, there was no Mike (and no woodcarver). When I got to the Soldiers Home, I stopped in Ray McDade’s room first, to see whether he’d go bazaaring with me, but he had just gotten back from Wal-Mart, and he had a giant ferocious blister on his heel. I stopped in the therapy room to see whether my friend Tara wanted to come, but she was working and couldn’t get away. Then I stopped at Gary’s room, but he wasn’t home.
So I walked into the Soldiers Home Christmas Bazaar by myself for the first time ever. It was gorgeous and crowded and festive, and I launched into our recon round and spiel (“Just looking this time around!”), but it just wasn’t the same.
Dorothy dozed at the table where she was selling some garage-sale-like things. I ran into Wesley, which was a happy surprise—I hadn’t seen him since he stopped calling Bingo—and even happier when he told me he hopes to call Bingo again. I talked to Greg the new Bingo caller, bought a cute painted ceramic piece from Ann Lawson and stopped at a booth whose vendor looked familiar.
“Did you sell homemade Christmas wreaths last year?” I asked. Last year, although I tried to protest, Mike bought me a gorgeous, elaborate wreath, and I promised to treasure it forever. So far, I have: It’s hanging on my door right now.
The vendor remembered. I reminded her how Mike also had bought Christmas cups filled with cocoa mix for my family, and how she had disguised them in a big bag and hidden it under Mike’s blanket so I wouldn’t see them.
We both smiled. I was just about to start my second, serious round of actual shopping when my phone rang.
I walked outside to talk—and suddenly realized I didn’t need to go back in. I guess there really wasn’t anything there this year that I needed.