For George.

            I sat in a 6X10 waiting area. Sixty square feet. Four chairs and one end table. The hospital tried to make the area warm and relaxing. In truth, it was not. How could it be? Sure the chairs were comfortable, sort of. The lights were dim and not fluorescent. But no matter what, you couldn’t forget that you were sitting in a waiting area on a ward that is set up for people to die.

            Visitors, family, old friends and religious leaders occasionally walk by. Maybe they stop and say some kind words, maybe they don’t. I try to listen to the ones that do stop, but after just a few words, my mind drifts off to fond memories of my friend, my adopted father-figure and my mentor.

            Not thirty feet from me he lies dying in a hospital bed. His death has not been quick and merciful. No, for all the good deeds, the right choices he’s made in life, the great father and husband he’s been, the kind teacher he was, the gentle mentor he became to many, for that he doesn’t receive the gift of a quick and painless exit from life. Instead he is rewarded with a year in and out of hospitals and nursing homes where one day is good and the next ten are mired in pain, suffering and mental torture.

            Right now, as I type this, he drifts between sentient human being and man with swiss cheese for a brain. He’s passed out from drugs and is just a drooling meat bag. it is painful for any and all to watch. Even for the nurses who have to wipe his wounds and clean him up every few hours. We as a family try to help, but soon we realize that not only are we not professionals we are inept at giving advanced care to the invalids.

            So I sit and wait. I don’t know what I’m waiting for but I’m waiting. I try to surf the net on my phone, I get bored. I try video games and get bored. So, I open the laptop and start typing.

            What I remember most about George is his hands. Not the soft, pale, pink ones he has now. No, what I remember are the hard calloused, permanently grease stained, irreparably cracked skin and fingernails that were either torn to the quick, black from being slammed by a hammer, or just plain torn right off. Strong hands. Hands that could build things. Hands that could fix anything. Hands that could lift a two hundred pound engine block as if it were a feather.

            Hands that were also gentle enough to remove my just born daughter from my arms and carry her across the room and make loving noises to her. Hands that gently patted her head. Hands that over the years held my daughters hand in tenderness. Hands that like the man they were attached to, were strong, helpful, gentle and kind. Hands which held the muscle memory of ten thousand engines and tools.

            He is a great man. He means a lot to me. More than most people know or will ever know. I met him when I was nineteen years old. Just a naïve sailor from the mid-west who was dating his daughter. I’m sure he wasn’t fond of me then, most people aren’t when they first meet me, but it’s all good. I grow on you.

            When I asked him for his daughters hand in marriage he said to me “No matter what happens, no matter how mad you get, no matter how crazy she makes you, never lay a hand on her, just send her home.” Which scared the shit out of me. He didn’t need to say it, not to me at least, but I believe he needed to say if for himself. Which I can understand and is something I will say to the future Mr. Madison Novak, when he works up enough courage to ask me for my daughters hand in marriage.

Intermission

            Well, I didn’t finish this before George passed. There are lots of reasons for not finishing, primarily, sometimes you just can’t find the words when you’re in a moment. No, those words come later. Hopefully they will come to me now.

            It is a sad day for all of us. Yet, unlike most losses of friends and family, George’s death was expected. It seems most of the immediate family have made peace with his passing before the actual event crashed into our respective realities. Sure there are tears and hugs, but mostly, there are wonderful stories from great people.

            Stories of George in his youth, his teen years, his adult years. Stories lovingly told by his wife, his son, his daughter are plentiful and filled with laughter and an occasional tear. Stories by nieces, nephews, cousins and grand-children are all heartfelt and filled with recent nostalgia.

            Then there are the stories from long lost co-workers, employees and close acquaintances. These people have some of the most amazing tales. Tales of how important George was to them. How he influenced them by saying the right thing at the right moment in their lives. Showing grace and dignity when mistakes were made. Mistakes that could have cost money, time or even a person’s reputation.

            See, that’s who he was. To everyone. He was always there for you. He always knew the right thing to do and was more than happy to guide you towards what was right and steer you away from what was wrong. He always afforded you a second chance, even if you were on your hundredth second chance. He cared for you. He wanted the best for you. He was always there to help you. And he never complained about any person or people who reached out to him.

            He was genuine in his care for his fellow man. Even if it was some knuckleheaded sailor from Wisconsin who didn’t know a dip-stick from a transmission fluid stick. He cared when most people walked away.

I’m reminded now of how at Christmas time he’d don a red jingle hat and wear a red plaid shirt. Those two things combined with his stark white beard made him the toast of Christmas, wherever he was. Whether it was the mall, a restaurant or even just walking down the street, kids of all ages would walk up to him, smile and sometimes hug him. Occasionally he’d get toy requests and he always smiled and promised he’d do the best he could for the happy child.

            When the child skipped, ran or just wandered back to their parents, George would just smile with a happy and content glow on his face. He knew he’d made someone genuinely happy. Happy to their core. He’d given them a happiness that was so pure and filled with love that no evil on earth could taint it. He delivered the peace and joy to others and asked for nothing in return. But boy did he get peace and joy delivered back to him a hundred fold in the eyes and smiles of all the children he spoke with.

            Which I suppose is who George really was. Sure, he was a father, a husband, an uncle, a mentor and a teacher. But when I think of him, his smile, his beard, his calm demeanor and his humble sense of self, what I think is “That is someone I wish I could emulate. A caring, happy and wise man. A man who never set out to change the world but whose influence will never be lost to anyone who ever had the honor to meet him.

            I’ll always love you George and you’ll always be one of the greatest humans I’ve had the pleasure to meet.

            Fair Winds and Following Seas.