I never asked his name as his story was too personal.

And I did not take his picture - for the same reason.

But I will never forget him.

I met him at a hardware store.  He was helping me and we began talking…

When he was 7 or 8 years old his mother sent him out to find out 
why his father was late coming home from work. This man, then
just a child, said he went to the construction site where his father
worked and found him lying in a pool of blood in the snow next to
his truck.  Dead.  

This man told me that later the man who had killed his father came

to his mother, crying. He confessed, and asked for forgiveness. He said 
that he had not meant to do it, but that it had happened in a moment of
anger.

I asked the man what had happened next and was told that his

mother decided not to turn her husband’s killer into the police.

She told her son that nothing would bring back his father, and

that she did not want to see a human being spend the rest of his life

in prison.

He told me that his mother was never the same after the loss of her

husband and that she died a few years later. She left behind six fatherless

children. He said he was raised by his older sisters.

The man who told me this story was someone that I met in a store.

To be honest, I only spoke with him for 10 minutes.

I will probably never see him again.

His story haunts me — A child finding his father laying in the snow,

dead; A woman with six children deciding to spare the life of her

husband’s killer; A child losing both his mother and father but

growing into a man who holds no anger.  

I told the man that his story changed my life. It did.  

This is Seymour.

I met Seymour while walking in the parking lot of our local grocery.  I noticed his WWII hat and stopped to thank him for his service.  He had been shopping and was putting his groceries in the trunk of his car.  He told me that he was 97 years old and served in Germany during the war.  He said that he had been in the U.S. Horse Calvary and pulled an wrinkled old photo from his pocket to show me.

Seymour told me that the horse I saw pictured had tried to kill him three times.  When I asked if it was a 'bad' horse he said, "Oh no,  can you imagine what it is for a horse to have to put up with young boys who have never ridden before?"  

Seymour learned to shoot from the back of a horse and earned a silver medal for being a sharpshooter, and survived three battle campaigns including the Battle Of The Bulge.

He said that most everyone he knew is dead now.  

Then he thanked me for stopping to talk with him.

I was reminded of the song by John Prine, "Hello In There"

So if you're walking down the street sometime

And spot some hollow ancient eyes,

Please don't just pass 'em by and stare

As if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."

This is Charlie.

I met Charlie when I was climbing the rocks that overlook the ocean in Jamestown, Rhode Island.  He was sitting quietly with a notepad and a sextant.  Every few minutes he would take a reading from the sextant by aligning the position of the sun with the horizon, and carefully write it down in a neat column next to the time.  "My watch," he said, "shows me Greenwich Mean Time."  I asked him why he was doing this, and he said "Well, it shows me where I am."  When I asked if it wasn't easier to use a GPS, he laughed and said that it would be a lot easier and a lot more accurate.  He said "I've been doing this for 35 years.  It's my hobby".  He then showed me how the sextant worked and asked me to write down the next readings.

Now Charlie, of course, knew where he was.  He lived in Jamestown and has come to this spot overlooking the ocean many times, so I didn't really believe that Charlie needed a sextant to tell him where he was.  At first I was confused as to why someone would do this.  But then it came to me.

I think that sometimes when we find order in the universe, it stirs our hearts to new heights.  I think Charlie had found a way to see this order, and so he sat - overlooking a beautiful blue ocean - peering into the heavens, and at the horizon. 
Connecting the two.

And I think this may be a good point to quote from a new favorite poet of mine, John Davidson (1857 - 1909) -

God, smiling, took him by the hand,
And led him to the brink of heaven:
He saw where systems whirling stand,
Where galaxies like snow are driven.

This is Anna. 
I met Anna 39 years ago during a time in my life when I was alone and pretty much lost.  We were introduced by a mutual friend.  After talking a bit, we found that we had a lot in common.  We were both from small towns and grew up in the Catholic Church.  We were both Midwesterners, and we both had an interest in myth, religion and philosophy.  At the time we met, we were both in our twenties, both enjoying the mysteries of lives that were ahead of us.  She became a very close friend.

Last week I was told that she had only been given a few weeks to live.  I went to her home and sat by her bedside.  I held her hand and told her how much she meant to me, and thanked her for being a part of my life.  When I met Anna I was lost.  Barely visible. 

Being Anna’s friend made me see myself again.

Thank you Anna.  Forever.

Anna passed away one week later.  
The world is a much smaller place for me.
 

This is Dolores. 

She works the graveyard shift at the Roanoke Rapids, Virginia Pancake House.  I thought I was there to eat a quick breakfast and head back onto the road on my trip up to Rhode Island.  What I didn’t expect was that along with the pancakes and eggs, I would get a pretty big helping of down-home wisdom. 

Dolores was a philosopher dressed as a waitress.  “I was married 17 years and we just fell out of love,” she said.  “He wasn’t a bad person, in fact, he’s a really nice guy.  We still see each other.  It’s a shame, but sometimes it just happens.” 

Dolores told me that she has four children, so our conversation eventually centered on how difficult parenting can be.  “You know,” she said, “sometimes you just have to let them go.”  Then she added “but I’ll always be there for them if they need me.”  Dolores serves pancakes and wisdom.  And love.   Thanks Dolores. 

I left with both stomach and heart full.

This is Charlie and David.

I met Charlie at the local dog park. 

I had been watching the dogs running and playing - chasing after one another,

Charlie came over and sat down on the bench with me – thankful to have someplace out of the sun and 90 degree weather.  He seemed kind, but a bit distracted.  I asked his name.  He turned and looked at me, then looked away.

“His name is Charlie,” said David who also sat next to me. 

Charlie seemed to regain his breath and went off for another round of “I’ll bark at you, you chase me, and then I’ll rush back to my owner.”

David told me that he was a writer and was working on selling his movie script.  Yeah, sure, I thought.  I asked him what he had written and he rattled off the names of a few books (all of which I later found on the shelves of our library).  By the way, you might want to check them out - On Ice, The Gravity of Shadows, and Thief of Light.  All thrillers, all based upon the seedy part of life.

It was time to go, so I gave Charlie a scratch behind the ears, said goodbye to David, and walked away.  When I turned back, Charlie was smelling another dog.  He was a writer’s dog.  A dog that used his nose like his owner used words – to explore the underbelly of life.



[update:  I just finished reading The Gravity Of Shadows.  Wow!   David is a really good writer!  - You can be sure that I'm going to read his others.]

This is Robert.  I met Robert when I stopped to browse a Western boot and hat store in Sedona, Arizona.  Robert told me that he had originally been an accountant “not because I liked it, but because numbers were easy for me.”

Looking around the shop, I noticed a book on the counter with a small sign saying that the book was signed by the author.  Then I noticed Robert’s picture on the sign.  “You wrote this book?” I asked.  Robert’s face lit up as he began to tell me about the book.  He excitedly told me that he had received phone calls from people who were so taken with his story and it’s characters, that they asked him to write a sequel.

I asked Robert if he was a cowboy.  He smiled and answered, “Just a dime store desperado from Doodlebug Ranch.”  I liked Robert.  He was friendly, self-effacing, and kind.  He found his calling, not in numbers, but in words.

Robert is a renaissance man.  A renaissance man from Doodlebug Ranch.  BTW – check out his book at http://grasshopperflatssedona.com/index.htm

This is Roland.  Lynn and I met Roland as we were standing on the beach in Highland Beach, Florida.  He was very friendly and personable.  He said that he had been born in Egypt but moved to the United States when he was seventeen

After we talked for a while, we invited him to see our condo (as he was interested in real estate in the area).  Later he invited us over to his place and  suggested that we email him to set up a time for lunch.

I asked him for his email address, but neither of us had anything to write on.  "Just Google my name," he said.  I laughed and said that there must be thousands of Roland _________s on Google (it's a very common last name).  He responded "Well, I'm kinda famous.  I should be the first entry that comes up."  I asked what he did for a living and he told me that he was a physicist.

Later that evening, I 'Googled' Roland.  His was not only the first entry, but the second, third, fourth...!  Then I downloaded his 17 page resume.

Hmmmm....  I just met someone famous "along the way."

.

This is Israel.  I met Israel as he was walking along the boardwalk of a local nature preserve. He carried a pair of binoculars and asked if I had seen a Bittern (a small bird). "I know there are a few here" he said, "but I haven't been able to see one. My eyes just aren't what they used to be."

Israel said that he was 89 years old. When I asked what he had done before retiring, he said "I used to teach advanced mathematics to graduate students." "You mean theoretical mathematics," I asked? "Yep" he said.

This piqued my interest, as some theoretical mathematicians work at defining the very boundaries of reality (at least that's my romantic interpretation of their work).

So, here is Israel who once worked at defining and looking for the limits of the physical universe.

Now he is looking for a Bittern.

This is Mike.

I met Mike when I noticed his van in a parking lot. 

On the Van door it read:  “Guitar Hospital.” 

That was enough to pique my interest. 

Mike invited me into his workshop, which was tucked into a back room of a local gift shop in Delray Beach.  On the wall were various vintage guitars in various states of repair.   “I started working for Gibson guitars in 1972,” he said.  Mike went on to say that he had played in a band in college, but now repaired and restored guitars.

Mike’s face lit up when he talked about his career choice, but he said that “I get these young kids who come to me and ask me to teach them the business, but they want to learn it all in a few weeks.  I apprenticed for eight years!” 

When I asked to take his picture he said “sure, but let me grab something and look busy.”  What you can’t see in this picture is that Mike had more than enough worked waiting to be repaired – stacks upon stacks of guitars waiting for someone to bring them back to life – someone who was willing to spend eight years learning their trade.   

This is Santa.  I met him at an outdoor event in West Palm Beach.  It was early in the day and Santa had a bit of time to speak with me before all manner of children (and surprisingly, quite a few very good looking women) began their yearly visit to his lap.

I asked him how he was able to wear such a heavy suit in our 78 degree weather, and he explained that his suit was packed with ice packets.  "Much the same technology as used by some of our troops in Iraq," he said.

Santa.. I mean Frank, told me that before he retired he worked for the Internal Revenue Service for more than 20 years, but that he began his Santa career about four years ago.

I asked him if he had ever had a sad moment as Santa, and he began to tell me about his work with children diagnosed with cancer.  He told me of a time when he was standing with a parent whose infant was being held down so the nurse could insert a needle into her vein.  "I was just standing there with this silly suit on, and holding a pathetic little gift.  And as I stood there, the child was screaming, and the mother was crying and holding on to my arm so tight.  And I thought - what can I possibly give to this child and her mother?  I'm just a man dressed in a silly red suit with a little gift, and this mother is in such pain."

Frank, I mean Santa, had a hard time resolving that moment in his own mind.  And I understand.  Life is not always kind or gentle.  A child's pain is horrific and as a parent himself, Frank had a difficult time containing his own feelings.

But, I'm glad Santa was there, and I'm sure that this mom who held on so tightly was also glad, for at that moment, Frank (or Santa) became more than a man in a red suit. He became another human being who was willing to share the pain.  He was there for her, and sometimes, just being there is enough.  I believe in you Santa.

This is Christi.  I met Christi while having breakfast at a local café that sits alongside a beautiful tidal river here in Rhode Island.  Christi told me that she had worked in Madagascar with the Peace Corps.  We talked about how different life is there as compared to here in the United States.  I recalled my own culture shock when I came  back to this country after spending some time in Central America, and joked about how she must have felt walking into a  Department Store after living in such a distant place. 

Christie said "...it's not really the shock of the materialism that was difficult for me, it was the change of relationships between people and their community."  That struck me.  Obviously, Christi looks at life through her heart.  Apparently, it's not the visual that concerned Christi as much as the relational changes that she felt. 

Having been a psychotherapist, I understand how important relationships are.  They are paramount. They are what preserves us and keeps us safe.  Christi knows relationships.  That is a special thing -- a beautiful thing.

This is Kim.  I met Kim as she was standing at the edge of Lake Erie in a small town named Vermillion.  It was a hot sunny day and Kim was looking for her children.  Kim told me that she was born and raised in Vermillion, but "never really appreciated the town."  "It's a shame," she said, "but you never really appreciate where you come from until after you move away."  Kim did move away to college, but eventually moved back.  She said "I really love it here." I asked if I could take her picture and she laughed.  "Sure" she said.

Later, I wondered how many parents have looked out over the horizon wishing that their children knew what Kim had learned -- that sometimes, coming home is a good thing, and that small-town America is home.

Tonight, Kim, your children will be in bed, exhausted and safe in your home in Vermillion Ohio -- A very small town.

This is Dale. I noticed Dale as he was parking a beautifully and intricately decorated Harley Davidson motorcycle at the Narragansett sea wall. The cycle was covered with colorful small beading displaying suns, feathers, and other Indian designs. 

When I asked Dale if he had done the artwork himself, he said "Do you have a moment?" and proceeded to explain his Narragansett Indian heritage and the symbols that decorated his hat, jacket, and bike. At the front of the motorcycle was beaded his Indian name - Buffalo Heart. I asked him why he was given the name and he said, "Well, I was named "Buffalo" because I'm big" (which he is), and the "Heart" was given to me because I'm a kind person and I have a big heart." (which he does). 

When I met Dale, I instantly liked him. He's a big man with a big heart. Dale is the kind of guy that makes you feel appreciation that his path and your path crossed. Thank you Dale. 

By-the-way, Dale said he is part of the Turtle Clan. I like that. 
Turtles are good things to be.

This is Lori. I met Lori on a very hot and humid day in Newport. Lori smiles a lot and quickly says that she loves her life. At one time she apprenticed with the Boston Ballet but stopped dancing when she married. She says that she loved dancing but that "now my children are my jewels." Lori is single now and says that she is simply happy being who she is. 

To me, it seems as though Lori never stopped dancing. Although she is no longer with the Ballet, she is dancing through life. Lori is happy dancing to her own music. 
Life is Lori's ballet.

This is Hamish. Hamish was originally from New Zealand but moved to the United States when he was in his twenties. I met him in his antique store which he opened 18 months ago. He is also an accomplished guitarist who plays in local clubs.

Some time ago Hamish was diagnosed with colon cancer and did not think that he would live. I asked him if that experience changed his attitude towards life. He nodded and said "... for four years I sat and did nothing, waiting to die. When I didn't die I thought I should probably do something."

I like that.

A lot of people sit around waiting to die but never learn what Hamish did after four years -- that it might be a good idea to get up and do something. Sitting and waiting for death is probably never a good idea.

Good for you Hamish.

This is Joe. I met Joe sitting alone on the sea wall. He proudly wears a US Marine hat that says he served in Iwo Jima. He says that he used to be a pretty good dancer but "that was a long time ago." He says he is 85 years old, and laughed when I told him I was 59. "You're still a young pup," he said. 

When asked about his service in Iwo Jima, he looked down and said that he had seen a lot. I was going to ask him more, but he didn't look like he really wanted to talk about it. 

After we parted I saw his car parked along the street. The car had a few bumper stickers on it. Like Joe's hat, the car also announced that Joe was an Iwo Jima survivor. It seemed as though both the car and the hat wanted to announce Joe's trauma, but Joe just wanted to sit on the wall with the sea and the setting sun at his back, and watch the people who passed by. 

Joe is letting his hat and car do the talking.

This is Vittorrio. When I first met him it was at the Sunoco Station. He pumped my gas and washed the windows. In a heavy Italian accent he told me that he had MS and wasn't able to walk for 20 years. He said that he returned to Italy to the church of Saint Gabriella where he experienced a miracle. He says that he has just been able to walk for the last 15 years. 

He then came around to the side of the car and gave my wife and daughter two small flowers and a sprig of oregano that he picked out of his garden that he keeps at the side of the station.  

I returned to the station today to take his picture. When I told him that I was taking pictures of people that I talk to, he said "That's a nice hobby." 

It is. 

Thank you Vittorrio.

This is Angel. I met her when I was having breakfast in a tiny cafe in a seedy industrial area close to Providence. Angel was with her three year old son and husband. When asked what he husband did for a living, she said "He's out to save the world." 

I asked her what that meant and she said that sometime ago their home computer broke and they didn't have enough money to replace it. She said that their friends began to bring computer parts over to her house and that her living room was soon filled with "all sorts of things." After her husband put together a computer for the family, he decided to start collecting old computers and repair them to donate to other people who couldn't afford them. 

That was how Angel defined "saving the world." 

I think that's fine. I like what her husband is doing. 

More people should try to save the world. 

Have a nice breakfast Angel.

I forgot to ask his name, and we only talked for a few minutes.

He was walking along a 1 mile track when I struck up a conversation with him.

He told me that he had been a pharmacist "back when every pharmacy had a soda fountain," and that he left that career to become a science teacher "for kids 12 to 15 years old." 

When I asked if I could take his picture he said "My picture? Sure. I guess that would be alright." 

He was quiet and gentle. 

I took his picture and he thanked me.