Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Well, that was quite a lull. I’ll take partial responsibility for the giant gap between posts, but not all of it—somewhere in there a historic snow and ice storm knocked out our power and kicked us out of our frozen house-icle for days.
But now we are back and re-energized (ha!), with a lot of catching up to do.
Before Snowpocalypse, the Soldiers Home held an experimental Friday afternoon Bingo session—I actually had to call to make sure the “2 p.m.” on the calendar wasn’t a typo. It threw off my whole day, and I wasn’t all alone there, either.
When I walked in, Dorothy said, “I could be taking a nap.” Ann Lawson, the official Bingo roll-taker, took the day off. Just over a dozen people showed up—hardly any regulars—so it was slow-going and low-key. At the end, Marilyn Fletcher walked in and asked why we were playing Bingo on a weekday afternoon. “It’s the same time as karaoke!” she said, flummoxed.
Tonight, post-Snowpocalypse, I stopped in Gary’s room, where he was cuddling with his “therapy dog” and only visiting with Doreen. I hadn’t seen Gary since we met at the casino, so I asked him how things ended up. “Security had to escort me out the door with all my winnings,” Gary laughed. He was kidding. We caught up and compared storm stories: The Soldiers Home has a powerful backup generator, but not even that could keep Comcast on the air, so there was no TV for days, and they lost a ton—probably literally—of beautiful old trees.
In the Bingo room, Patrick had returned to help out (yay!), and Dorothy told me she’d already loaded the prize cart (double yay!). But then she said, “You know Caleb died.”
It took me a minute to speak. “Not Cal Bush,” I said. But it was Cal Bush. I cannot say enough good things about Cal. He made me smile every single time I saw him. He was one of the most good-natured, cheerful, affectionate people I’ve met anywhere, anytime, and the most genuinely appreciative man ever. I loved Cal, and I hadn’t even known he was sick.
For a minute I felt as if I’d have to leave, but then I saw Ray McDade zipping in. He asked where Ann Lawson was, and I said I didn’t know, but this was the second Bingo she’d missed. “People drop off like flies,” Ray said. “Don’t you ever abandon us.”
I told Ray how sorry I was to hear about Cal’s death.
But Ray hadn’t heard. He dropped his head, and I felt horrible. Usually, news of a death at the Soldiers Home spreads quickly. I hated to be the one to tell him, especially so casually.
“He always sat right there,” Ray finally said, pointing to Cal’s empty spot. “Now when I look that way, he won’t be there.”
There were a lot of empty spots tonight. It was a sparse crowd and a long, subdued night.
After Bingo, Dorothy came over as I was putting on my coat.
“There’s something I want to get off my chest,” she said, and she apologized sweetly and sincerely and humbly for hurting my feelings during Christmas Bingo. I thanked her and told her it was a new year, and it was behind us, and everything was fine.
She thanked me for coming to Bingo so faithfully.
“I love you guys,” I told her, and hugged her.
“We love you, too,” she said. “Even when we’re bitchy.”
We laughed, but then Dorothy said, solemnly, “You know who I was thinking about today? Mike.” Her eyes teared up.
I gave her a look as if a director had said, “Show me your shocked face.”
My eyes teared up, too. “I thought of him all the way here tonight,” I told her. “And I don’t do that all the time.” Which is true. But tonight, maybe a mile outside the Soldiers Home, I had just the clearest vision of Mike ever—and a brand-new clutch of grief.
“It’s almost too much,” Dorothy said. She was crying now. “Mike, and now Caleb. I cried when Danny died. And Dee J and Mac.”
We looked around the room as she named names—so many empty spots.
We said goodbye, and I told Dorothy to take care of herself. And on my dark drive home, I sobbed.
Well, that was quite a lull. I’ll take partial responsibility for the giant gap between posts, but not all of it—somewhere in there a historic snow and ice storm knocked out our power and kicked us out of our frozen house-icle for days.
But now we are back and re-energized (ha!), with a lot of catching up to do.
Before Snowpocalypse, the Soldiers Home held an experimental Friday afternoon Bingo session—I actually had to call to make sure the “2 p.m.” on the calendar wasn’t a typo. It threw off my whole day, and I wasn’t all alone there, either.
When I walked in, Dorothy said, “I could be taking a nap.” Ann Lawson, the official Bingo roll-taker, took the day off. Just over a dozen people showed up—hardly any regulars—so it was slow-going and low-key. At the end, Marilyn Fletcher walked in and asked why we were playing Bingo on a weekday afternoon. “It’s the same time as karaoke!” she said, flummoxed.
Tonight, post-Snowpocalypse, I stopped in Gary’s room, where he was cuddling with his “therapy dog” and only visiting with Doreen. I hadn’t seen Gary since we met at the casino, so I asked him how things ended up. “Security had to escort me out the door with all my winnings,” Gary laughed. He was kidding. We caught up and compared storm stories: The Soldiers Home has a powerful backup generator, but not even that could keep Comcast on the air, so there was no TV for days, and they lost a ton—probably literally—of beautiful old trees.
In the Bingo room, Patrick had returned to help out (yay!), and Dorothy told me she’d already loaded the prize cart (double yay!). But then she said, “You know Caleb died.”
It took me a minute to speak. “Not Cal Bush,” I said. But it was Cal Bush. I cannot say enough good things about Cal. He made me smile every single time I saw him. He was one of the most good-natured, cheerful, affectionate people I’ve met anywhere, anytime, and the most genuinely appreciative man ever. I loved Cal, and I hadn’t even known he was sick.
For a minute I felt as if I’d have to leave, but then I saw Ray McDade zipping in. He asked where Ann Lawson was, and I said I didn’t know, but this was the second Bingo she’d missed. “People drop off like flies,” Ray said. “Don’t you ever abandon us.”
I told Ray how sorry I was to hear about Cal’s death.
But Ray hadn’t heard. He dropped his head, and I felt horrible. Usually, news of a death at the Soldiers Home spreads quickly. I hated to be the one to tell him, especially so casually.
“He always sat right there,” Ray finally said, pointing to Cal’s empty spot. “Now when I look that way, he won’t be there.”
There were a lot of empty spots tonight. It was a sparse crowd and a long, subdued night.
After Bingo, Dorothy came over as I was putting on my coat.
“There’s something I want to get off my chest,” she said, and she apologized sweetly and sincerely and humbly for hurting my feelings during Christmas Bingo. I thanked her and told her it was a new year, and it was behind us, and everything was fine.
She thanked me for coming to Bingo so faithfully.
“I love you guys,” I told her, and hugged her.
“We love you, too,” she said. “Even when we’re bitchy.”
We laughed, but then Dorothy said, solemnly, “You know who I was thinking about today? Mike.” Her eyes teared up.
I gave her a look as if a director had said, “Show me your shocked face.”
My eyes teared up, too. “I thought of him all the way here tonight,” I told her. “And I don’t do that all the time.” Which is true. But tonight, maybe a mile outside the Soldiers Home, I had just the clearest vision of Mike ever—and a brand-new clutch of grief.
“It’s almost too much,” Dorothy said. She was crying now. “Mike, and now Caleb. I cried when Danny died. And Dee J and Mac.”
We looked around the room as she named names—so many empty spots.
We said goodbye, and I told Dorothy to take care of herself. And on my dark drive home, I sobbed.