Leo Burton, left, and Mike Marquie at the Family Picnic.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I picked up a couple of dads today. (Now there’s a sentence you don’t get to say too often.)
As it turns out, I only “adopted” them for an hour or so: Today was the annual Family Picnic at the Soldiers Home. Dozens of tables and canopies are set outside by the gazebo; invitations are sent to residents’ relatives, and lots and lots of people come.
Mike had invited his son and granddaughter and me, but only I came. As we were looking for a place to sit, I noticed Leo Burton alone at a big table—his daughter didn’t make it, either. So we formed our own little surrogate pod.
I lined up and loaded up our trays of food. One guy I’ve seen with a resident at Bingo said something about me getting lunch for my dad. “Oh—he’s my friend,” I said. I was surprised for a minute, but I guess quite a few people have thought I’m related to Mike—or someone there. And while I certainly didn’t mean to disown Mike (or Leo), I was happy I had made the “friend” connection instead of the “volunteer/resident” one—which I did when Vern introduced me to someone at our first Valentine’s Day dinner, and I’ve regretted it ever since.
Anyway, I piled on the picnic grub—ribs, hot dogs, potato salad, beans, coleslaw, corn on the cob and cake—and we ate and talked and listened to the entertainment: a guy with a guitar, an electronic instrument keyboard thing and a portable microphone in case any residents wanted to sing.
Which they did.
It also was entertaining to see residents with their families. Ray McDade sat at the head of a table full of McDades. The new Michael ate and laughed—both heartily—with two guests. Leo Martell was laughing and patting a young guy on the shoulder. Ken Levick told me he was looking for his son, which worried me for a minute, but I saw them together a little later.
The atmosphere was just so completely different from a normal day at the Soldiers Home. (Well, for one thing, it was freezing, but that’s just the meteorological atmosphere.) Kids were running and squealing, staff members were handing out extra napkins (those ribs were messy) and the grounds were alive with the sound of happy chatter—and sing-along tunes.
Mike and I said goodbye to Leo and scooted off. It was kind of a tiring day, and everyone’s routine was way off-kilter.
“If I were you,” I said to Mike. “I’d go bundle up, get warm and take a nice long nap.”
“That s,” he said. It sounded pretty good to me, too.
Mike walked me to the door and thanked me a couple times for coming.
“I’m so glad I did,” I told him. And I was—and not just for the entertainment.
I picked up a couple of dads today. (Now there’s a sentence you don’t get to say too often.)
As it turns out, I only “adopted” them for an hour or so: Today was the annual Family Picnic at the Soldiers Home. Dozens of tables and canopies are set outside by the gazebo; invitations are sent to residents’ relatives, and lots and lots of people come.
Mike had invited his son and granddaughter and me, but only I came. As we were looking for a place to sit, I noticed Leo Burton alone at a big table—his daughter didn’t make it, either. So we formed our own little surrogate pod.
I lined up and loaded up our trays of food. One guy I’ve seen with a resident at Bingo said something about me getting lunch for my dad. “Oh—he’s my friend,” I said. I was surprised for a minute, but I guess quite a few people have thought I’m related to Mike—or someone there. And while I certainly didn’t mean to disown Mike (or Leo), I was happy I had made the “friend” connection instead of the “volunteer/resident” one—which I did when Vern introduced me to someone at our first Valentine’s Day dinner, and I’ve regretted it ever since.
Anyway, I piled on the picnic grub—ribs, hot dogs, potato salad, beans, coleslaw, corn on the cob and cake—and we ate and talked and listened to the entertainment: a guy with a guitar, an electronic instrument keyboard thing and a portable microphone in case any residents wanted to sing.
Which they did.
It also was entertaining to see residents with their families. Ray McDade sat at the head of a table full of McDades. The new Michael ate and laughed—both heartily—with two guests. Leo Martell was laughing and patting a young guy on the shoulder. Ken Levick told me he was looking for his son, which worried me for a minute, but I saw them together a little later.
The atmosphere was just so completely different from a normal day at the Soldiers Home. (Well, for one thing, it was freezing, but that’s just the meteorological atmosphere.) Kids were running and squealing, staff members were handing out extra napkins (those ribs were messy) and the grounds were alive with the sound of happy chatter—and sing-along tunes.
Mike and I said goodbye to Leo and scooted off. It was kind of a tiring day, and everyone’s routine was way off-kilter.
“If I were you,” I said to Mike. “I’d go bundle up, get warm and take a nice long nap.”
“That s,” he said. It sounded pretty good to me, too.
Mike walked me to the door and thanked me a couple times for coming.
“I’m so glad I did,” I told him. And I was—and not just for the entertainment.
The picnic starts to fill in. The guitar player in the gazebo was pretty popular.
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