February 11, 2010
I don’t know whether you could call it a “tradition” quite yet, but I just enjoyed my second consecutive Soldiers Home Valentines Dinner with Vern Schiffer—with an emphasis on “enjoyed.”
A lot was familiar: Chilson Hall was magically transformed into a four-star restaurant, with white-shirted waiters, red tablecloths, crystal sparkling-grape-juice glasses, rose centerpieces and a pianist. Vern, always the gentleman, pinned on my beautiful corsage. (I had to stick his boutonniere in his jacket pocket, however, because I wasn’t about to be the girl to poke a hole in his leather suit.) We gave each other chocolates again—this time, the exact same box, down to the decoration on the lid. Again we had our official picture taken, sat at a table for two and ordered almost identical meals (seriously delicious homemade chicken cordon bleu and Neapolitan ice cream), although I strayed from the program by picking the jello appetizer over the shrimp cocktail.
But this year just seemed so much more comfortable. I knew a lot of the diners, although it was a little disorienting, in a heartwarming way, to see them in suits and ties; I knew the routine; and Vern and I settled into dinner conversation like we were old friends. Which we are, although I don’t see him very often because he is one busy man. We talked about his family, his lady friend in Ocean Shores, golf, the movies he shows as the resident Thursday-night “movie night” operator for the Roosevelt Barracks and his next big goal.
Vern is applying for a full-time job at the nursing facility under construction at American Lake. It would mean a lot of changes: weeks of training, long hours, a huge raise from the part-time work he does there now—and a new address. Vern said he’d have to move out of the Soldiers Home if he were hired.
I wished him luck, and he said he hopes his chances aren’t hampered by the fact that, technically, he is considered disabled.
“I went through a lot,” he said. “But I recovered.”
I told him he was a strong man, and that I admire his resilience and his goals.
“I am strong,” he said. “I came out the other side, and I am blessed.”
I declared myself stuffed after a couple bites of ice cream, and Vern said, “Well.”
“You’ve got to get to movie night, don’t you?” I asked.
He did. He is a busy man. But he's still gentlemanly enough to walk me to my car, ask whether he could hug me goodbye, hug me goodbye and thank me for coming.
A lot of times you’ll toss out a “my pleasure” just to say something. But tonight, once again, dinner with the strong, blessed and busy Vern was truly my pleasure.
I don’t know whether you could call it a “tradition” quite yet, but I just enjoyed my second consecutive Soldiers Home Valentines Dinner with Vern Schiffer—with an emphasis on “enjoyed.”
A lot was familiar: Chilson Hall was magically transformed into a four-star restaurant, with white-shirted waiters, red tablecloths, crystal sparkling-grape-juice glasses, rose centerpieces and a pianist. Vern, always the gentleman, pinned on my beautiful corsage. (I had to stick his boutonniere in his jacket pocket, however, because I wasn’t about to be the girl to poke a hole in his leather suit.) We gave each other chocolates again—this time, the exact same box, down to the decoration on the lid. Again we had our official picture taken, sat at a table for two and ordered almost identical meals (seriously delicious homemade chicken cordon bleu and Neapolitan ice cream), although I strayed from the program by picking the jello appetizer over the shrimp cocktail.
But this year just seemed so much more comfortable. I knew a lot of the diners, although it was a little disorienting, in a heartwarming way, to see them in suits and ties; I knew the routine; and Vern and I settled into dinner conversation like we were old friends. Which we are, although I don’t see him very often because he is one busy man. We talked about his family, his lady friend in Ocean Shores, golf, the movies he shows as the resident Thursday-night “movie night” operator for the Roosevelt Barracks and his next big goal.
Vern is applying for a full-time job at the nursing facility under construction at American Lake. It would mean a lot of changes: weeks of training, long hours, a huge raise from the part-time work he does there now—and a new address. Vern said he’d have to move out of the Soldiers Home if he were hired.
I wished him luck, and he said he hopes his chances aren’t hampered by the fact that, technically, he is considered disabled.
“I went through a lot,” he said. “But I recovered.”
I told him he was a strong man, and that I admire his resilience and his goals.
“I am strong,” he said. “I came out the other side, and I am blessed.”
I declared myself stuffed after a couple bites of ice cream, and Vern said, “Well.”
“You’ve got to get to movie night, don’t you?” I asked.
He did. He is a busy man. But he's still gentlemanly enough to walk me to my car, ask whether he could hug me goodbye, hug me goodbye and thank me for coming.
A lot of times you’ll toss out a “my pleasure” just to say something. But tonight, once again, dinner with the strong, blessed and busy Vern was truly my pleasure.
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