When I was a kid...maybe ten or eleven years old, I was asked by one of our neighbors to come and "sit" with her father, Mr. Glass, while she ran to complete her errands. I remember that he was in his early 90's, was hard of hearing, and his vision was failing. Mr. Glass would rock back and forth as he sat on his chair and he told me about growing up in rural Alabama. We would sit for hours under his carport (that's a garage without the enclosure for my northern friends) and he would talk to me.
His daughter, probably in her 60's back then, would come to my house and ask my mom if I could sit with him (it was elderly sitting, I reckon, but I loved spending time with him), and I would always say "yes." Even back then I recognized personality and the ability to weave a brilliant story. Mr. Glass had a way of speaking that even a ten year old would appreciate.
Mr. Glass loved to "whittle," and especially he made "walking sticks," or canes. He would charge me twenty-five cents for each one, and I saved my money to purchase one from him--they were masterpieces after all, especially for a ten year old.
I recall a story he told me about walking along the train tracks back in the thirties and finding a matchbook with a hundred dollar bill in it. He gave it to his dad...not realizing what he had found or why anyone would keep that kind of money in a matchbook. That cash fed his family for the remainder of the year.
He always had this distant look to him...like he was peering into the past. He spat as though some unseen hair was stuck to his lip and he wanted to be rid of it. And still he rocked when he realized I came to sit with him. His face would light up knowing I was there to hear his stories.
I haven't thought about Mr. Glass in a long time, but something triggered this memory...although I'm not sure what.
I remember my mom picking me up from school. I was in fifth grade. On the way home she told me Mr. Glass had died. My initial feeling was selfish..."how would I hear his stories?" When I got home, I went to my room and cried...in private. I missed my friend, and I would miss his stories. Most importantly, although I didn't realize it then, I would miss his life lessons. What a sweet old man he was.
What does all this mean? I'm not really sure, but I think it is imperative that we learn from those with life experiences...and love without compulsion. I miss that old man...and would love to have another hour with him to record our conversations, and give him one final hug.
This video hit home after I wrote this--I Believe
Have a glorious Thanksgiving, y'all. Love your family and friends...and be thankful for everything you have.
