“There is an
elderly man who will need your assistance on the Bistro car,” is where this
story begins. Well, it actually starts
with the news of a mudslide happening, causing us to have to bus bridge the
passengers, but I am choosing to start it with that line spoken to me.
My duty
during this operation was to ensure any passengers needing a ride from the
train or station to the busses would get it.
Most were already inside. Just
the above mentioned elderly man was left on the train. He was a small man who walked with a distinct
limp. Carrying nothing but a small green
bag, I thought little about it save for getting him inside where it was warmer. He was a pleasant fellow, and I responded in
kind, despite my inner depression that comes this time of year. When I got him to the station, I offered to
let him keep the bag on my cart so it would be easier for him to move
around. He quickly told me no, that he
always carried it with him. I nodded and led him inside, dismissing his words,
thinking it just him prattling.
After
dropping him off, I went to the podium where the conductor was preparing for
the trip and just stood there behind it, answering the common question we kept
getting: “Any update on the bus
departure time?” We hemmed and hawed as
best we could, awaiting the news much like they are. During this time the gentleman came up to the
podium, still carrying his bag. Unlike
the others that came up, he asked about how the bus bridge worked. It was another common question, and I
answered it pretty much automatically.
He then got to telling me about his son who was waiting for him and his
business in Stanwood. Being polite, I
kept the conversation going. He told me
how he hated driving I-5, but still drove almost everywhere else. He told me he was still an avid golfer, and
that he was 93 years old. I was
impressed, since I had guessed his age to be closer to 80. He also mentioned in the conversation that
his wife had passed away 2 years ago.
This led to him telling me what happened to have caused his limp.
The story he
told was one that if things had happened a bit differently or he had told it a
different way, I would have been horrified for him. But he was so nonchalant and witty about it;
I could not help but laugh at it. He was
laughing too, so I didn’t feel horrible about it. This story led to talk of his 1967 Mustang,
which due to my family I have a decent about of knowledge of. As we were talking about it, I was told that
the busses were ready for my passengers.
So I had them
bundle up and I drove them on Li’l C-my cart-and drove them to the bus for
loading. As I helped him and the others
off, I asked if he would like to place his little green bag in the luggage
compartment so it would be safe. Again,
he refused, yet this time he told me why.
“My wife’s
ashes are in this bag. I like to keep
her with me when I travel. It brings me
comfort.”
That sentence,
along with the look he gave me when he said it –a combination of sadness, love,
and earnestness-pierced the depression armor I was wearing, hitting me square
in my emotional center. “I fully understand,”
I said as I helped him and his wife to a seat in the bus, tears forming. He thanked me, and I thanked him back, then I
left the bus, got on my cart, drove around the corner out of sight of everyone,
and started bawling.
Sometimes we
come so wrapped up in our lives, so focused on our problems, that we forget we
are but part of a greater whole. We
sometimes focus so much on our personal demons and how to cope with them we don’t
see how others do it. This elderly man
had such an important part of his life gone, but how he coped with it to
continue existing-no-to continue LIVING, was of such a bittersweet beauty that
it blew past all my cynicism, all my grief to show me that while life can be
bad, it’s how we deal with it that defines who we truly are. I was humbled by this revelation, and
realized that I have to try harder to actually live rather than just
function.
So I thank
you, sir, for giving me something I truly needed this time of the year…
