Friday, June 8, 2012
Bingo looked different right off the bat today—Terry the volunteer had assumed the caller’s seat, and you just never know what’s going to happen when someone new assumes the caller’s seat. (As it turns out, things moved smoothly, pleasantly and speedily. Yay.)
Eileen was taking attendance, and I asked whether she’d gotten the message I had left thanking her for the Volunteer Extraordinaire Bingo title, and telling her it had made my day. “Your message made my day,” she said. “I played it for the whole Recreation department.”
Richard was confirming Bingos, so since I had prize-cart duty he’d stand by the winners until I got there. Francis won one early game, and as I got closer to him I realized he was dressed completely in camouflage from head to toe—shirt, pants, socks and even camo slippers. “I had a hard time seeing you,” I told him. “That’s because of the camouflage,” said Richard.
Ray McDade asked whether I had time to help him choose a new spring coat after Bingo. Usually donated clothes fill a cavernous room by the Soldiers Home woodworking shop, but today they had moved some into the Occupational Therapy room—or, as Ray calls it, “that place where they do all the gymnastics.”
Bingo went so quickly, in fact, I had plenty of time. A few coats were hanging on a set of stairs (where I suddenly remembered perching while Mike had his scooter fixed a long, long time ago), and I egged Ray toward a sharp khaki cargo coat. Everything about it looked really nice on him, but it was only an extra-large, and the therapists could have sworn Ray was an extra-extra-large—especially since they’d given him a lovely new button-down shirt earlier, size XXL.
“Maybe I’d better try that shirt on, then,” Ray said, and he started unbuttoning his own shirt.
“Well, you can’t do it here,” the therapist said. “There are ladies present.”
Ray chuckled—and kept unbuttoning his shirt.
“No,” the therapist said. “I mean you really can’t do that here; there are ladies present.” And she pointed one out for emphasis.
Ray covered up, and we left not knowing how gigantic that new shirt might be. I figured we’d go to his room to find out, but we didn’t get that far.
Right outside the gymnastics room, in the hallway, Ray assured me no one would see—and so all of a sudden I was pulling straight pins out of a crispy new shirt. I helped Ray out of his and into the new one, and it was a little big but very attractive.
“That’ll work,” I told him. “Plus it looks great with those suspenders. And it might even shrink up a little when you wash it.”
Ray was happy. I folded his old shirt and stowed it in his scooter basket and patted down the new one, one last time, for stray pins.
Ray seemed safe. I hugged him goodbye and told him I’d see him soon—I’m only guessing, but I bet he wears that new shirt to our next Bingo.
Bingo looked different right off the bat today—Terry the volunteer had assumed the caller’s seat, and you just never know what’s going to happen when someone new assumes the caller’s seat. (As it turns out, things moved smoothly, pleasantly and speedily. Yay.)
Eileen was taking attendance, and I asked whether she’d gotten the message I had left thanking her for the Volunteer Extraordinaire Bingo title, and telling her it had made my day. “Your message made my day,” she said. “I played it for the whole Recreation department.”
Richard was confirming Bingos, so since I had prize-cart duty he’d stand by the winners until I got there. Francis won one early game, and as I got closer to him I realized he was dressed completely in camouflage from head to toe—shirt, pants, socks and even camo slippers. “I had a hard time seeing you,” I told him. “That’s because of the camouflage,” said Richard.
Ray McDade asked whether I had time to help him choose a new spring coat after Bingo. Usually donated clothes fill a cavernous room by the Soldiers Home woodworking shop, but today they had moved some into the Occupational Therapy room—or, as Ray calls it, “that place where they do all the gymnastics.”
Bingo went so quickly, in fact, I had plenty of time. A few coats were hanging on a set of stairs (where I suddenly remembered perching while Mike had his scooter fixed a long, long time ago), and I egged Ray toward a sharp khaki cargo coat. Everything about it looked really nice on him, but it was only an extra-large, and the therapists could have sworn Ray was an extra-extra-large—especially since they’d given him a lovely new button-down shirt earlier, size XXL.
“Maybe I’d better try that shirt on, then,” Ray said, and he started unbuttoning his own shirt.
“Well, you can’t do it here,” the therapist said. “There are ladies present.”
Ray chuckled—and kept unbuttoning his shirt.
“No,” the therapist said. “I mean you really can’t do that here; there are ladies present.” And she pointed one out for emphasis.
Ray covered up, and we left not knowing how gigantic that new shirt might be. I figured we’d go to his room to find out, but we didn’t get that far.
Right outside the gymnastics room, in the hallway, Ray assured me no one would see—and so all of a sudden I was pulling straight pins out of a crispy new shirt. I helped Ray out of his and into the new one, and it was a little big but very attractive.
“That’ll work,” I told him. “Plus it looks great with those suspenders. And it might even shrink up a little when you wash it.”
Ray was happy. I folded his old shirt and stowed it in his scooter basket and patted down the new one, one last time, for stray pins.
Ray seemed safe. I hugged him goodbye and told him I’d see him soon—I’m only guessing, but I bet he wears that new shirt to our next Bingo.