- After publishing a query edition of a newspaper I wished
to distribute throughout a small township area in Ontario, Canada, I received
a phone call from a woman who suggested I was missing an opportunity for
other human interest stories by not talking with folks at local nursing-homes.
She of course, was right. The following is the condensed story of Max,
'A Very Important Person.'
-
- In advance of my visit with these golden citizens, the
nursing-home staff agreed to tell anyone who allowed me to visit with them
that I had asked to speak with a very important person. They further agreed
to record the facial expressions and comments these folks made as they
learned that a reporter wanted to speak with a "very important person."
-
- I arrive at the home and walk to the common area as I
had been instructed. A nurse is waiting with a man in a wheelchair. She
nods to me indicating this was the man that had been chosen.
-
- His white hair is combed neatly back to the right above
a baby face, which projects an aura of childlike innocence. "Hi, I'm
Max," he says in a quiet voice extending a soft well-manicured hand.
The nurse pushes his wheelchair forward so we can shake. "Hello Max,
I'm Lea and I'm pleased to meet you."
-
- "Please forgive me, I was not always crippled."
Max looks like a child sincerely asking forgiveness for having done something
wrong. I smile politely and nod as we walk to a small meeting room off
the main hall - the nurse leaves.
-
- "Do you know why you're here, Max?" Max straightens
in his chair, his face adopts a serious look. "I'm here because you
asked to speak with a very important person." His eyebrows arch with
a look asking if he gave the correct answer.
-
- "That's right Max. I believe everyone has a story
to tell and I like to write those stories. Is that okay with you?"
His look relaxes with a smile. He softly says, "Oh God, I'm flattered."
-
- "Start wherever you like Max. Tell me about yourself."
Max blinks in quick rhythm. "Oh, me. I have wanted to tell people
about my life for some time now. They don't seem to listen long. Now that
someone wants to listen, I don't know what to say."
-
- Max frowns, his eyes lower. He looks distressed -- as
though he feels I will leave. I smile reassuringly. "I have all day
Max. Perhaps if I ask you a few questions, will that help?" Max relaxes
again, "Oh yes, that would be good."
-
- How old are you?" "I'm seventy-six." "What
did you do for a living, Max?" "I started as a boat-builder at
the Henry Boat Works. I left there and moved on to building canoes. I left
there and found the best job in the world -- I was a fireman for the railroad.
I worked on the steam engines; I fired the engines." There is an unmistakable
pride - if not longing - in his voice. "I loved the railroad,"
he says softly. "I wrote my tests in Toronto, you know, when we went
from steam to diesel. I never saw it as the old, dying, but as something
new, coming." He tightens his grip on the wheelchair armrests - he
stares out the window. "Yes, those were the days," he says in
a distant voice. His grip gradually relaxes - perhaps from a coal-shovel
held for an instant in a memory of thundering down the tracks in darkness
. . . clickety-clack, clickety-clack . . . sitting in the bowels of a flaming,
steam swollen behemoth feeding it shovels of food to keep its appetite
and blood pressure just under control.
-
- "Tell me about your dad, Max." "Oh, my
father could make me laugh. He would do something called the soft-shoe-shuffle.
He would hold his hands straight by his sides and make his feet go really
fast, then he'd spin around." Max giggles - his hand circles animating
his recollection.
-
- "How about your mother?" "She made the
best homemade bread and candy. One year she dressed up as Santa Claus.
Dad went along with it but, we knew . . . we were really happy about her
doing that."
-
- "Would you ever tell a child there was no Santa
Claus?" Max reverts to a serious look, he frowns. "Oh, no. He
is the spirit of giving. Why destroy such a spirit before it can be replaced
with understanding? Children will grow up soon enough, they should be allowed
to be children."
-
- "Do you have any regrets, Max?" "Yes,
I have one, great regret. I never married." I smile, saying, "Max,
some would suggest that is a blessing." Max giggles. "I wanted
to get married and have four children." "Why four, Max?"
"It's an even number!" Max replies in a voice suggesting the
answer should be obvious. He breaks into uproarious laughter -- I can't
help but chuckle.
-
- I ask Max what this Christmas will hold for him. "I
will get some presents," he says enthusiastically. "I will get
mitts and shoes for the snow. My brother, Bill, will come and take me for
the day. He will buy me a hamburger. Then we will go to the airport and
watch planes land. I can't go to his house, he has no ramp -- I like watching
the planes."
-
- I sense a change in Max.'s demeanor. His comments are
childlike and innocent. He continues.
-
- "I have 4 brothers. Three are still alive. I'm not
sure if my mother, father, and my brother, Frank, are still alive. I wasn't
at the funeral so I don't know." Max seems oblivious to the paradox
his statement has raised. I think about asking how they could be alive
when he knew a funeral had taken place. He asks: "Could you find out
where they have been?" His look is sincere a profound innocence in
his voice.
-
- Quickly, in a desperate attempt to hide my sorrow, I
hold my thumb and forefinger to my eyes. "My eyes get tired while
writing," I say. "I think I need new glasses." Still trying
to recover, I blurt another question: "When was the last time you
saw them?" In my rush to deflect his attention from my obvious sorrow,
I instantly realized I had asked a question that carried an answer which
I intuitively knew.
-
- "It's been years now, I think. They are probably
busy -- I miss them."
-
- His voice is sad and distant. My heart silently shatters.
Any attempt at hiding my sorrow is now lost. "My eyes get tired like
that, too," he says softly, "when I think of mother and father
and Frank."
-
- I leave him at the cafeteria after a promise to return.
As I drive home my thoughts of Max are interrupted by several stops on
the shoulder of the road -- my eyes keep getting tired.
-
-
- Comment
-
- From Sandra Smith
6-14-01
-
- Your story struck a chord this morning...and although
I don't usually write...had to ...to this one...I have been a nurse for
24 yrs, and have taken care of too many to count....young and old....and
sometimes it's been hard, especially, when you lose a patient...and when
you care for the aged, you know that it's inevitable, but , Oh My ....How
their souls shine, in the winter of their lives....and the gift that they
will give to you...if you just stop long enough...to look beyond the trappings
of age...the constant twitching or jerking or drooling....that occurs as
their bodies tire....if you take the time to get behind the vacant stare,
that you sometimes see....you'll find a wealth there....that, may not fill
your pockets, but will most assuredly....fill your heart....You will find
out that.....
-
- Mr. Z.....a frail little man....who wears his sadness
like a second skin....lost his family, his wife and child....his parents
and siblings to the concentration camps....and although he has earned the
right to wear this sadness....you find, behind it...a little sprite of
a man....who can still laugh , and will go out of his way to make you
laugh...if given the opportunity....
-
- Mz. W....whose grandmother was a slave, who couldn't
read or write....and instilled in her the thirst for knowledge....and this
was why she became a teacher for some 40 years....
-
- or Mr. H....who didn't find out, until he was 15, that
his father, was the white train conductor, who always brought them fruit,
and gave them money....that , he...Mr. H....fought in the South Pacific,
in WWll, and after the war, went on to work for the railroad, as the father,
he never really knew, had done....
-
- and Mz. M...who raised her children, cleaning other peoples
houses, and caring for other people's children, putting 3 through college,
two teachers, and one nurse....but she herself, cannot even write her name...
-
- and Mr.B,,,, who left an abusive home at age 15 to join
the CC camp, and went on to help build the China Burma Road in WWll, and
then built pipelines all over the world, after the war, who was the hardest
patient to lose, because he was my Dad....A wonderful historian, he introduced
me to the wealth of the aged, through the stories from the past, I heard
growing up....There is nector in the fruit of a life....and it's there
for all to taste...if we just take the cup, and drink.....
-
- No...I may not have full pockets.....but I have , in
my mind a treasure...a worth, greater than gold, for having come to know
these, and so many other wonderful people....It's been a blessing , and
it only cost some time.........well spent .....I think.........
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