Friday, December 3, 2010
I like a lot about Bingo—a roomful of buddies in one spot, plus prize-cart organizing!—but it’s kind of a working visit, and I’m always exhausted when it’s over. So I love the days when I can just wander down to the Soldiers Home, see who’s around, sit for a spell and really visit-visit.
I loved today.
I started off in Chilson Hall, hoping to pick up a December Activities calendar. Not only was Ray McDade right there, too, but he had picked up a calendar just for me.
Our first mission: determining the existence status of the Home’s giant new Christmas tree. "I think it’s fake," Ray said. "It’s just too perfect." And it is. Every year it is.
I sproinged down a bendy branch and agreed. But then I pulled off and snapped a needle, and suddenly it smelled like seven dozen dollar-store air-fresheners.
"Real!" I declared. It is. Every year it is.
When I told Ray that my son’s driving test is scheduled for next Wednesday, he looked as if he had a story in him, so I plopped right down on the floor by the tree. (I tried squatting, so I could look him right in the face in his wheelchair, but my legs cramped.)
Ray always tells a good story. When he was 15, his dad was tired of hauling teenagers to the skating rink all the time, so they decided to lie about Ray’s age so he could get his license early. On a practice drive through town, a man with a cow headed right down the road toward their car. Ray naturally figured man and beast would move to the sidewalk. But they did not. Instead, the man let go of the cow, and Ray hit it. Ray and his dad were OK, but the cow was not. It had to be euthanized right then and there—and the cow man was not happy. He sued Ray, but eventually settled for $100. Ray still got his license early, though—and, he said, it took 75 years for someone in authority to realize his deception.
Somewhere in there is at least one excellent lesson for my son. Although it’d help if Ray had been texting.
Next I checked on Mike, who, in less than a week, had completely demolished my big CD-organization effort. But he was very happy to see me—so much so, he actually left his CD player in his room while we went to the Snack Bar for lunch. (After I reorganized his CDs, of course.)
On the way there, Mike booked me for the next Soldiers Home Valentine’s Day dinner (now that my traditional date, Vern Schiffer, has moved out). "I don’t know what I’m going to do about the dancing, though," Mike said. I pshawed. "I haven’t seen anybody dance at that dinner in two years," I said. It’s true; there’s always a pianist, and plenty of room to bust a groove, but everyone just eats and leaves. "Well, if I’m going, I’m dancing," Mike said.
At the snack shop, Mike slurped up an entire vanilla milkshake, and he kept saying how happy he was to see me. Then I asked what he’d like for Christmas. "All I really want is another year of good friendship with you," he said. I could have bawled, but instead I took the emotionless way out. "You are cheap and easy," I told him.
He also told me he hasn’t smoked a cigarette in weeks. Which I happily will accept as my Christmas gift.
The sun was out, and we both were itching to get to the pond for the first time in ages. But even though we were bundled, it was windy and shady, and Mike didn’t want to risk a chill. So instead we walked through the grounds, on the sunny side of the street, and just talked and talked. We made plans to check out the Christmas bazaar next weekend, and Mike marveled at how well his wheelchair works now that it finally has a new motor.
Back at the nursing center, we ran into Ken Levick, who told me he’s been looking and looking some more at photos I took of him and his wife some months ago. She is ailing in a different nursing home, and I’m so glad I printed copies of the pictures for him.
I had to get home to meet my son, so Mike walked me out to my car and announced that a nap sounded like a pretty darn good idea. I felt like we’d done a lot, too—I’d also had a chance to talk to Bill, Harold and Gary—but I wasn’t all-body Bingo exhausted. Just happily satisfied with good conversation, and time well spent.
I like a lot about Bingo—a roomful of buddies in one spot, plus prize-cart organizing!—but it’s kind of a working visit, and I’m always exhausted when it’s over. So I love the days when I can just wander down to the Soldiers Home, see who’s around, sit for a spell and really visit-visit.
I loved today.
I started off in Chilson Hall, hoping to pick up a December Activities calendar. Not only was Ray McDade right there, too, but he had picked up a calendar just for me.
Our first mission: determining the existence status of the Home’s giant new Christmas tree. "I think it’s fake," Ray said. "It’s just too perfect." And it is. Every year it is.
I sproinged down a bendy branch and agreed. But then I pulled off and snapped a needle, and suddenly it smelled like seven dozen dollar-store air-fresheners.
"Real!" I declared. It is. Every year it is.
When I told Ray that my son’s driving test is scheduled for next Wednesday, he looked as if he had a story in him, so I plopped right down on the floor by the tree. (I tried squatting, so I could look him right in the face in his wheelchair, but my legs cramped.)
Ray always tells a good story. When he was 15, his dad was tired of hauling teenagers to the skating rink all the time, so they decided to lie about Ray’s age so he could get his license early. On a practice drive through town, a man with a cow headed right down the road toward their car. Ray naturally figured man and beast would move to the sidewalk. But they did not. Instead, the man let go of the cow, and Ray hit it. Ray and his dad were OK, but the cow was not. It had to be euthanized right then and there—and the cow man was not happy. He sued Ray, but eventually settled for $100. Ray still got his license early, though—and, he said, it took 75 years for someone in authority to realize his deception.
Somewhere in there is at least one excellent lesson for my son. Although it’d help if Ray had been texting.
Next I checked on Mike, who, in less than a week, had completely demolished my big CD-organization effort. But he was very happy to see me—so much so, he actually left his CD player in his room while we went to the Snack Bar for lunch. (After I reorganized his CDs, of course.)
On the way there, Mike booked me for the next Soldiers Home Valentine’s Day dinner (now that my traditional date, Vern Schiffer, has moved out). "I don’t know what I’m going to do about the dancing, though," Mike said. I pshawed. "I haven’t seen anybody dance at that dinner in two years," I said. It’s true; there’s always a pianist, and plenty of room to bust a groove, but everyone just eats and leaves. "Well, if I’m going, I’m dancing," Mike said.
At the snack shop, Mike slurped up an entire vanilla milkshake, and he kept saying how happy he was to see me. Then I asked what he’d like for Christmas. "All I really want is another year of good friendship with you," he said. I could have bawled, but instead I took the emotionless way out. "You are cheap and easy," I told him.
He also told me he hasn’t smoked a cigarette in weeks. Which I happily will accept as my Christmas gift.
The sun was out, and we both were itching to get to the pond for the first time in ages. But even though we were bundled, it was windy and shady, and Mike didn’t want to risk a chill. So instead we walked through the grounds, on the sunny side of the street, and just talked and talked. We made plans to check out the Christmas bazaar next weekend, and Mike marveled at how well his wheelchair works now that it finally has a new motor.
Back at the nursing center, we ran into Ken Levick, who told me he’s been looking and looking some more at photos I took of him and his wife some months ago. She is ailing in a different nursing home, and I’m so glad I printed copies of the pictures for him.
I had to get home to meet my son, so Mike walked me out to my car and announced that a nap sounded like a pretty darn good idea. I felt like we’d done a lot, too—I’d also had a chance to talk to Bill, Harold and Gary—but I wasn’t all-body Bingo exhausted. Just happily satisfied with good conversation, and time well spent.
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