Mike

Ball

Read Mike's bio and previous columns here

January 21, 2008

Who Were They?

I have the privilege of coaching several creative writing groups, two of which are made up of middle and high school students. These are kids who are as incredibly gifted as they are depressingly young and cool.

A couple of weeks ago, I gave the kids a writing prompt. They were to imagine a very old man or woman sitting alone in a wheelchair or on a park bench, then write a story, poem or vignette asking the question, “Who was I?” I wanted them to look well past even the advanced years of their creative writing coach, so they wouldn’t get hung up on the fact that I dress and speak weird, or that I increasingly seem to have brown spots and hair sprouting in unfortunate places.

What gave me this idea was an encounter with a man I’ve known casually for some time. He wrote and self-published a rather good book expressing his gentle philosophy, and he is always interesting to talk to.

Whenever I can make the time.

You see, he is right around the age my father would be if he were still alive, and sort of frail, and I don’t think his hearing is all that great. Sometimes it takes a fair amount of repeating and rephrasing to have a conversation with him, and with all the important things I have going on in my life, it doesn’t always fit into my schedule.

When I saw him a few weeks ago, I was busy, on my way to do something critical – like check my email, or recharge my iPod, or jot down an idea for a new dog poo joke. So I just said “Hi” to him and flew along on my way.

He smiled and returned my greeting, probably thinking it would be nice to chat for a few minutes. But he was way too considerate to slow down a mover-and-shaker like me in the midst of full-on moving and shaking. 

I noticed as I dashed by that he was wearing a World War II Veteran’s cap, with his branch of the service proudly embroidered on it. It looked brand new, and I couldn’t help thinking that he probably received it as a Christmas gift from a grandchild – who might be only vaguely aware that there even was such a thing as World War II.

In all the conversations we have had, this man has never mentioned the war or that he had any involvement in it.

A little later, as I checked my email, recharged my iPod, and wrote my dog poo joke, I couldn’t escape the thought that this little man, who looks so delicate that a good stiff breeze could sweep him into the air like just another dried-up oak leaf in autumn, was really a whole lot more than he appeared to be.

Did he wade ashore at Normandy? Did he ride a tank in the deserts of North Africa? Did he dodge the bullets of a jungle sniper on a tiny Pacific island? Did he shiver in a foxhole in Bastogne? Could his less-than-perfect hearing date back to the roar of the giant guns of a great battle ship?

Might he have seen the man standing next to him literally torn apart by the fury of war, only to spend the years since that moment wondering why he was spared and that man was not?

After the war, did he help build the highways that tie our nation together? Did he have a hand in conquering some of the diseases that once made simply growing up a pretty iffy proposition? Was he involved in inventing and building the technology that has changed just about everything about who we are and how we talk to each other?

And did he raise a family, hoping that all the struggles of his life might add up to a world in which his grandchildren could be happy and healthy, in which they could buy their grandpa a hat for Christmas without knowing firsthand just how much honor and courage went into that hat?

You know, the next time I see this quiet, modest, fragile little man, I think I should probably just go ahead and let the battery in my iPod run down.

Copyright © 2008, Michael Ball. Distributed exclusively by North Star Writers Group. May not be republished without permission.

Click here to talk to our writers and editors about this column and others in our discussion forum.

To e-mail feedback about this column, click here. If you enjoy this writer's work, please contact your local newspapers editors and ask them to carry it.