Everyone has a story, especially if they survived WWII

"Age is opportunity no less,
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away,
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day." ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I was in Milaca yesterday for a meeting. After the meeting I was at first self-absorbed in what I was doing, loading my camera back in the Jeep and thinking of returning phone messages that came in while I was in the meeting. I didn't notice the elderly man walking slowly, shuffling his feet and using a cane as he walked toward the curb.

He was having a bit of trouble getting his feet and cane to cooperate to lift his leg the 5 inches up the curb so he could walk on the sidewalk.

I hesitated for a moment figuring he'll make it. But then I just walked over and grabbed his arm.

"Can I help you up the curb, Sir?" I asked him politely.

"Oh, why it would be my pleasure to let you help me, miss," he said.

It is wonderful to be called miss instead of ma'am. This cute old gentleman with his wonderfully aged face, lots of gray hair and slow moving body wearing a John Deere ball cap and a Chevy Truck jacket.

"I used to move pretty good," he said. "Didn't need a cane. I could walk just fine on my own until I was in an accident a little while ago."

He pointed to his car and proceeded to tell me all about the accident. It never would have happened if the bank across the street from his credit union didn't have CD's at 2 percent higher than the credit union. He was in a hurry to get there before it closed, and so on.

Well one thing led to another and I stood there in the street while he was on the curb telling me story after story about his life. His eyes twinkled and the expression lines near his eyes and mouth were like a map of mostly happy times.

He is 88 years old. He was on his way to the barber shop to get a hair cut and then off to the casino to play some Black Jack.

He has won more times in his life than he has lost, he said. Not just gaming. He was talking about life as a whole.

He was in the service. A World War II veteran as a matter of fact. I have only met a couple WWII vets in my lifetime. They are becoming harder to meet. But each time has been an honor.

Bernard continued to tell me stories as the minutes ticked by. I stood there listening for nearly 30 minutes. And I could have listened to him for hours. But I knew my editor would not have liked that if I listened to a man talk all afternoon and didn't come back with any copy for the paper.

Still, I listened a while longer, standing in the street.

Finally I regretfully asked Bernard if I walk him to the Barber shop just about 50 feet from where we were standing. He was thrilled. "Won't they be surprised? Can I tell them you are my girlfriend?"

"Sure," I said. And smiled.
He was grinning mischievously.

Bernard has a friend who lives in New York. They were in the service together. Both survived WWII and still talk to each other once a week, he said.

I asked him if I could call him sometime so we could talk some more. I would be very interested in writing a nice Veteran Story on a WWII vet.

"Oh, I don't think you should call me," he said. "It wouldn't be proper." He didn't want people to get the wrong idea.

I understood. So I said. "If I may be just a little forward, then Sir, here is my card. You can call me," I said.

He grinned. And walked into the barber shop.

"Look here!" he announced. "This is my new girlfriend."

I was charmed by Bernard. I love talking to older people because they are walking history books. And don't care about what they say anymore. And Bernard is still planning for a future. He is 88 years old and buying a new CD. That is optimistic.

I am so glad that I took time to help Bernard get up onto that curb. I may never see him again, or have a chance to write some of his WWII stories, but I shared 30 minutes with a hero.

I was honored.

Peace.



“Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, But beautiful old people are works of art.” -- Eleanor Roosevelt