True Story #3

Same Day - September 21, 2009

        I stop at the “LINK” centre in the hotel lobby to check e-mail. The LINK is an area that Sheraton provides, in some of their hotels, to provide free internet access to guests.

     I am involved in an ongoing e-mail discussion with a very good friend about relationships and how I should really try dating again because you never know, blah, blah, blah. And I keep trying to tell her that I'm tired of the “Your such a nice guy...” and “I don't want to lose you as my friend...” crap that I've been hearing for the past umpteen years. Yes, I freely admit I'm boring, and for what I consider good reasons. My daily working world is full of real, hard deadlines, and a lot of petty artificial ones. Then there's the human cost, and drama, in terms of being at crime and disaster scenes, and of my fellow workers struggling under grinding deadlines and expectations. I have come to appreciate the value of living gently and quietly, and as far out of the way of conflict as I comfortably can. But I digress again.

       Just as I log in an older gentleman comes along and stands next to me and starts to tell me a lot about himself. His 144 nieces and nephews, and countless cousins, and brothers and sisters, and soon I’m enjoying the heck out this guy's life story. He tells me about being an economic orphan. His mother died giving him birth, and at the age of six he was sent to a farm in rural Massachusetts by the state welfare authorities because his father was destitute. He is quite frank about the woman who took him in, and who used to whip the children in her care. He speaks with some humour about his six nephews who became cops. He speaks lovingly and proudly of his successful daughters. If the pride of a father could have a face, it would be of this man.  He tells me of one of his multitudes of relatives who have started a website with the family tree. He even gives me the web URL.

       He tells me of his  job as a groundskeeper at one of the cemeteries in Valhalla, New York. Valhalla is apparently home to several well-known cemeteries. A lot of famous people are buried there. Lou Gehrig, author Ayn Rand, TV pioneers Fred Friendly and David Sarnoff, amongst many, many others. It is the final resting place of Billie Burke, an actress best known for her role as Glinda the Good Witch in the Wizard of Oz. It was up to him to tend the grounds. He took the job because it didn’t pay as well as some other work, but it had benefits that were the kind a man with a growing family needed.

       I really like talking with him. His life is an American life. Not the fable or storybook version that is the profoundly idealistic “American Dream” myth. His is a real story of hard work, of loving and raising a family, of hard times, and larger than life characters. Through him I realize that every real and true life story should have its share of larger than life characters.

I suggest he should write his wonderful stories down, to preserve them, and that's when he brings up the web site. But the web site doesn't tell of his life’s adventures. I get only a wondrous glimpse of him, and his journey, and he and I have been chatting for only 40 minutes.

     I really wish I could stay longer and listen, and learn, but I still have laundry to get done, and his daughter is hovering at his elbow. We say our goodbyes, and “it was nice to meet ya’s”, but I get the feeling that with these polite goodbye’s that it’s more my loss than his.
       Over the next few days I have wished that I would run into him again. I’m curious to hear how his luau show went. One of his daughters brought him to Hawaii for a vacation, and she wants to treat him to the full experience. I am sure his take on it would be far better than having lived through it myself.

And so the face retires back to the quiet solitude of the oceanfront room. As the laundry goes around and around, I sit on the balcony and stare at the ocean and soak up some hot tropical sun. The surf is quiet, and contemplative. It’s early in the day even for me, but I crack open a cold beer, and sit on the deck chair to soak it up. I ponder what it is about the face that encourages people to open up to it without invitation, and after a while realize that I don't really want to know.

I spy a lone turtle down in the water going about his daily turtle business. He’s alone. I don’t think anyone sees him but me. There are no human shouts of wonder, or delight, or discovery. Nobody is swimming anywhere near the turtle. Maybe he doesn’t have the right kind of face.