Monday, May 31, 2010
Few places put on a ceremony like the Soldiers Home, and few ceremonies mean more to the Soldiers Home than Memorial Day. Today’s service, before a packed crowd, was yet another moving tribute to true personal patriotism, rigid military protocol and heart-tugging poignancy.
Officially, I was volunteering at the refreshment table, so I was at the back of Chilson Hall, right next to the men’s restroom, when the Color Guard began the flag procession. I almost snickered when a resident came out of the bathroom and the shrieking, squeaking door shattered the respectful silence—until I saw him, in an instant, automatically shift his cane to his left hand and cover his heart with his right.
I have not yet made it through a ceremony at the Soldiers Home without crying, and today was no exception. Usually I’m fine until the band plays its medley of Armed Forces songs, with people in the crowd standing up for their branch of service. I’m struck every time by the critical importance of this ritual—people I’ve seen only in wheelchairs struggle upright or are helped to their feet (that’s Leo Mortell in the black shirt during the Air Force song), and those who remain seated wave their hats proudly, as high as they can reach (Ray McDade during the Navy song). Today, though, I thought I might make it through tearfree, since I had the videocamera as a buffer, but when the man in the plaid shirt was helped up during the Air Force song, then rubbed repeatedly on the back by the woman who helped him up, I was done for.
It’s also touching to watch current servicemembers interact with the residents. Before the ceremony, I must have passed a dozen young Army guys on the sidewalk between the nursing center and Chilson Hall, where they were cheerfully shuttling residents to the ceremony. (Here’s how that sounded: "Ma’am." "Ma’am." "Afternoon, Ma’am." "Ma’am." "Howdy, Ma’am." Repeat chorus.)
The music (by the Puyallup Valley Community Band) was patriotic and stirring, the speech (by Fort Lewis Lt. Col. Charles S. Chenoweth II) was heartfelt and reverential and the sudden crush of hundreds of apparently starved and parched guests at the refreshment table afterward made me feel useful.
With a few of these big-scale ceremonies under my belt now, I suppose the routine is starting to seem familiar, but as I learn more about the Soldiers Home and its residents, these inspiring rituals become increasingly meaningful.
Other Monday updates:
Few places put on a ceremony like the Soldiers Home, and few ceremonies mean more to the Soldiers Home than Memorial Day. Today’s service, before a packed crowd, was yet another moving tribute to true personal patriotism, rigid military protocol and heart-tugging poignancy.
Officially, I was volunteering at the refreshment table, so I was at the back of Chilson Hall, right next to the men’s restroom, when the Color Guard began the flag procession. I almost snickered when a resident came out of the bathroom and the shrieking, squeaking door shattered the respectful silence—until I saw him, in an instant, automatically shift his cane to his left hand and cover his heart with his right.
I have not yet made it through a ceremony at the Soldiers Home without crying, and today was no exception. Usually I’m fine until the band plays its medley of Armed Forces songs, with people in the crowd standing up for their branch of service. I’m struck every time by the critical importance of this ritual—people I’ve seen only in wheelchairs struggle upright or are helped to their feet (that’s Leo Mortell in the black shirt during the Air Force song), and those who remain seated wave their hats proudly, as high as they can reach (Ray McDade during the Navy song). Today, though, I thought I might make it through tearfree, since I had the videocamera as a buffer, but when the man in the plaid shirt was helped up during the Air Force song, then rubbed repeatedly on the back by the woman who helped him up, I was done for.
It’s also touching to watch current servicemembers interact with the residents. Before the ceremony, I must have passed a dozen young Army guys on the sidewalk between the nursing center and Chilson Hall, where they were cheerfully shuttling residents to the ceremony. (Here’s how that sounded: "Ma’am." "Ma’am." "Afternoon, Ma’am." "Ma’am." "Howdy, Ma’am." Repeat chorus.)
The music (by the Puyallup Valley Community Band) was patriotic and stirring, the speech (by Fort Lewis Lt. Col. Charles S. Chenoweth II) was heartfelt and reverential and the sudden crush of hundreds of apparently starved and parched guests at the refreshment table afterward made me feel useful.
With a few of these big-scale ceremonies under my belt now, I suppose the routine is starting to seem familiar, but as I learn more about the Soldiers Home and its residents, these inspiring rituals become increasingly meaningful.
Other Monday updates:
- Before the ceremony I interviewed Leo Burton, a resident I just met last week. His story is heartbreaking—the first time I’ve teared up during recording—and his amazing resilience is beyond admirable.
- Wesley had some news about his impending move to San Diego: Never mind. He told me today that he’s NOT leaving the Soldiers Home, after all, even though we’ve all gone through the goodbye/good luck dance for a couple weeks now. He said the nurse he wanted to hire to manage his medication wanted "too much money," so he is going to try again another time. "I’ll find where I belong," he told me. "Maybe you’re already there, for now," I told him.
- I had called Mike on my way to the Soldiers Home to let him know I’d be on punch duty during the ceremony. He was wiped out and thought he’d probably rest all afternoon, but he did have "a funny" to tell me: "What was the last thing you said to Wesley after you gave him that picture at the pond last week?" Mike asked. I couldn’t remember, but Mike could: "You told him not to forget the picture at the pond!"
Well, after I’d left that day, Mike was at the end of the long pond path when Wesley rolled up. "Did you remember your picture?" Mike asked him.
"Oh, shit," Wesley said.
Mike volunteered to go get it for him, since Wesley’s wheelchair is dual-arm-powered, and Mike’s electric one is now running like a well-sponsored Indy car.
"Sheez," I told Mike. "Good thing you were there."
Although, in retrospect, I guess Wesley didn’t really need that going-away gift, anyway. Yet.