As you might expect, the Home pulls out all the stops for military holidays. Before I volunteered there, we had driven through on Memorial Day and/or Veterans Day, not really knowing whether the ceremonies were open to the public, or where we’d go or whether we’d fit in. One year we bought a bird feeder from the veteran who was manning the wood shop, then drove up to the Soldiers Cemetery, where my then-very-young son picked a daisy for a soldier’s grave.
This year, though, I was comfortable enough to go in—although I felt remarkably humbled once I did. My husband and son came with me on Memorial Day, and on Veterans Day my son joined me for the service.
The services are held in Chilson Hall. Chairs are set up for guests; residents in wheelchairs line up along tables toward the back, or sit around the tables usually used for the snack bar. The Puyallup Community Band has been on stage both times I’ve gone, playing military and traditional songs. Local community groups, legislators, officials, and current servicemen come, too. It’s always packed. The first time I went, on Memorial Day, paramedics stood on alert in the back.
On Veterans Day my son and I sat with Mike, his son and his granddaughter, although we offered repeatedly to let them spend time together as a family. Local kids had decorated "thank you, veteran" cards and left them on the tables with lollipops attached. We piled them in front of Mike and his son, himself a veteran of three different branches (but a Marine at heart, he says).
There is so much combined sacrifice in that room, it is almost overwhelming. Everything about the entire ceremony, from the setting to the crowd to the music and the message, is so incredibly moving and poignant. But still I walk in there and think I’m not going to cry, this time.
Well, this time that steely resolve lasted maybe 3 minutes. I had noticed Wesley, the new Bingo caller, seated across the aisle, his wheelchair replaced with a walker. When the honor guard bore the flags to the podium, everyone who could stand, stood. Wesley steadied himself and rose slowly, then stood shakily, trembling on unsure footing, as he saluted the entire procession.
I’m also a sucker for military "theme" songs. Mike had told me that his son, who has served in the Marines, the Army and the Air Force, has to stand for three out of the five songs. So I expected that. But then Mike oofed his way out of his wheelchair for the Navy song, and another veteran who couldn’t get up merely lifted his hat as high as he could.
I was a mess. But in the presence of such true sacrifice, I was more honored than humiliated.
This year, though, I was comfortable enough to go in—although I felt remarkably humbled once I did. My husband and son came with me on Memorial Day, and on Veterans Day my son joined me for the service.
The services are held in Chilson Hall. Chairs are set up for guests; residents in wheelchairs line up along tables toward the back, or sit around the tables usually used for the snack bar. The Puyallup Community Band has been on stage both times I’ve gone, playing military and traditional songs. Local community groups, legislators, officials, and current servicemen come, too. It’s always packed. The first time I went, on Memorial Day, paramedics stood on alert in the back.
On Veterans Day my son and I sat with Mike, his son and his granddaughter, although we offered repeatedly to let them spend time together as a family. Local kids had decorated "thank you, veteran" cards and left them on the tables with lollipops attached. We piled them in front of Mike and his son, himself a veteran of three different branches (but a Marine at heart, he says).
There is so much combined sacrifice in that room, it is almost overwhelming. Everything about the entire ceremony, from the setting to the crowd to the music and the message, is so incredibly moving and poignant. But still I walk in there and think I’m not going to cry, this time.
Well, this time that steely resolve lasted maybe 3 minutes. I had noticed Wesley, the new Bingo caller, seated across the aisle, his wheelchair replaced with a walker. When the honor guard bore the flags to the podium, everyone who could stand, stood. Wesley steadied himself and rose slowly, then stood shakily, trembling on unsure footing, as he saluted the entire procession.
I’m also a sucker for military "theme" songs. Mike had told me that his son, who has served in the Marines, the Army and the Air Force, has to stand for three out of the five songs. So I expected that. But then Mike oofed his way out of his wheelchair for the Navy song, and another veteran who couldn’t get up merely lifted his hat as high as he could.
I was a mess. But in the presence of such true sacrifice, I was more honored than humiliated.
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