One of the two Memorial Day cakes. Monday, May 27, 2013
Today’s Memorial Day program at the Soldiers Home was standing-room only—Chilson Hall was more crowded than I’d ever seen it—which is good and bad.
The good is obvious: These residents—and all veterans, everywhere—should be heard, and seen, and appreciated by as many of us as possible. And the bad is selfish: Maybe everyone doesn’t have to stand right in front of me.
My friend Don came with me today and immediately grabbed a spot right behind Ray McDade, who’s always there early, and who’s always seated right in the front row. I left them to catch up and took my position at the cake/punch table.
Doreen also is a habitual early bird, so everything already was set up. We skimmed through the program together.
“Where’s the Roll Call?” I asked. Every Memorial Day, a resident reads the names of the residents who have died in the past year, and the program always includes that list. It’s always shocking on a couple levels: Besides the sheer size of the list, there is always a name or two that surprises me. But this year: no list at all.
“Too many died,” Doreen said. “They said they couldn’t fit all the names in the program.”
We both agreed that was a shame—again, on a couple levels.
People just kept streaming in. The Boy Scouts wheeled in residents and took them to designated areas, but a lot of visitors couldn’t find seats, and all of a sudden the space between the last row of seats and the cake table was filled with people. Talkative people.
The Boy Scouts, who had taken over a table toward the back of the room, cleared frequent paths through the crowd to get to the bathroom. At one point another volunteer said, “They really should give their table to the public.” And at another, the just-in-case EMT stood right smack in my line of vision.
Though I couldn’t really see the podium, the program itself moved quickly. Marie led the Pledge of Allegiance. Harold presented the governor’s proclamation, and the two guest speakers seemed to connect with the crowd. Then Greg, formerly a regular Bingo caller, read the Roll Call list—more than 50 names. I had expected to hear Gary Walling’s name, but still I tightened a little when I heard it. Then Greg announced the name “Lyle,” and I thought, “Oh no. I didn’t know Lyle had died”—but it was a different Lyle than the one I’d known from Bingo. But then, fewer than 10 names later, Greg read that Lyle’s name. And I said it out loud: “Oh, no.” I hadn’t known he’d died.
I teared up, as usual, at “Taps” and at the military songs. At one point, a woman toward the back of the hall started sobbing very loudly.
Everyone stared—except for one Boy Scout. Two minutes earlier, that same Boy Scout had squeezed through the crowd on his way to the bathroom, and I almost said something about respect and manners and courtesy. But now, without any direction at all, he voluntarily knelt next to the sobbing woman and put his arm around her shoulders—and all of a sudden I wasn’t irritated at a single thing.
Our little refreshment table was overwhelemed by the crowd. I couldn’t cut cake quickly enough. At one point a volunteer next to me told me I was “getting sloppy.” Luckily I had passed the irritation point.
Greg came through the line, and I told him he'd done a nice job with Roll Call. “Some of those names are tongue-twisters,” he said.
Afterward, Ray, Don and I talked. I asked why Bill Crowell hadn’t come. “I saw him on my way in,” Ray said. “He was headed in the opposite direction.”
Don and I hugged Ray goodbye and walked down to the pond. The pond, of course, was my special place with my amazing Soldiers Home friend Mike, and I feel his presence there more than anywhere.
“Hello, Michael,” I said out loud.
An eagle squawked in response. Mike and I always looked for eagles at the pond, so naturally I took this as a sign.
“That was Mike,” I said with certainty.
And then I cried a little, again, for all we’ve lost.
Today’s Memorial Day program at the Soldiers Home was standing-room only—Chilson Hall was more crowded than I’d ever seen it—which is good and bad.
The good is obvious: These residents—and all veterans, everywhere—should be heard, and seen, and appreciated by as many of us as possible. And the bad is selfish: Maybe everyone doesn’t have to stand right in front of me.
My friend Don came with me today and immediately grabbed a spot right behind Ray McDade, who’s always there early, and who’s always seated right in the front row. I left them to catch up and took my position at the cake/punch table.
Doreen also is a habitual early bird, so everything already was set up. We skimmed through the program together.
“Where’s the Roll Call?” I asked. Every Memorial Day, a resident reads the names of the residents who have died in the past year, and the program always includes that list. It’s always shocking on a couple levels: Besides the sheer size of the list, there is always a name or two that surprises me. But this year: no list at all.
“Too many died,” Doreen said. “They said they couldn’t fit all the names in the program.”
We both agreed that was a shame—again, on a couple levels.
People just kept streaming in. The Boy Scouts wheeled in residents and took them to designated areas, but a lot of visitors couldn’t find seats, and all of a sudden the space between the last row of seats and the cake table was filled with people. Talkative people.
The Boy Scouts, who had taken over a table toward the back of the room, cleared frequent paths through the crowd to get to the bathroom. At one point another volunteer said, “They really should give their table to the public.” And at another, the just-in-case EMT stood right smack in my line of vision.
Though I couldn’t really see the podium, the program itself moved quickly. Marie led the Pledge of Allegiance. Harold presented the governor’s proclamation, and the two guest speakers seemed to connect with the crowd. Then Greg, formerly a regular Bingo caller, read the Roll Call list—more than 50 names. I had expected to hear Gary Walling’s name, but still I tightened a little when I heard it. Then Greg announced the name “Lyle,” and I thought, “Oh no. I didn’t know Lyle had died”—but it was a different Lyle than the one I’d known from Bingo. But then, fewer than 10 names later, Greg read that Lyle’s name. And I said it out loud: “Oh, no.” I hadn’t known he’d died.
I teared up, as usual, at “Taps” and at the military songs. At one point, a woman toward the back of the hall started sobbing very loudly.
Everyone stared—except for one Boy Scout. Two minutes earlier, that same Boy Scout had squeezed through the crowd on his way to the bathroom, and I almost said something about respect and manners and courtesy. But now, without any direction at all, he voluntarily knelt next to the sobbing woman and put his arm around her shoulders—and all of a sudden I wasn’t irritated at a single thing.
Our little refreshment table was overwhelemed by the crowd. I couldn’t cut cake quickly enough. At one point a volunteer next to me told me I was “getting sloppy.” Luckily I had passed the irritation point.
Greg came through the line, and I told him he'd done a nice job with Roll Call. “Some of those names are tongue-twisters,” he said.
Afterward, Ray, Don and I talked. I asked why Bill Crowell hadn’t come. “I saw him on my way in,” Ray said. “He was headed in the opposite direction.”
Don and I hugged Ray goodbye and walked down to the pond. The pond, of course, was my special place with my amazing Soldiers Home friend Mike, and I feel his presence there more than anywhere.
“Hello, Michael,” I said out loud.
An eagle squawked in response. Mike and I always looked for eagles at the pond, so naturally I took this as a sign.
“That was Mike,” I said with certainty.
And then I cried a little, again, for all we’ve lost.
Ray McDade, front and center.
Veterans stand as their military song is played.
Ray and me, apres-cake.
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