HOT SPRINGS - A fascinating paradox of life at the Michael J. Fitzmaurice Veterans Home plays out in a room where preparing for death gives people a reason to live.

For Korean War veteran Dean Foucault, that means standing in the morning sunlight that streams through a nearby window and crafting caskets that will carry fellow residents to their graves someday.

In a third-floor room of a building that is 118 years old, he patiently saws through plywood, secures joints with screws and glue, and later sands, paints and coats the exterior of each funeral vessel.

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"It passes the time, and I'm relaxed," Foucault, 74, says. "I just go up there, turn on some soft music and work. And I feel good about it. I feel like I'm helping other veterans ... like they're getting a little dignity. At least they're not put in a body bag and left that way."

It's an attitude that exemplifies the essence of this place that has served veterans from the Civil War through Vietnam. Contrary to Gen. Douglas MacArthur's famous exit line, the old soldiers who find their way here ultimately do die. But until then, they are not allowed to simply fade away.

"Our veterans come here to live," says Pam Smith, a social worker at the home. "The key word, obviously, is 'live.' "

The question for several South Dakota advocacy groups is whether a state-run veterans home such as this might be better placed east of the Missouri River. They point out that the majority of the 74,000 veterans reside on that half of the state, and the federal Veterans Affairs hospitals are getting out of long-term care.

Maj. Gen. Steven Doohen, secretary of the state Department of Military and Veterans Affairs, is putting together a committee to study the issue this summer and come up with recommendations.

While officials in Hot Springs don't downplay that discussion, they also note that they have room for more veterans within their building's sandstone walls. With an average daily count of about 119, it could accommodate another 16 to 20, veterans home Superintendent Larry Wilcox said.

"I know there are people in South Dakota living in small towns, or even in Minnehaha County, who are waiting for Meals on Wheels to deliver food that they will divide into two meals so they can eat twice that day," Wilcox said. "They have no money and no car, and they are veterans. What I would tell them is, 'You don't have to live that way.' "

Most residents 'basically destitute'

The reality is, 85 percent of the people who come to the veterans home are "basically destitute," said Randall Meyers, director of operations. They've been living on meager Social Security disability checks or, in the worst case, living on the streets.

Or maybe they came home from a war and lived with Mom and Dad until the parents passed away, Smith, the social worker, said. With no one left to cook for them or wash their clothes or make sure that they take their pills, life alone becomes overwhelming.

"Seventy percent of them have no real family," Wilcox said. "They have no family living, or they're estranged from family because they have problems with post-traumatic stress or alcoholism."

Since veterans need to be referred to the home by veterans service officers where they live, the key then is persuading each of the 66 county officers and their various tribal counterparts to identify those veterans and begin the paperwork necessary to send them Hot Springs' way, Wilcox said.

"Thirty-three of the counties do send us veterans," he said. "And 33 don't. I can't tell you why, but it's frustrating."

And it shouldn't be, Meyers said, especially when people travel to southwest South Dakota and experience life at the home for themselves.

When officials with the veterans organization called the Grand Army of the Republic approached Dakota Territory legislators in 1886 about building a home for Civil War veterans, they were convinced that the climate and nearby warm waters made Hot Springs the best site in the territory.

The cornerstone of the original building, carved out of buff sandstone, was laid Nov. 11, 1889. A year later, South Dakota opened the doors to its first residents - 10 Civil War veterans.

'It's like a fraternity ... here'

In the decades that followed, the hallways have echoed with the chatter of men who saw battle at Shiloh and Vicksburg, at San Juan Hill, the Chosin Reservoir and the jungles around Da Nang.

The commonality of those experiences makes the veterans home essential, Meyers, the director of operations, said.

"It's like a fraternity or a sorority here," he said. "At a nursing home or an assisted-living center, they're just another face in the crowd. You can't really empathize with a combat veteran until you've lived what they lived."

On the other hand, the veterans home is nothing near what Nebraska native Tom Chryst imagined when he arrived a year ago after eight months in alcohol treatment at the VA Health Care System across town.

A Vietnam veteran who served at Chu Lai, Chryst figured he was going to a hospital-like setting where men couldn't get out of bed or were in wheelchairs because of war trauma.

What he found were guys going fishing, playing poker, shooting pool and swinging golf clubs. Some were heading off to nearby Angostura Reservoir to spend an afternoon on a pontoon boat. Others were talking about trapshooting or maybe putting together a little archery competition.

"I was surprised," Chryst, 58, said. "I figured it was an old soldiers home. But it's really more like a community. And the people are really nice."

Foucault and his wife, Bernie, moved to the veterans home 21/4 years ago. In the summer, they spend weeks at a time in a motorhome they keep near Rapid City. Even then, the couple doesn't like to stray too far from the daily rhythms that define their lives at the veterans home.

On a typical day, Dean Foucault will apply a paintbrush to a casket while his wife eyeballs the inventory in the Mini Mart she manages. Another vet, Keith Burden, sorts mail in the post office, while Dorothy Stroh, a widow, mends residents' clothing.

In the auditorium, a Catholic Mass is being said, while widow Margie Singsaas sits at her easel in the craft room and paints.

Meanwhile, out back in the Paul Redfield Greenhouse, 51-year-old Roger Almendinger is watering his California poppies and his scarlet marigolds. One of 25 resident workers at the home, Almendinger is in charge of keeping up the garden in front of Building One. He came to Hot Springs two years ago from Madison after an accident at his job injured his legs.

"I've got diabetes, and that caused some complications," Almendinger said. "I thought I was going to die when I got here. I figured they would take my legs, and I would go downhill from there. As you can see, I was wrong."

Costs much less than other care centers

That he didn't fail is testimony to the care provided by the 84-member staff at the home, including physician, nursing, physical therapy, pharmacy and dietitian services.

There is a special care unit where 15 residents with brain issues - dementia, Alzheimer's - live in a secured environment. Another 33 residents receive help with diabetes, pulmonary disease, heart problems and other medical issues in a nursing care unit.

And for the 74 men, women, widows and couples who reside in independent living units, there are nurses and aides who remind them when to take pills or help them if they need a whirlpool bath.

"We have some who have no needs whatsoever," Wilcox said. "They just don't have a place to live. And they come here."

It is cheaper than many other nursing or assisted-care options, Meyers said. Where skilled nursing homes can run $6,000 to $8,000 a month, the Fitzmaurice Veterans Home falls more into the $3,500 to $4,500 bracket, he said.

As a nonprofit, its overhead is less, Meyers explained. About one-third of its annual $7.4 million budget comes from the state. Another third is from the federal government through VA payments. And the final third comes from the residents through Social Security, pensions or other income.

"If they have a service-connected disability, and they receive a pension of, say, $800 a month, we take $400," Wilcox said. "If they make $3,000 a month, and our cost of care is $1,250, that's all we take.

"For that they get their rooms, their food, their medical care. It's a fantastic deal."

They even can get a casket, patiently crafted by Dean Foucault's own hands in the third-floor room of a building whose walls once reverberated with tales of Gettysburg and Antietam.

At the Fitzmaurice Veterans Home, there should never be a shortage of those stories, Superintendent Wilcox said.

"This place should have a waiting list," he said. "Once people come and see it for themselves, they usually stay. All we have to do is get the word out."

Reach reporter Steve Young at 331-2306.