Walt

It's Christmas time and that means we share the best memories with those we love the most. Or, in this instance, I share the memory of the one I cared for very much with others that his memory might be more than just a flickering light, extinguished in a most unmemorable way.1

His name was Walt and I learned more from him than I think anyone ever showed me about being grateful for the life God gave us.2

I met him one day when I working in the Care Center,where I was employed as a floor maintenance worker. I was the guy who polished the wax and shampooed the carpets, and cleaned up the spills of blood, urine, and vomit which good people covered the floors with, out of no desire of their own, I can assure you, in their last days on a miserable and ungrateful world. Ungrateful perhaps, to their families who tucked them away there to be rid of them, of their friends who had forgotten them and to all the rest of the world which went on in it's thoughtless mayhem, with them growing more and more useless and defunct, until the last day they drew breath and finally expired to a better world. And, they often left me with nothing but sorrow, for the bodies, broken and withered that I knew on a daily basis, and the wonderful spirit that escaped from them after they'd finally suffered their final hours. Often with no one to care for them, but us the workers in the facility that knew them day to day.3

But, Walt. Walt was different. He was everyman. He was the fabled person of Americana who you heard about but never thought you'd encounter. But, I did and I am so glad I did. For Walt was the one who taught me how much one man could cram into one life and how memories could be enough to make going from one day to the next worth the daily rigors of living in a body which had ceased to be of any value to it's occupant. I know that doesn't make much sense, but then, Walt didn't make much sense unless you knew him and I knew him. And, I must say, I knew one of the truly great men because of that aquaintance.4

I first met him when he was watching the History Channel, and he asked me to get it back when the cable went down. I fought it back to life in time for him to watch the final showing of the World at War, The Pacific campaign and saw the life in him for the first time, and knew I was watching life like I could only imagine and never know myself. I watched the show with him and he smiled and shook his fist every time a corsair took out a zero and shook my head, smiling, thinking, here is a real cowboy. He must be big with the John Wayne crowd. How shallow an observation that was I was to learn.5

But, whatever he was, I decided to stop by and see him everyday, just as I did with so many of the other old men in the ward. He was always my favorite and I wanted to make sure he had a friend close by before he went on his way. He became much more to me as time went by. He became a mentor, a teacher and most of all an inspiration for my own daily existence as he watched his history channel programs and relived days when he was young and truly alive. It was that decision that allowed me to learn what being truly alive meant, as I got to know Walt and learned of a life I only read about in dime novels where men were men and adventure was the par.6

Walt, as it turned out was a pilot. That was no doubt the reason he loved to watch those dog fights each day on the war specials. He flew a P 51 in Germany and was one of the few pilots to be shipped to the Eastern theater in the end of the war to fly a Corsair. He flew over Germany on mission after mission guarding the fortresses, until he was shot down over Holland and had to hid out with a farmer and his family through a Christmas. He said that Christmas was one of the best he'd known, as he woke up that morning in a freezing barn and was taken in to share the meal with the farmer and his wife. Shortly after that he was spirited out of the country by friends of the farmer and he went back to England where he jumped right back in the cockpit of his beloved Mustang and went back to the fight. By then the war in Europe was nearly over and Walt was looking forward to his trip home. But, the air corps thought he'd be better off if he went to the Pacific and he was shipped off to do his duty there.7

Walt did his duty. He served with a fighter group until they were sent over to be trained on the Corsair. It was a new plane for Walt but he took to it with a flair and flew his into the war over the island hopping campaign. He said he only got one zeke, but he was never tired of telling how it went up like a lit match. Something in the story was always exciting no matter how often I heard it told and I grew to feel sad when I saw him talk about his days in the air and how much happiness it gave him. 8

Walt told me lots of stories and I suppose it would have been easy for someone to lie about what they'd done in life but Walt, it turned out, had a lot to tell, which was anything but a tall tale. As I got to know him he shared his scrap book with me and it was a collection like one I'd never seen before or since. In those pictures I saw the Walt of youth and what a youth. There were pictures of Walt in the thirties in college, a running back for USC when they won the Rose Bowl. There was Walt in the ring in Europe and in the island campaign a middle weight, amateur boxing champ in the Army Air Corps. There was even a picture of Walt, after he got back from the Army on a ranch in southern Oregon on his horse. And, he was a strapping looking fellow in each of those pictures, with his iron jaw, his tough as sinew body and his sparkling blue eyes. It was that jaw and his eyes that remained in his body which had been so mercilessly destroyed in a accident breaking horses. Walt was thrown from his horse and his back and most of his neck were reduced a frozen up mass and that began his downfall.9

When I met Walt he was already in his final days, locked up in a useless body which had to be moved from bed to a wheel chair each day and wheeled to the dining room, to church and to the movie room where he'd eat is only requested meal, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Walt was the champion at eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and candy. I should know, I bought a ton of his favorite chocolate, lemon balls, and jaw breakers for him and he went through them each day as he watch his favorite history programs, or college football games. And, he never seemed to be sad by his state, though I knew he must have wanted to be back in the seat of that plane. He told me often that one day the first thing he'd do when he got to Christmas was climb in his plane and fly across the heavens as a young man forever. And, that was the one thing I wanted to see he had a chance to do before his final hours came.10

I must admit, I was feeling quite smug when a lady from my church told me she had a friend who flew a wild cat fighter, modified for stunt flying and he wouldn't mind taking a fellow pilot up for a trip, if he was up to it. And, believe me, when he heard the offer was made, he was up for it. We all took him out to the air field one morning, in a frosty cold December and he took that flight. It was over in fifteen minutes and wasn't much more than a couple passes back and forth and a routine landing, but Walts eyes glowed like I'd never seen them before. And, all the trip back and for days after, he related every second of it to anyone who'd listen. And, for the rest of his life, I think it was something he remembered with every bit as much affection as he did all those countless hours over Germany and the Pacific.11

Well, it wasn't much longer after that. Walt got steadily worse, with his body locking up and shutting down daily until he was little more than the memory of a man. Though he still had a pair of strong arms and would arm wrestle with me daily and put me down with ease. (I'm not kidding, that man's body may have been worthless to him, but his arms were still a strong as a weight lifters and he had a grip like a vice). But, one morning, when I came to look in on him I knew the time had finally come. Walt lay there docile and dried with the tell tale sign of death on him. His cheeks were sunk in and he breathed with a staggered breath, for the last few hours. 12

Everyone came by to say good bye that morning and I know everyone must have felt they were the one who missed him the most. But, I like to think it was me who was his most important friend. It's me who has the picture of his beloved P 51 Mustang on my wall after all, which his wife told me he wanted me to have. And, I like to think that one day I'll step into heaven and see a tough young man with an iron jaw and chiseled features, in a flight jacket with a fire in blue fire for eyes. And, I'll know Walt is in his element. Then, maybe he'll take me for a ride and I'll finally know what it's like to be a real man.