Across
from campus there’s a wooden bench that sits beneath a cluster of cherry trees. From there one can look to the right and see
a dignified university decorated with red brick and crème lattice. On the left, a new playground sits in the
middle of a green park, popular among children who giggle and shriek as if
silliness were their universal tongue.
I found the
bench, my favorite reading spot, occupied that afternoon by an older gentleman
in a black ball cap. The gold insignia above
the bill was a badge denoting some military cavalry. His smile was a more powerful draw for my
attention; he seemed to be enjoying the nice spring weather.
I took a
seat on the far end of the bench, a couple spaces down from him. He appeared lost in thought when I glanced
his way, mesmerized by the youthful scene taking place a distance out on the
playground.
“So, what’ve
you been up to today, son?”
I squinted
at the man, a bit startled by his raspy voice, uncertain if his question was
meant for me. There was really no one
else within earshot.
“Um…” It was the most intelligent answer I could
manage in my befuddled state.
The old
man twisted his neck to look at my face.
His wrinkled smile stretched even farther as he waited patiently for me
to provide a better answer to his question.
I fumbled around with a physiology textbook and placed it in my lap.
“Well, I
uh…” I thought back to the beginning of
my day and rehearsed it for him. “I woke
up late this morning and had to hurry to my seminary class—drove two miles on
an empty tank of gas. Luckily my old Ford
manages pretty far on fumes. Then, after
class, I purchased breakfast from a vending machine before hustling to take a grueling
calculus test.”
“You a
math major?” the man asked.
I shook
my head. “No, sir, not really. Pre-med.
But I’m good at math. My other
classes are organic chemistry and human physiology.” I lifted up the textbook in my lap as proof.
The old
man nodded. “You a lucky young
fella. A religious boy?”
I
gestured affirmatively. “I wouldn’t drag
myself out of bed at five o’clock every morning to attend seminary if I wasn’t,
I suppose.”
“I s’pose
not,” the man agreed. “Did you fight for
your seat in that class?”
“Fight?”
I repeated, confused.
“You pay
for it?”
“Oh….no,
no, no. Seminary’s free of charge. Anyone can attend if they care to rise before
the sun and sanity.”
The old
man chuckled, but I got the feeling it wasn’t because he found me funny. Then he went on to make an
announcement, pointing a finger at my nose as if it
were important.
“That
there religion—that’s Andy Shindler’s right arm.”
I waited
for an explanation, but none came.
“Oh,” I
finally breathed and opened up my textbook.
There was a section on facial muscles I needed to read. Another odd question hit my ear before I
could find the right chapter.
“Someone
force you to go to school? They makin’
you learn what’s in that book?”
“Um,
no. No, sir, I’ve always wanted to be a
doctor. I chose to take this class.”
Again, a rigid finger was pointed at me.
“Hmm. That there choice—that’s James Kennedy’s legs,
both of ‘em.”
I tried
not to look at the man as if he were talking crazy, but….
“Oh,” I
nodded.
“And that
there book—” His stern finger nearly
reached to touch the colorful skull painted on the front cover. “—that’s Donald Maccaby’s left eye. Lost his left ear too.”
“From a
book accident?” I couldn’t help but
ask. I imagined a shelf in the library
falling over, the edge hitting an unsuspecting man named Donald Maccaby in the
face. Ouch.
The crazy
old man chuckled again. He didn’t answer
me but kept right on talking.
“I call
all this here Willy Whitman’s.” His
pointing finger gestured to our surroundings, mostly to the campus at the right
of us. I wondered then if the guy was
lost.
“Sir,
that’s not Whitman College. It’s the
University of Washington.”
The old
man looked at me, smiling, staring patiently as if I were actually the lost one. But I attended classes in those buildings
every weekday; I was quite certain of the name of my own university.
I’d about
decided to bury my head in my book and ignore the gawking madman when his
features fell. The smile that had
appeared pinned from ear to ear collapsed, and his twinkling blue eyes glazed
over, dull and sober. His next words
were not that of a madman at all, rather those of a wise, seasoned soldier.
“Andy
Shindler, James Kennedy, Donald Maccaby, William Whitman—they were all privates
who years ago served overseas under my command.
Those men made great sacrifices in war.
Lost limbs and other body parts.
In William’s case, his life. Their
sacrifices—their losses—paid for the rights you and I and all these here people
take for granted. The right to religion
and school and books and writin’ and speakin’ and makin’ choices that freedom
allows us to make. That’s why every time
I see a token of such freedoms, I think of my old friends. They are
those freedoms, son. They spilled blood
for ‘em, so you may as well call ‘em by their rightful names—Andy, James,
Donald, William, Logan, Jacob, Ryan, Michael, and thousands more valiant soldiers. Don’t you ever forget it.”
My head
bowed, humbled. I finally
understood.
“I won’t
forget,” I promised.
“Good
boy.”
The man’s
smile returned as bright as ever. I
closed the pages lying open on my lap.
“Sir, may
I ask your name?”
He seemed
pleased by the request and immediately shared it with me.
“Henry
Starr, First Air Cavalry.”
I pointed
to the throng of children twirling, jumping, and running on a green expanse of
American soil without a care or fear in the world.
“That
there indomitable spirit—that’s Henry Starr.”
