Friday, March 16, 2012
I was a little late to afternoon Bingo today—suddenly, with a puppy, it takes me a dog year to get out of the house—but I was happy to see Bingo in full swing, with a full crowd and even a full contingent of help.
I was especially happy to see Gary outside the door. And then he talked.
“Ann Lawson passed away,” Gary said. “She went downhill fast.”
I shook my head. Just Wednesday I had asked Dorothy whether Ann was OK. She hadn’t been at Bingo for weeks, but everyone thought she’d just grown weary of the relentless attendance duty.
I glanced at Ann’s usual spot. Today the whole table was empty: Her Bingo companion, James, had moved to sit with George.
The losses just keep coming. But Bingo goes on. It always goes on.
Matt was calling the numbers again, Terry was pushing the prize cart and a tall man I’d never met was reading back Bingo numbers. I asked him whether he’d like some help, and then I introduced myself.
“Are you the one with the blog?” he asked. “I read that all the time.”
Well, how about that. I smiled. That brings my regular readership to at least two, counting my mom.
Bingo moved quickly. One of the Activities staffers asked me to help a woman I hadn’t met. She reminded me a lot of my wonderful great-Aunt Betty, who passed away not too long ago. I introduced myself. “I’m Hazel,” the woman said, and I just stared at her. Hazel was the name of Aunt Betty’s mother.
With all the Bingo help, I had time to talk to almost everyone—I lingered a little with Leo Martell; joked with Arla; laughed with Harriet, Doris and Jim; and assured David Fox that my family is fine (he always asks). Bill Crowell motioned to me from outside the door; he just wanted to make sure, one more time, that the whole corsage thing was going to go smoothly for next year’s Valentines Dinner.
During the last Blackout game, I packed up residents’ winnings, and when I got back to Leo, I reached for the hefty box of chocolate-cake cookies he had won. It was very light.
“There aren’t any more in there,” Leo said.
I laughed out loud. “You ate them all?” He laughed, too.
“Maybe there were only two in there,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Leo said. “There were lots.”
As I was saying goodbye to people, Dorothy asked what I was doing after Bingo. She wanted me to stop by her room to see her new project. I happily agreed.
We stopped to let the puppy out for a second (and again, he somehow knew to pull out his best puppy behavior) and walked over to Roosevelt Barracks.
Dorothy’s room looks just like Dorothy. She told me the stories behind all her framed artwork and furnishings and knick-knacks, and then she pulled out her impressive project: For weeks, she has been leafing through the surplus calendars donated to the Soldiers Home and collecting monthly pictures that she likes. She then slides those into plastic sheaths and carefully arranges them, by theme, in a giant three-ring binder: There’s a wildlife section, an architecture section, a travel section, a patriotic section—and all together it’s really nothing less than the story of America or, maybe, Dorothy’s America. It’s kind of amazing.
“I tried to arrange them to tell a story,” she said. “And I thought you’d enjoy that part of it.”
I did. I marveled at her perseverance and creativity. “What a wonderful way to spend time,” I told her.
I hugged Dorothy goodbye and thanked her for sharing something so personal with me. Then I hoisted the baby dog out of the car and walked him down to the pond. It’s been almost a year since Mike died—that’s still a gaping empty spot, and the pond always helps fill it.
I was a little late to afternoon Bingo today—suddenly, with a puppy, it takes me a dog year to get out of the house—but I was happy to see Bingo in full swing, with a full crowd and even a full contingent of help.
I was especially happy to see Gary outside the door. And then he talked.
“Ann Lawson passed away,” Gary said. “She went downhill fast.”
I shook my head. Just Wednesday I had asked Dorothy whether Ann was OK. She hadn’t been at Bingo for weeks, but everyone thought she’d just grown weary of the relentless attendance duty.
I glanced at Ann’s usual spot. Today the whole table was empty: Her Bingo companion, James, had moved to sit with George.
The losses just keep coming. But Bingo goes on. It always goes on.
Matt was calling the numbers again, Terry was pushing the prize cart and a tall man I’d never met was reading back Bingo numbers. I asked him whether he’d like some help, and then I introduced myself.
“Are you the one with the blog?” he asked. “I read that all the time.”
Well, how about that. I smiled. That brings my regular readership to at least two, counting my mom.
Bingo moved quickly. One of the Activities staffers asked me to help a woman I hadn’t met. She reminded me a lot of my wonderful great-Aunt Betty, who passed away not too long ago. I introduced myself. “I’m Hazel,” the woman said, and I just stared at her. Hazel was the name of Aunt Betty’s mother.
With all the Bingo help, I had time to talk to almost everyone—I lingered a little with Leo Martell; joked with Arla; laughed with Harriet, Doris and Jim; and assured David Fox that my family is fine (he always asks). Bill Crowell motioned to me from outside the door; he just wanted to make sure, one more time, that the whole corsage thing was going to go smoothly for next year’s Valentines Dinner.
During the last Blackout game, I packed up residents’ winnings, and when I got back to Leo, I reached for the hefty box of chocolate-cake cookies he had won. It was very light.
“There aren’t any more in there,” Leo said.
I laughed out loud. “You ate them all?” He laughed, too.
“Maybe there were only two in there,” I said.
“Oh, no,” Leo said. “There were lots.”
As I was saying goodbye to people, Dorothy asked what I was doing after Bingo. She wanted me to stop by her room to see her new project. I happily agreed.
We stopped to let the puppy out for a second (and again, he somehow knew to pull out his best puppy behavior) and walked over to Roosevelt Barracks.
Dorothy’s room looks just like Dorothy. She told me the stories behind all her framed artwork and furnishings and knick-knacks, and then she pulled out her impressive project: For weeks, she has been leafing through the surplus calendars donated to the Soldiers Home and collecting monthly pictures that she likes. She then slides those into plastic sheaths and carefully arranges them, by theme, in a giant three-ring binder: There’s a wildlife section, an architecture section, a travel section, a patriotic section—and all together it’s really nothing less than the story of America or, maybe, Dorothy’s America. It’s kind of amazing.
“I tried to arrange them to tell a story,” she said. “And I thought you’d enjoy that part of it.”
I did. I marveled at her perseverance and creativity. “What a wonderful way to spend time,” I told her.
I hugged Dorothy goodbye and thanked her for sharing something so personal with me. Then I hoisted the baby dog out of the car and walked him down to the pond. It’s been almost a year since Mike died—that’s still a gaping empty spot, and the pond always helps fill it.