Sunday, June 20, 2010
For Fathers Day at the Soldiers Home, the Recreation staff assembled everyone in the Activity Center and served foamy root-beer floats. The calendar said the festivities started at 2, but when I got there (naturally, at 1:59), the place already was packed.
Sadly, it was mostly singles. That’s not to say daughters and sons hadn’t been there earlier, or had plans to come later, but at most, maybe two or three of the fatherly-looking residents I saw had visitors.
I was glad I’d come.
I ran into Gary first, who had exciting news: The poker tournament he’d dreamed up is coming to life. Fourteen residents are signed up, and the winners’ pot is mighty tempting: The $25 top prize beats anything on the Bingo cart by about $23.99.
He even had picked a date.
"Please tell me it’s not while I’m gone," I told him. (Every summer since I quit working full-time—nearly 10 years ago!—my son and I go back to the Midwest for a month or so to see all our relatives … but mostly my parents.)
"July 18," Gary said.
Argh. We get back July 20. Normally, things at the Soldiers Home go on quite well without me, but I’m the only dealer besides Gary, thanks to my (almost) excellent audition a few weeks back. (Or, more likely, thanks to the fact that I’d volunteered to deal.)
After we went over the rules of the deal again, and the complexity of the tournament (two tables, three chip values, 14 players switching tables as others drop out), I think Gary realized it might be easier to change the date than to steel another dealer for the challenges of Texas Hold ‘Em, Soldiers Home style.
"I suppose we can make a small concession," Gary smiled. "Let’s do it that next Sunday."
Oh boy. I am, as they say in those pro poker circles, all in.
Mike came in then, and we all relocated to a table for floats. Danny was there, then another Mike came over, and a man named John rolled up. Doug waved hi, and so did David Fox. Before you knew it, we were kind of the life of the party.
Stan had dozed off but woke up to challenge Gary at Wii golf. I hugged Stan and told him Happy Fathers Day, and then Mike and I braved the pseudo-summer weather and ventured outside.
We found a dry spot, and our conversation kind of flittered into a free-association free-for-all. We talked about the 2001 earthquake, about the new doctor on staff (Mike is impressed with her) and about the country-western show in Chilson Hall the night before.
But Mike's best story had nothing to do with music or earthquakes—although it’s possible somebody’s world was slightly rocked.
The night of the show, Mike had come outside for a breather and was approached by a woman. Before too long, she asked Mike to come to her room so she could "show him some things."
I don’t know how to re-create Mike’s response without the benefit of sound, but it went something like this: "Hamina. Hamina. Hamina. Hamina."
He was laughing. "Did she want to show me her etchings?" he snorted.
Mike said he’d begged off, but I told him she might not give up so easily.
"You’re quite a catch," I said.
"Oh, God," he said. But he was still smiling.
When I left, Mike held my hand for a little longer than usual.
"Happy Fathers Day to my second-favorite father on the planet," I told him.
He smiled and squeezed my hand.
As I walked to the car, I thought: "Hmm. Was that true?" So I counted: My dad’s number one. But somebody else's dad comes next. Yep. That's Mike.
For Fathers Day at the Soldiers Home, the Recreation staff assembled everyone in the Activity Center and served foamy root-beer floats. The calendar said the festivities started at 2, but when I got there (naturally, at 1:59), the place already was packed.
Sadly, it was mostly singles. That’s not to say daughters and sons hadn’t been there earlier, or had plans to come later, but at most, maybe two or three of the fatherly-looking residents I saw had visitors.
I was glad I’d come.
I ran into Gary first, who had exciting news: The poker tournament he’d dreamed up is coming to life. Fourteen residents are signed up, and the winners’ pot is mighty tempting: The $25 top prize beats anything on the Bingo cart by about $23.99.
He even had picked a date.
"Please tell me it’s not while I’m gone," I told him. (Every summer since I quit working full-time—nearly 10 years ago!—my son and I go back to the Midwest for a month or so to see all our relatives … but mostly my parents.)
"July 18," Gary said.
Argh. We get back July 20. Normally, things at the Soldiers Home go on quite well without me, but I’m the only dealer besides Gary, thanks to my (almost) excellent audition a few weeks back. (Or, more likely, thanks to the fact that I’d volunteered to deal.)
After we went over the rules of the deal again, and the complexity of the tournament (two tables, three chip values, 14 players switching tables as others drop out), I think Gary realized it might be easier to change the date than to steel another dealer for the challenges of Texas Hold ‘Em, Soldiers Home style.
"I suppose we can make a small concession," Gary smiled. "Let’s do it that next Sunday."
Oh boy. I am, as they say in those pro poker circles, all in.
Mike came in then, and we all relocated to a table for floats. Danny was there, then another Mike came over, and a man named John rolled up. Doug waved hi, and so did David Fox. Before you knew it, we were kind of the life of the party.
Stan had dozed off but woke up to challenge Gary at Wii golf. I hugged Stan and told him Happy Fathers Day, and then Mike and I braved the pseudo-summer weather and ventured outside.
We found a dry spot, and our conversation kind of flittered into a free-association free-for-all. We talked about the 2001 earthquake, about the new doctor on staff (Mike is impressed with her) and about the country-western show in Chilson Hall the night before.
But Mike's best story had nothing to do with music or earthquakes—although it’s possible somebody’s world was slightly rocked.
The night of the show, Mike had come outside for a breather and was approached by a woman. Before too long, she asked Mike to come to her room so she could "show him some things."
I don’t know how to re-create Mike’s response without the benefit of sound, but it went something like this: "Hamina. Hamina. Hamina. Hamina."
He was laughing. "Did she want to show me her etchings?" he snorted.
Mike said he’d begged off, but I told him she might not give up so easily.
"You’re quite a catch," I said.
"Oh, God," he said. But he was still smiling.
When I left, Mike held my hand for a little longer than usual.
"Happy Fathers Day to my second-favorite father on the planet," I told him.
He smiled and squeezed my hand.
As I walked to the car, I thought: "Hmm. Was that true?" So I counted: My dad’s number one. But somebody else's dad comes next. Yep. That's Mike.