A few weeks ago, Sue, Rose and I had a show for the Protestant chapel service at the Togus Veteran's Hospital, in Augusta, Maine.  As the son of a World War II vet, this gig is always a highlight of our year.  These men and women have done so much, and many of them are in the hospital for long stays.  A handful are basically permanent patients there, and it's encouraging how many come out for service.  In fact, we normally have to set up in the hallway as the Catholic service finishes up in the interfaith chapel, and the Mass is always well attended, too.  Some people even go to both.

Our history with Togus has been a long one, and it has allowed us brief glimpses of dealing with the Federal government.  After 'proving ourselves' for several years by doing freebies, they offered to pay us a stipend, which was very kind.  Somehow, though, the check needed to be sent to us from a VA in Texas?  Then, this year I received a call from the VA in Brockton, Massachusetts saying we needed a vender's license if we were to get paid for our gig.  I told the caller that if we were unable to get one in time (which nobody seems to know how to do) we'd be happy to return for free again.  I was told that wasn't possible.  After calling the chaplain in Augusta, he finally said he would pay us out of his own pocket, since getting a venders' license wouldn't be happening anytime soon.  I told him that really wasn't necessary, but he told me that, actually, it was.  I didn't ask any more questions, but he did share that policies like this one seemed to accomplish nothing but to discourage volunteers from coming in to help our hospitalized veterans.

So, with those headaches behind us, we headed up to Augusta to do our show.  Again, we were pleased with the turn out and spirit of the congregation.  I love settings that are inter-denominational, because it forces me to avoid denomino-centric jargon.  I even joked, when I first introduced the disappearing champagne bottle, that, while the Baptists might get angry that I brought such a prop into church, the Episcopalians probably wanted to cheer.  Rose closed out our machete routine by going into a full split while keeping all three knives going in a cascade pattern, and the morning as a whole seemed to be meaningful and fun for everyone.  . 

There were more visitors than usual that morning, and one, it turns out, was the daughter of Ray Bouchard.  We have not seen Ray in decades, but our paths used to cross at an annual event called the Salt of the Earth Festival.  While this isn't a big enough coincidence to merit a "Huh, small world!" it did bring back memories of our early days as the Supreme Court Jesters.  To quote a Randy Stonehill song, "We were all so young."

And now, we have a year to figure out how to get a vendors' license before we return.