Wednesday, August 11, 2010
It was warm enough today that I could have—almost—justified wearing shorts to the Soldiers Home again. But they wouldn’t have made any difference. Tonight the Bingo room was unusually uncomfortable—and not just because of the heat.
As I mentioned a while back, Ray McDade has had a hankerin’ for more snickerdoodle cookies, so I bought him a couple dozen at the store. I stuffed them in my purse, hoping to deliver them before Bingo, but I didn’t get there early enough to stop at his room first.
So I was glad when Ray scooted in to Bingo. I rolled the prize cart over to Ray’s table, set my purse on the chair next to his, showed him the coveted cookies and slipped them into the pouch on the back of his wheelchair. "Shhh," I said.
Quick (but relevant) aside: One of the ethical rules of journalism (yes, there are many) not only demands that we not act inappropriately, but that we even avoid the appearance of acting inappropriately. Turns out that applies to life outside journalism, too—and I totally blew it tonight.
As soon as I put those cookies in Ray’s pouch, a woman at the table behind him yelled: "That’s not fair!"
Crap.
She thought I had preemptively snatched the cookies from the prize cart and snuck them to Ray even before the first game. I walked back to her and explained that the cookies had not come from the prize cart. She was not appeased. I leaned down and whispered, "I promise I bought those from the store before I came here. And I promise I would not cheat." She didn’t say a word—but her unyielding grumpy frown said plenty.
Crap.
To top it off (icing on the cookie?), I was the only Bingo helper, which meant I had to confirm Bingos and push the prize cart. Oh, poor me; I know—it doesn’t seem like much, but people are used to quick confirmations, and they yelled every time I had to wait for someone to pick a prize before moving on. I don’t do yelling very well.
Wesley doesn’t, either.
"She will be RIGHT WITH YOU, sir," he yelled back at one point. (But calmly.)
I like Wesley.
Somehow we muddled through. The grumpy woman finally won and not only turned her frown upside down when I pushed the prize cart her way, but actually added a pleasant "thank you."
I met one new resident, had a nice talk with Stan Wilson and laughed with another new resident named Bill who asked whether he could follow me home like a lost puppy.
Bill was sitting with Ray, but they weren’t communicating so well.
"Can you understand him?" Ray asked me. "I can’t figure out a word he’s saying."
I said I could.
"Must be my New England accent," Bill said.
"What’d he say?" Ray asked.
When I went back to Ray’s table to grab my purse, I noticed a package of chocolate-peanut-butter wafers had appeared inside. One look at Ray, and I knew he’d put them there to thank me for the snickerdoodles.
"What’s this in my purse?" I asked Ray.
"I can’t understand you, either," Ray grinned.
And all of a sudden, my heart was as warm as the rest of me.
It was warm enough today that I could have—almost—justified wearing shorts to the Soldiers Home again. But they wouldn’t have made any difference. Tonight the Bingo room was unusually uncomfortable—and not just because of the heat.
As I mentioned a while back, Ray McDade has had a hankerin’ for more snickerdoodle cookies, so I bought him a couple dozen at the store. I stuffed them in my purse, hoping to deliver them before Bingo, but I didn’t get there early enough to stop at his room first.
So I was glad when Ray scooted in to Bingo. I rolled the prize cart over to Ray’s table, set my purse on the chair next to his, showed him the coveted cookies and slipped them into the pouch on the back of his wheelchair. "Shhh," I said.
Quick (but relevant) aside: One of the ethical rules of journalism (yes, there are many) not only demands that we not act inappropriately, but that we even avoid the appearance of acting inappropriately. Turns out that applies to life outside journalism, too—and I totally blew it tonight.
As soon as I put those cookies in Ray’s pouch, a woman at the table behind him yelled: "That’s not fair!"
Crap.
She thought I had preemptively snatched the cookies from the prize cart and snuck them to Ray even before the first game. I walked back to her and explained that the cookies had not come from the prize cart. She was not appeased. I leaned down and whispered, "I promise I bought those from the store before I came here. And I promise I would not cheat." She didn’t say a word—but her unyielding grumpy frown said plenty.
Crap.
To top it off (icing on the cookie?), I was the only Bingo helper, which meant I had to confirm Bingos and push the prize cart. Oh, poor me; I know—it doesn’t seem like much, but people are used to quick confirmations, and they yelled every time I had to wait for someone to pick a prize before moving on. I don’t do yelling very well.
Wesley doesn’t, either.
"She will be RIGHT WITH YOU, sir," he yelled back at one point. (But calmly.)
I like Wesley.
Somehow we muddled through. The grumpy woman finally won and not only turned her frown upside down when I pushed the prize cart her way, but actually added a pleasant "thank you."
I met one new resident, had a nice talk with Stan Wilson and laughed with another new resident named Bill who asked whether he could follow me home like a lost puppy.
Bill was sitting with Ray, but they weren’t communicating so well.
"Can you understand him?" Ray asked me. "I can’t figure out a word he’s saying."
I said I could.
"Must be my New England accent," Bill said.
"What’d he say?" Ray asked.
When I went back to Ray’s table to grab my purse, I noticed a package of chocolate-peanut-butter wafers had appeared inside. One look at Ray, and I knew he’d put them there to thank me for the snickerdoodles.
"What’s this in my purse?" I asked Ray.
"I can’t understand you, either," Ray grinned.
And all of a sudden, my heart was as warm as the rest of me.
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