Friday, August 24, 2012
After a heartbreaking memorial service and a heart-tugging Family Picnic, it felt especially comforting to fall back into the regular rhythm of Bingo today. Even though, a time or two, the rhythm seemed a little off.
The room was packed. I dropped my purse and sweet tea at Dorothy’s table; she said she’s had a string of minor challenges, but all’s well that ends well: “I’m still here,” she said.
I made a beeline for the prize cart. Erin was calling numbers. Charlie won the first Bingo and chose the laundry detergent. Harriet won the second and giggled when she said she’d really wanted the laundry detergent (we have a running joke that no one ever wants the laundry detergent).
Leo Martell won early, too, and when I got to him, he said he didn’t want any “sugary shit.” There was a cryptic blue-velvet box on the cart, so we opened it to investigate: Inside were two bright-silver “stress balls,” those jangly things you bobble in your palm. “I already have balls,” Leo said. I might have snorted. A few Bingos later, Gary C. chose the blue-velvet box. “Now I have big balls,” he laughed. (Never underestimate the value of high-school humor. And jangly balls.)
David Fox was sitting between tables far from his regular spot. “I can’t hear a thing,” he said—and I could barely hear him. “You’re sitting right by the giant ice machine,” I said at higher decibels than usual. I made the “follow-me” sign and wheeled him over to his regular table, right by the speaker and right below the giant bingo-number sign. “Better?” I asked. David flashed his trademark thumbs-up and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
I was not such a hero at the back of the room, where a new player almost had a Bingo—except for a pesky missing I-17. I looked up at the number board, and darned if I-17 wasn’t blinking. “I think you have a Bingo,” I told him. But because Erin was trying out new Bingo callers, numbers were blinking when they shouldn’t have been, and it took a while to determine that I-17 had not been called, after all. I apologized to the new guy, which usually would have been the end of it, but he was mad. “You made me miss four or five numbers,” he spat—and then he threw his card. I offered to catch him up, but he was done with me, and he stormed out. That was new. And not especially pleasant.
To reset my mindset, I lingered between the infinitely more jovial Gary C. and Leo—and suddenly heard a huge, low rumbling. I looked at Leo. “What was that?” I asked. He pointed to his big jug of Pepsi and laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “That was a burp?” I laughed. “I thought it was an earthquake.”
Near the end of Bingo I happened to look out into the hallway—and there stood Bill Crowell, apparently waiting for me to randomly look out into the hallway. I rushed out and hugged him and urged him in—and he won almost immediately. We talked a while after Bingo, and one of the Recreation staffers came over and asked whether Bill had told me about “the horseback riding.”
“Horseback riding?” I asked Bill. He looked sheepish. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he said.
Well, I was surprised—just a little earlier than intended. Bill apparently has been working with therapists to build enough leg strength to ride a horse. I remembered he had a riding background, and he reminded me of the details: He rode horses at a camp in New Hampshire nestled in forested rolling hills. “There’s nothing like that anywhere else,” he signed.
Then, out of nowhere, Bill said, “I wonder about heaven. Do you think there’s marriage in heaven?”
Well. That’s a deep question. “Maybe it’s just love,” I said. “Everyone is just surrounded by love.”
Bill smiled. “I hope so,” he said, and I hugged him goodbye.
After a heartbreaking memorial service and a heart-tugging Family Picnic, it felt especially comforting to fall back into the regular rhythm of Bingo today. Even though, a time or two, the rhythm seemed a little off.
The room was packed. I dropped my purse and sweet tea at Dorothy’s table; she said she’s had a string of minor challenges, but all’s well that ends well: “I’m still here,” she said.
I made a beeline for the prize cart. Erin was calling numbers. Charlie won the first Bingo and chose the laundry detergent. Harriet won the second and giggled when she said she’d really wanted the laundry detergent (we have a running joke that no one ever wants the laundry detergent).
Leo Martell won early, too, and when I got to him, he said he didn’t want any “sugary shit.” There was a cryptic blue-velvet box on the cart, so we opened it to investigate: Inside were two bright-silver “stress balls,” those jangly things you bobble in your palm. “I already have balls,” Leo said. I might have snorted. A few Bingos later, Gary C. chose the blue-velvet box. “Now I have big balls,” he laughed. (Never underestimate the value of high-school humor. And jangly balls.)
David Fox was sitting between tables far from his regular spot. “I can’t hear a thing,” he said—and I could barely hear him. “You’re sitting right by the giant ice machine,” I said at higher decibels than usual. I made the “follow-me” sign and wheeled him over to his regular table, right by the speaker and right below the giant bingo-number sign. “Better?” I asked. David flashed his trademark thumbs-up and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.
I was not such a hero at the back of the room, where a new player almost had a Bingo—except for a pesky missing I-17. I looked up at the number board, and darned if I-17 wasn’t blinking. “I think you have a Bingo,” I told him. But because Erin was trying out new Bingo callers, numbers were blinking when they shouldn’t have been, and it took a while to determine that I-17 had not been called, after all. I apologized to the new guy, which usually would have been the end of it, but he was mad. “You made me miss four or five numbers,” he spat—and then he threw his card. I offered to catch him up, but he was done with me, and he stormed out. That was new. And not especially pleasant.
To reset my mindset, I lingered between the infinitely more jovial Gary C. and Leo—and suddenly heard a huge, low rumbling. I looked at Leo. “What was that?” I asked. He pointed to his big jug of Pepsi and laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “That was a burp?” I laughed. “I thought it was an earthquake.”
Near the end of Bingo I happened to look out into the hallway—and there stood Bill Crowell, apparently waiting for me to randomly look out into the hallway. I rushed out and hugged him and urged him in—and he won almost immediately. We talked a while after Bingo, and one of the Recreation staffers came over and asked whether Bill had told me about “the horseback riding.”
“Horseback riding?” I asked Bill. He looked sheepish. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he said.
Well, I was surprised—just a little earlier than intended. Bill apparently has been working with therapists to build enough leg strength to ride a horse. I remembered he had a riding background, and he reminded me of the details: He rode horses at a camp in New Hampshire nestled in forested rolling hills. “There’s nothing like that anywhere else,” he signed.
Then, out of nowhere, Bill said, “I wonder about heaven. Do you think there’s marriage in heaven?”
Well. That’s a deep question. “Maybe it’s just love,” I said. “Everyone is just surrounded by love.”
Bill smiled. “I hope so,” he said, and I hugged him goodbye.