They call him Mr. G.
He's got one of those name spelled one way but pronounced another.
Mr. G fought in World War II. He's from the generation that understands sacrifice, hard work, integrity, loyalty, and goodness. Unlike mine.
I went to a funeral many years ago of a former co-worker. I knew very little about this man but his kind eyes and gentle disposition were enough to cause a few of us to fit his farewell into our busy schedule. I don't cry at funerals. I cry at TV shows. I cried at his; more or less, a stranger to me.
I learned more about him during the thirty minutes of his burial than I had the two years I worked with him. Maybe, my generation has a problem with paying attention to people.
Like Mr. G, this man was a World War II veteran. The 21 gun salute and the playing of Taps was an honor befitting of an obvious once great man. His best friend stood at the podium and spoke of his sobriety. He stated with a trembling voice, "Mr. B was a recovering alcoholic. When he chose sobriety 30 years ago, he became my sponsor. Regardless the time of day or in the middle of the night, I could count on him to talk me down from the ledge. I owe my life, my family, my kids.... I owe everything to Mr. B".
And then he sat down. Silence filled the air. Well, excluding, this gasp of air I lunged for in between trying not to sob.
Mr. G has lived alone for the last two decades. His wife, a distant memory as her urn sits on a mantle in a makeshift den. He refers to her as Precious. Mrs. P, I suppose. His one and only daughter with her children visit him often. Mr. G loves those days.
He's a simple man. He loves jello and noodles. He still drinks tap water and scoffs at the notion people buy water in bottles. He has a landline telephone and thinks smart phones are stupid. He has 5 channels to choose from on his television and thinks 4 of them are unnecessary. Mr. G has a VCR. It was a gift from an old friend. He loves watching Singing in the Rain. He has a laptop. His screen saver is a picture of Mrs. P. Her giant face engulfs the whole 14 inch screen. It's the only reason he bothers turning it on. He can stare at her for hours and reminisce.
"Mrs. P used to love taking walks. The Arizona sunset is a glimpse into heaven", he says as his voice cracks. Mr. G doesn't talk about the old war or how things used to be. He doesn't mention what is wrong with my generation or the world today. Mr. G only likes to talk baseball and Mrs. P.
As I was exiting the funeral for Mr. B, I felt compelled to walk up to his best friend and simply shake his hand. Thank you, I said. I wish I knew Mr. B. This generous stranger with the firm handshake, looked me dead in the eyes and said, "If you're lucky enough to meet one great man in life, make it your mission to breathe him in. Listen, observe and follow his example. If you never meet greatness, become it."
Easier said than done.
A few days ago, Mr G fell down. Those legs, his joints, his bones; these body parts that held him together during the world's greatest war, finally succumbed to age. Upon his fall, his daughter was called and he was rushed to the emergency room. Surgery is usually the last resort for men in their nineties. But it had to be done. And he pulled through.
Mr. G has now been admitted to a nursing home. His final days or months or years are now in the hands of others. A man that once fought for our freedom has now lost his.
A visitor inquired about his new home as she paid him a visit. Next to his bed is a bottle of Aqua Fina water. Mr G says, "it tastes like shit". And she laughed.
He's not going to make it, the doctor says.
He doesn't want to is more like it.
Mr. G wants to see Precious again.
Everyone is going to miss him. Well, those of us lucky enough to have spent any time with him. For now, we will just breathe him in.
And hope we can exhale some of that air of greatness onto others when he's gone.
For him.
Mister G.
