Monday, May 30, 2011
My fingers are blue and my mascara is smeared, which can mean only one thing: I’ve been serving patriotic cake at the Soldiers Home Memorial Day program.
This was my third Memorial Day program, and I had expected this one to be particularly poignant, since Mike’s name would be read among the “roll call” of residents who’d died over the past year.
This year, though, that part didn’t get me – but it wouldn’t be a Soldiers Home ceremony if I weren’t a mess at some point.
I came into Chilson Hall through the back door, just as two women – one with a cane, one with a walker – were dropped off. I held the door for them, thanked them for coming and headed for my post at the refreshment table. As usual, Doreen and Peggy, from the VFW Auxiliary, had done all the hard work, slicing up a giant carrot cake and a scrumptious white marble cake (which may or may not have landed belly-up on its way in; check the frosting smear in the picture). “The Other Sandy” came, too, and we assumed our positions and waited for the onslaught.
Ann Lawson, who had been listed as a speaker on last year’s program without her knowledge, had fair warning this year. She stood strongly (the first time I’d ever seen her upright) and took the podium to read the governor’s proclamation, first declaring how proud she is to be a resident of the Soldiers Home.
Other rituals came and went, all with varying degrees of emotion packed into them, from the introduction by the new superintendent and the guest speaker (neither especially stirring) to the medley of military songs (always, always touching).
Bill Crowell had told me at the Veterans Day service that he always gets choked up at these sorts of things, and today I could see it in his face, in his posture and in the fact that another man supported Bill as he stood for the Navy song.
Today, though, his emotion, and the determination of so many disabled residents to stand for their song, made me smile – with respect. And when they read Mike’s name during Roll Call, I noticed a few people turn to look at me, but I met their eyes with a smile, too – thanks for acknowledging Mike and, to a lesser extent, my loss.
But then the Puyallup Community Band (led by one particularly resonant trumpeter) played “Taps.” And it was heart-wrenching. It just now hit me that the last time I’d heard “Taps” was at Mike’s memorial service, and maybe that’s why it got me today. It seemed so sad and celebratory all at once, I finally gave in to some tears.
The hall was packed, and the refreshment rush was intense for a minute or two. The cake slices got sloppier and sloppier, my ladling got punchier and punchier, and by the time the white marble cake was gone, its blue frosting was everywhere – all over the refreshment table, our hands and the lips and tongues of those of us who’d snuck a piece. (All right, all right: guilty.)
We refreshment ladies cleaned up and hugged goodbye. And as I left, out the same door I’d come in, the same two women with a cane and walker also were leaving. The timing was rather uncanny – there were maybe 10 people left in the whole hall.
I held the door for them, and thanked them, again, for coming.
My fingers are blue and my mascara is smeared, which can mean only one thing: I’ve been serving patriotic cake at the Soldiers Home Memorial Day program.
This was my third Memorial Day program, and I had expected this one to be particularly poignant, since Mike’s name would be read among the “roll call” of residents who’d died over the past year.
This year, though, that part didn’t get me – but it wouldn’t be a Soldiers Home ceremony if I weren’t a mess at some point.
I came into Chilson Hall through the back door, just as two women – one with a cane, one with a walker – were dropped off. I held the door for them, thanked them for coming and headed for my post at the refreshment table. As usual, Doreen and Peggy, from the VFW Auxiliary, had done all the hard work, slicing up a giant carrot cake and a scrumptious white marble cake (which may or may not have landed belly-up on its way in; check the frosting smear in the picture). “The Other Sandy” came, too, and we assumed our positions and waited for the onslaught.
Ann Lawson, who had been listed as a speaker on last year’s program without her knowledge, had fair warning this year. She stood strongly (the first time I’d ever seen her upright) and took the podium to read the governor’s proclamation, first declaring how proud she is to be a resident of the Soldiers Home.
Other rituals came and went, all with varying degrees of emotion packed into them, from the introduction by the new superintendent and the guest speaker (neither especially stirring) to the medley of military songs (always, always touching).
Bill Crowell had told me at the Veterans Day service that he always gets choked up at these sorts of things, and today I could see it in his face, in his posture and in the fact that another man supported Bill as he stood for the Navy song.
Today, though, his emotion, and the determination of so many disabled residents to stand for their song, made me smile – with respect. And when they read Mike’s name during Roll Call, I noticed a few people turn to look at me, but I met their eyes with a smile, too – thanks for acknowledging Mike and, to a lesser extent, my loss.
But then the Puyallup Community Band (led by one particularly resonant trumpeter) played “Taps.” And it was heart-wrenching. It just now hit me that the last time I’d heard “Taps” was at Mike’s memorial service, and maybe that’s why it got me today. It seemed so sad and celebratory all at once, I finally gave in to some tears.
The hall was packed, and the refreshment rush was intense for a minute or two. The cake slices got sloppier and sloppier, my ladling got punchier and punchier, and by the time the white marble cake was gone, its blue frosting was everywhere – all over the refreshment table, our hands and the lips and tongues of those of us who’d snuck a piece. (All right, all right: guilty.)
We refreshment ladies cleaned up and hugged goodbye. And as I left, out the same door I’d come in, the same two women with a cane and walker also were leaving. The timing was rather uncanny – there were maybe 10 people left in the whole hall.
I held the door for them, and thanked them, again, for coming.