Sunday, August 14, 2011
I almost talked myself out of driving to the Soldiers Home today—there was no Bingo, and I hadn’t told anyone I was coming, and I had visions of wandering aimlessly, looking for people who were somewhere else.
Instead I found three of my favorite friends the first place I looked—and another when I wasn't even looking.
My first stop: Ray McDade’s new room in the nursing center—and it really did stop me. When I walked in, Ray was lying on his bed with his headphones—and the Mariners game—on. Ray’s new space, I think I’ve mentioned, is exactly the same orientation as Mike’s, and for a minute there, seeing baseball on the TV and a man wearing headphones on the bed, it was so familiar but so not, I had to steady myself.
“Well, I’ll be,” Ray said, and sat up to hug me. “I’ve been saving that seat for you.”
I plopped onto his scooter, which he’d just driven to church and to Safeway, and we talked and talked. He’s adapting well to his new space and his new roommate, but he definitely has less space, and he’s missing a writing area. He had his eye on a skinny rolltop desk that sits right outside the Activity Center, but the staff told him it’s not up for grabs. His new strategy: try to score a single room.
Ray asked about my son and his golf game, which led to Tiger Woods and his downfall. We talked about the state of marriage, Ray’s preference for the Barracks’ dining room—and cribbage.
“I’d love to play cribbage with you,” Ray said. He grabbed his cribbage board (souped-up with a homemade peg holder on the back, a clever-monkey trick Mike would have loved), but my cribbage skills are rusty, to say the least. I promised to bone up, and I promised him a match.
That had worked out so well, I figured I’d try Gary’s room—and there he was. Gary is hardly ever in his room. I took this as an omen and made myself comfortable. Gary also asked about Carson’s golf game. And we talked and talked, too.
I gave Gary a goodbye hug and, pushing my luck, headed for Bill Crowell’s room. And there he was, watching a Clint Eastwood Western. I hugged him hello, but it wasn’t until he offered me a seat that I noticed: His scooter has been paroled! And now Bill and I talked and talked. Before I left, I asked whether he plays cribbage (he does), and I told him I knew someone looking for a partner.
On my way out, two hours after I almost didn’t come, I saw Cal Bush in the hallway. I couldn’t believe my luck. But I sure am glad I drove to the Soldiers Home today.
I almost talked myself out of driving to the Soldiers Home today—there was no Bingo, and I hadn’t told anyone I was coming, and I had visions of wandering aimlessly, looking for people who were somewhere else.
Instead I found three of my favorite friends the first place I looked—and another when I wasn't even looking.
My first stop: Ray McDade’s new room in the nursing center—and it really did stop me. When I walked in, Ray was lying on his bed with his headphones—and the Mariners game—on. Ray’s new space, I think I’ve mentioned, is exactly the same orientation as Mike’s, and for a minute there, seeing baseball on the TV and a man wearing headphones on the bed, it was so familiar but so not, I had to steady myself.
“Well, I’ll be,” Ray said, and sat up to hug me. “I’ve been saving that seat for you.”
I plopped onto his scooter, which he’d just driven to church and to Safeway, and we talked and talked. He’s adapting well to his new space and his new roommate, but he definitely has less space, and he’s missing a writing area. He had his eye on a skinny rolltop desk that sits right outside the Activity Center, but the staff told him it’s not up for grabs. His new strategy: try to score a single room.
Ray asked about my son and his golf game, which led to Tiger Woods and his downfall. We talked about the state of marriage, Ray’s preference for the Barracks’ dining room—and cribbage.
“I’d love to play cribbage with you,” Ray said. He grabbed his cribbage board (souped-up with a homemade peg holder on the back, a clever-monkey trick Mike would have loved), but my cribbage skills are rusty, to say the least. I promised to bone up, and I promised him a match.
That had worked out so well, I figured I’d try Gary’s room—and there he was. Gary is hardly ever in his room. I took this as an omen and made myself comfortable. Gary also asked about Carson’s golf game. And we talked and talked, too.
I gave Gary a goodbye hug and, pushing my luck, headed for Bill Crowell’s room. And there he was, watching a Clint Eastwood Western. I hugged him hello, but it wasn’t until he offered me a seat that I noticed: His scooter has been paroled! And now Bill and I talked and talked. Before I left, I asked whether he plays cribbage (he does), and I told him I knew someone looking for a partner.
On my way out, two hours after I almost didn’t come, I saw Cal Bush in the hallway. I couldn’t believe my luck. But I sure am glad I drove to the Soldiers Home today.
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