I glance down at her chest since she’s wearing a name tag. When I look back up to her face, I say, “Helen…it’s certainly nice to meet you.”
One of her hands flutters up to cover her mouth and she shakes her head as if in disbelief that I’m standing before her. Then she playfully swats at me, and declares “Oh Lord. You must think me so foolish. But I can’t help it. My husband, Bobby, and I just adore hockey. We didn’t start watching until Phoenix got a team but we are hooked. Bobby’s favorite player is Legend Bay. I hope you don’t hold that against him.”
“Not at all.”
Helen seems to get control of herself and straightens up as she goes all businesslike. “Now, forgive me. You said you were here for the art auction?”
“Yup. Thought I would bid on something pretty to put in my new house.”
Helen’s expression goes all soft and mushy as her hand comes back up to cover her mouth again. She shakes her head and swats at me again. “Oh, I knew you were a good man. A great hockey player but I just knew you were a nice person.”
I can’t freaking help myself. I pull Helen back into a quick hug and she has no problem reciprocating. When we break apart she gives me directions to the second-floor community room where I would find all of the art pieces completed by the residents that were going to be up for silent auction today. As I wave goodbye to Helen, I make a mental note to have tickets delivered to her for the next home game.
I know I probably shouldn’t be here and my visit today stands to alienate Blue from me as much as it might hopefully get her to open up to me. At dinner a few nights ago, she was talking about Billy to one of the other girls and I shamelessly eavesdropped, even though it appeared I was involved in a heavy discussion with Dax about the best brand of tape to wrap our hockey sticks.
From listening in on her conversation, I learned the residents here were putting on an art auction to raise money so they can take a field trip to Disneyland. Blue described the complexities of traveling with several disabled people. Not only would transportation be tricky, but they would need an aide for every single person attending as well as additional chaperones for extra help.
It absolutely charmed me as Blue gushed on and on about a painting that Billy did for the auction and how proud he was of it. I don’t know her brother’s artistic capabilities, so I have no clue if I’m going to be purchasing a piece of art that looks like it was done by a third grader or by Monet.
I don’t care either.
I take the stairs to the second floor and easily follow Helen’s directions to the community room. There are tables set up all around the perimeter, displaying the various art projects. There are paintings, sculpted clay pots, photographic art, and weaved baskets, to name a few. As I walk around and look at the pieces, I’m somewhat startled by the skill level. Don’t get me wrong, there’s also macaroni shells painted and glued to paper plates, but there are some really amazing and complex items as well.
At some of the stations, the actual artists themselves are sitting, proudly displaying their masterpieces, usually with an aide, if needed, or a family member. I talk to them all, asking questions. Some can respond to me, others can’t. I make it a point to praise them heavily, and it’s more than a little heartwarming to see how much pride each person takes in their creation.
I don’t know the specific conditions of the other residents here but I know a little more about Billy. Blue seems to really have accepted our truce and agreement to be friends, because she’s indulged my curiosity when I’ve asked questions about him. I’ve learned that her brother has spastic quadriplegia, a form of cerebral palsy. She had explained that cerebral palsy affects muscle tone and movement, in turn affecting mobility to varying degrees. Billy is pretty much confined to his motorized wheelchair for independent mobility.
I continue to weave in and out of people who are milling about and looking at the different displays. In front of each piece is a clipboard where you can write down your silent bid. I bid on a carved wooden walking stick that I don’t need, nor do I know anyone who needs it, but I thought it was a really well-done.
And then I come to Billy’s painting and I am absolutely floored. Neither he nor Blue are here which is probably a good thing because I bet the expression on my face is completely skeptical that he actually did this amazing piece of work. At first glance, it’s hard to see it. The brush strokes are choppy with thick dollops of oil paint left behind. But once you sort of widen your gaze to take in the entirety, you see a forest.