Poker pals Bill Crowell and Ray McDade.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
I beat the Tacoma HOGs to Reno Day today—which sounds like a string of random words, unless you’ve been to four or five Reno Days already.
So, a little context: Once a year, members of the Tacoma Harley Owners Group thunder out to the Soldiers Home and turn the cavernous Chilson Hall into a casino. Residents use free tickets to play casino games and win huge piles of chips, which they can use to buy Bingo-type prizes—or coveted Harley gear.
And every year, Doreen the amazing VFW Auxiliary volunteer makes dozens and dozens of dozens of traditional ham-bun sandwiches, and I help out at the food bar.
This year as I pulled in, a couple of HOGs stood sentry near the Soldiers Home entrance, waiting to direct the bikes. As soon as I parked, I heard their unmistakable, car-rattling roar: The HOGs had arrived.
I joined Doreen and another helper, and after we’d whipped the snacks into shape, I ventured out to the gaming area with a tray of drinks. (Another tradition: At least three people always ask whether they’re spiked.) (They are not.)
Ray McDade, Leo Martell, David, Doug, Charlie, Dorothy and Wesley always come to Reno Day. Leo always parks at the blackjack table, so I waved my hands in a lucky spell over his cards—but it really didn’t matter: The HOGs tend to be rather generous with the chips, win or lose.
Ray scoped out the prize table to gauge how many chips he’d need for a flashlight. David was intensely focused on his poker hand. And sweet, tough-looking Wesley was giggling as he tried to catch a plastic fish from a kid’s game.
And then there sat Bill Crowell.
Someone had wheeled him in, but he didn’t make it all the way to a game. I walked over and hugged him and casually asked how he was.
“Kind of down, I guess,” Bill said.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but I did: “Why?”
“Oh,” Bill sighed. “Probably because of you.”
I squatted down to his level, because it seemed as if this could/should take more than a second.
“I know this is never going to work out,” Bill said.
I squeezed his hand. “We can be friends forever,” I said.
That seemed to help, but not enough. “But what about Ray?” he said. Well, I told him, I’d always be friends with Ray, too.
That seemed to help a little more, so I suggested Bill might enjoy the diversion of a good round of poker. A HOG took him under his HOG wing, and I went back to my food post.
One of my favorite parts about Reno Day is introducing residents to the HOGs. As I carried Charlie’s plate to a table, I simply told two HOGs, “This is Charlie,” and suddenly three men were friends. Charlie had wanted a plate of barbecue meatballs, and he’d wanted me to pick a drink for him. “I brought you Dr. Pepper because it goes really well with barbecue,” I told him. Charlie took a sip and smiled. “Yeah, it does!” he said.
As the games were winding down, a HOG came in and announced, “I need the blonde at the bar.” Well, as it turned out, today there were two. “The one for Bill,” he said. Yes; that narrowed it down.
I met Bill at the poker table and counted his chips—somewhere around a gazillion. I pushed him to the Harley table, and he picked out a nice biker T-shirt. But he still had more shopping to do. We went to the expensive end of the prize table—20 chips!—and Bill picked a plastic Jesus clock that might also have been a picture frame.
Bill told me his favorite picture of me is the one with Ray and me getting out of the back seat of the car. I have no idea what that means, because there is no such picture, and that made me very sad. I bent down again to hug my friend goodbye. Erin from Activities came to collect him and wheel him home.
“I’ll see you the next time I come out,” I told Bill.
As I watched Bill leave, I heard Erin tell him, “She said she’ll see you the next time she comes out.”
I beat the Tacoma HOGs to Reno Day today—which sounds like a string of random words, unless you’ve been to four or five Reno Days already.
So, a little context: Once a year, members of the Tacoma Harley Owners Group thunder out to the Soldiers Home and turn the cavernous Chilson Hall into a casino. Residents use free tickets to play casino games and win huge piles of chips, which they can use to buy Bingo-type prizes—or coveted Harley gear.
And every year, Doreen the amazing VFW Auxiliary volunteer makes dozens and dozens of dozens of traditional ham-bun sandwiches, and I help out at the food bar.
This year as I pulled in, a couple of HOGs stood sentry near the Soldiers Home entrance, waiting to direct the bikes. As soon as I parked, I heard their unmistakable, car-rattling roar: The HOGs had arrived.
I joined Doreen and another helper, and after we’d whipped the snacks into shape, I ventured out to the gaming area with a tray of drinks. (Another tradition: At least three people always ask whether they’re spiked.) (They are not.)
Ray McDade, Leo Martell, David, Doug, Charlie, Dorothy and Wesley always come to Reno Day. Leo always parks at the blackjack table, so I waved my hands in a lucky spell over his cards—but it really didn’t matter: The HOGs tend to be rather generous with the chips, win or lose.
Ray scoped out the prize table to gauge how many chips he’d need for a flashlight. David was intensely focused on his poker hand. And sweet, tough-looking Wesley was giggling as he tried to catch a plastic fish from a kid’s game.
And then there sat Bill Crowell.
Someone had wheeled him in, but he didn’t make it all the way to a game. I walked over and hugged him and casually asked how he was.
“Kind of down, I guess,” Bill said.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but I did: “Why?”
“Oh,” Bill sighed. “Probably because of you.”
I squatted down to his level, because it seemed as if this could/should take more than a second.
“I know this is never going to work out,” Bill said.
I squeezed his hand. “We can be friends forever,” I said.
That seemed to help, but not enough. “But what about Ray?” he said. Well, I told him, I’d always be friends with Ray, too.
That seemed to help a little more, so I suggested Bill might enjoy the diversion of a good round of poker. A HOG took him under his HOG wing, and I went back to my food post.
One of my favorite parts about Reno Day is introducing residents to the HOGs. As I carried Charlie’s plate to a table, I simply told two HOGs, “This is Charlie,” and suddenly three men were friends. Charlie had wanted a plate of barbecue meatballs, and he’d wanted me to pick a drink for him. “I brought you Dr. Pepper because it goes really well with barbecue,” I told him. Charlie took a sip and smiled. “Yeah, it does!” he said.
As the games were winding down, a HOG came in and announced, “I need the blonde at the bar.” Well, as it turned out, today there were two. “The one for Bill,” he said. Yes; that narrowed it down.
I met Bill at the poker table and counted his chips—somewhere around a gazillion. I pushed him to the Harley table, and he picked out a nice biker T-shirt. But he still had more shopping to do. We went to the expensive end of the prize table—20 chips!—and Bill picked a plastic Jesus clock that might also have been a picture frame.
Bill told me his favorite picture of me is the one with Ray and me getting out of the back seat of the car. I have no idea what that means, because there is no such picture, and that made me very sad. I bent down again to hug my friend goodbye. Erin from Activities came to collect him and wheel him home.
“I’ll see you the next time I come out,” I told Bill.
As I watched Bill leave, I heard Erin tell him, “She said she’ll see you the next time she comes out.”
Leo Martell starts amassing chips.
The ladies who do lunch.
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