Friday, November 26, 2010
I came to the Soldiers Home early this evening to spend some time with Mike before Bingo, and it’s a good thing I did: Once I walked into the Bingo room, things went downhill fast.
But first, having already practiced my slightly obsessive organizing neuroses at home with Christmas decorations, I went to work for Mike, cleaning, sorting and arranging his ever-growing CD collection, which has turned into a godsend of a hobby for him. Exhibit A: For the first time since I’ve known him, Mike was planning a Soldiers Home outing. He had a new Elvis collectors CD set, and the little guitar candle that came with it had broken. This, and only this, had motivated Mike to venture way outside his comfort zone. So he got approval from the nursing staff, we checked and rechecked his return receipt and he was anticipating a whirlwind shuttle ride to Wal-Mart the next morning.
Organized and packed for adventure, we went to Bingo—and walked into a wall of chaos.
Traditionally, the night after Thanksgiving is scrip-book Bingo, when residents play for "money" they can use at the Home. But because scrip is subject to so many rules and regulations (I think, seriously, it has to be tracked through Olympia), last year was a near-disaster of disorganization. This year Mike and I went in earlier than usual so I could try to formulate--organize!—a plan. But instead we ran into Bill and his prize cart.
He said scrip night had been cancelled. Residents no longer could write the scrip, and the staff members who could were off for the holiday. Let’s call this Red Flag No. 1.
Red Flag No. 2: No one had seen Wesley, our fearless Bingo caller, for a couple days.
Red Flag No. 3: The custodial staff had not moved the massive Bingo machine into position, and residents are no longer allowed to do so because they might scratch the floors.
Things were not looking so promising. We kind of casually decided to give Wesley till 7, official Bingo start time. I told Dorothy it was like waiting for a late professor in college—at some point, you really start to hope he doesn’t show up at the last minute. Wesley did not.
Another resident offered to call the numbers, but we still didn’t have the machine in place. And Dorothy said that ever since Wesley threatened to call off Bingo one night in a huff, residents no longer had that authority, either. So Dorothy talked to a nurse, who said to cancel Bingo, and I held a vote: yay or nay.
There were only 3 yays. It was getting late, and by the time we would have set everything up, trained a new caller and gotten rolling, we’d have been there till midnight. Mike conspiratorially whispered to me: "Whatever you do, do NOT volunteer to call the numbers on top of your job, or you will never not call the numbers on top of your job." He’s a smart guy. I did not volunteer.
Instead, I called off Bingo. It helped to know another session was scheduled for the next afternoon, but still, some people were angry. And some just dejected. Everyone filed out. It was disappointing and uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the worst thing that happened in the Bingo room that night.
Dorothy told me our friend Mac had died. As I wrote in an earlier post, one night when I drove out for Bingo, only to find that Bingo had been abruptly cancelled, Mac made a point of thanking me for coming, anyway. No one else has ever done that, before or since. He was a sweet, sweet man, and funny and sharp, and he had an excellent smile and sense of humor.
In his honor, I will retell the last joke Mac told me. (I love that he personalized it for his audience.) "Did you hear about the kid in Orting who was digging a hole in his backyard to bury his dead goldfish? The hole was about 3 feet wide and deep, and his dad asked him why he was digging such a huge hole for such a tiny fish. ‘Because it’s inside my cat,’ the kid said."
Still makes me smile. Rest in peace, dear, sweet Mac.
I came to the Soldiers Home early this evening to spend some time with Mike before Bingo, and it’s a good thing I did: Once I walked into the Bingo room, things went downhill fast.
But first, having already practiced my slightly obsessive organizing neuroses at home with Christmas decorations, I went to work for Mike, cleaning, sorting and arranging his ever-growing CD collection, which has turned into a godsend of a hobby for him. Exhibit A: For the first time since I’ve known him, Mike was planning a Soldiers Home outing. He had a new Elvis collectors CD set, and the little guitar candle that came with it had broken. This, and only this, had motivated Mike to venture way outside his comfort zone. So he got approval from the nursing staff, we checked and rechecked his return receipt and he was anticipating a whirlwind shuttle ride to Wal-Mart the next morning.
Organized and packed for adventure, we went to Bingo—and walked into a wall of chaos.
Traditionally, the night after Thanksgiving is scrip-book Bingo, when residents play for "money" they can use at the Home. But because scrip is subject to so many rules and regulations (I think, seriously, it has to be tracked through Olympia), last year was a near-disaster of disorganization. This year Mike and I went in earlier than usual so I could try to formulate--organize!—a plan. But instead we ran into Bill and his prize cart.
He said scrip night had been cancelled. Residents no longer could write the scrip, and the staff members who could were off for the holiday. Let’s call this Red Flag No. 1.
Red Flag No. 2: No one had seen Wesley, our fearless Bingo caller, for a couple days.
Red Flag No. 3: The custodial staff had not moved the massive Bingo machine into position, and residents are no longer allowed to do so because they might scratch the floors.
Things were not looking so promising. We kind of casually decided to give Wesley till 7, official Bingo start time. I told Dorothy it was like waiting for a late professor in college—at some point, you really start to hope he doesn’t show up at the last minute. Wesley did not.
Another resident offered to call the numbers, but we still didn’t have the machine in place. And Dorothy said that ever since Wesley threatened to call off Bingo one night in a huff, residents no longer had that authority, either. So Dorothy talked to a nurse, who said to cancel Bingo, and I held a vote: yay or nay.
There were only 3 yays. It was getting late, and by the time we would have set everything up, trained a new caller and gotten rolling, we’d have been there till midnight. Mike conspiratorially whispered to me: "Whatever you do, do NOT volunteer to call the numbers on top of your job, or you will never not call the numbers on top of your job." He’s a smart guy. I did not volunteer.
Instead, I called off Bingo. It helped to know another session was scheduled for the next afternoon, but still, some people were angry. And some just dejected. Everyone filed out. It was disappointing and uncomfortable, but it wasn’t the worst thing that happened in the Bingo room that night.
Dorothy told me our friend Mac had died. As I wrote in an earlier post, one night when I drove out for Bingo, only to find that Bingo had been abruptly cancelled, Mac made a point of thanking me for coming, anyway. No one else has ever done that, before or since. He was a sweet, sweet man, and funny and sharp, and he had an excellent smile and sense of humor.
In his honor, I will retell the last joke Mac told me. (I love that he personalized it for his audience.) "Did you hear about the kid in Orting who was digging a hole in his backyard to bury his dead goldfish? The hole was about 3 feet wide and deep, and his dad asked him why he was digging such a huge hole for such a tiny fish. ‘Because it’s inside my cat,’ the kid said."
Still makes me smile. Rest in peace, dear, sweet Mac.