by Lance Allen
Ginger remembered asking him one time what he meant by the saying and the first time he shook her off and said something about he had read a story in Reader’s Digest one time and some man had made reference to that phrase in some form or another, he wasn’t sure.
This explanation seemed not to hit home for Ginger mostly because Harold had a tendency to over explain thing’s, often repeatedly hammering home the point more times than seemed necessary. She let Harold’s response go for the moment, but told herself the next opportunity she had to ask him the statement’s true meaning she would.
They attended a church potluck dinner one Saturday night shortly before the birth of their first child, Michael, was born. Seated over helpings of spaghetti and meatballs and glasses of iced tea, Harold was recounting the Red Sox game from earlier in the day, focusing on the exploits of his favorite player, Ted Williams. One of the other men at the table was not a Sox fan, but of the other team, down the way a piece, a team of pinstriped poster boys, namely the New York Yankees. This one fellow was debating Harold over the prowess of Mickey Mantle, a younger more charismatic fellow at the time. George said Harold, referring to Mickey Mantle, it isn’t the man in the moment it’s the moment in the man.
Well that just about put an end to the dinner conversation; everyone at the table sensing a sour tone developing quickly changed the subject back to the matters of the church and the leaking roof in the parsonage. Harold collected a measure of pride from his defending of his hero and wasn’t ashamed to say so. On the drive home Ginger inquired as to the true meaning behind Harold’s favorite phrase.
When you were speaking to George, that thing you say came up again. What ever does it mean? And please don’t go back to that tired story of the Reader’s Digest article.
Ginger my dear, back in 43 when I was training to go off to fight the Nazi’s, I had this drill sergeant, real tough SOB. His name was Wainright. He was as thick as an oak tree and as solid as a brick wall. His chin was so square you could have leveled a beam on it.
One day while he was putting us through the paces, we came to this obstacle, a large wooden wall with ropes dangling from one side. He made for us to grab hold of those ropes and clamor up the side pulling ourselves up and over. He said it was to symbolize us scaling the outer walls of Hitler’s castle as if we were a band of Hun’s.
Anyway, we gets to this obstacle and the first fella grabs the rope and pulls himself up about eight feet and then his feet start slippin and he looks like a dog on a frozen pound. Eventually he slips totally and falls square on his back. Sergeant Wainright hollers at the poor guy and chases him off. The next few come along and they fair no better.
At this point, Sergeant Wainright’s pride is smarting. His recruits have come to the first major obstacle and none of them is able to best it. I remember it like it was yesterday. His face was beet red, and not on account of the heat, and he’s got this vein sticking out of his forehead and it seems to be beating, throbbing. Anyway, I get to the base of the obstacle and ready myself to go over it. At this point I want no part of the throbbing vein on his forehead so I muster all the strength I can and start to pull myself up. Hand over hand I go, gripping the thick heavy braid of the rope, higher and higher. I can hear the boys under me shouting for me to get up to the top, cheering me on, giving me the extra kick I needed to conquer the wall.
After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the top of the wall, my arms burning, my hands shredded from the coarseness of the rope. I pulled myself to the top and sat a moment with my legs dangling over the opposite side. From down below I heard Sergeant Wainright addressing the men. The first part of what he said I could not hear because I was breathing so hard but when I recovered and leaned over slightly to get a better angle on his voice I heard him say:
It isn’t the man in the moment; it’s the moment in the man. Private Capshaw just discovered how right I am. When given a particular task he dug deep and discovered he possessed something he didn’t know before he had. And when he did he made it up my wall. Didn’t you Private Capshaw?
Sir yes sir.
Well don’t just sit there. This isn’t happy time at the seashore, get down off my obstacle.
Harold told that story that day with a gleam in his eye and a heavy heart in his chest. The next few years would go to show just how right Sgt Wainright had been and what a skilled leader he was. Harold saw plenty of action in the European theater and lost many friends. Sgt Wainright was one them, shot dead somewhere in Italy leading his men against an enemy position.
The war had left many scars, mental and physical, and Harold did his best to carry on as best he could. And it seemed, the words of Sgt Wainright helped him through the darkest times and would now serve as his gift to the world as to how someone might choose to be successful in the face of adversity.
Ginger understood her husband had endured more than a man should ever be subject to and often left him alone when he got reminiscent about his time overseas. Harold wasn’t mean about things or hostile. He didn’t explode when tensions got tight or run for cover when things got hairy. He was simply a reflective man with an insight like few others. If he said he was fine she would believe him and let him be. If he said he was hurting she would come to his side and wait with him until the feeling passed. She loved him and was glad God saw fit to return him to her after the war was over.
Standing now looking out the window, replaying the memories spanning decades, she could not believe their time together was almost up. A lifetime is only so long when you look back upon it and realize how wonderful it was. Like a child at the zoo who is suddenly told it is time to leave, she felt cheated almost. How could it be over? How could their time in the sun be done? She believed in Jesus and felt the power He had over her but she still couldn’t shake the weight of sadness building up inside of her. Any day now he would be gone and she would be left to see the sun rise with out him. She began to cry.
What’s the matter my dear?
I’m being selfish.
It’s okay.
No it’s not. I don’t want you to go.
I know.
It’s not fair. We haven’t had enough time.
But we have shared the greatest lifetime I could ever have wished for. You are the light in my sky and with you there I will never be alone.
I don’t want you to go.
That’s not up to me. He has the last word.
I know I am mad at Him too.
But you can’t be mad. It doesn’t work that way.
Are you scared?
I am not. I am in love. With you. That by it self keeps me strong.
Oh Harold.
In 1944 when the Allies stormed the beaches, Harold was waiting on a ship and his turn to hit the beach and the liberation of Europe. As luck would have it his departure didn’t happen until late on that fateful day and by the time he reached the beach, the heavy fighting was over. As he landed and witnessed the indescribable devastation that lay strewn in every direction, his mind went quickly to Ginger and her fair skin, green eyes and auburn hair. Like a bounty at the table of God he knew he had to survive this action and get back to her and resume the life they so quickly began prior to his shipping out.
When he returned after the war and took a reckoning of his experiences he thanked God he had put Ginger in his life when he did because her memory forced him through the toughest stretch of hell any man should have to endure and lived to tell about it. And from then on not a single day passed without Harold embracing Ginger and thanking her for being in his life and sharing the love that burned in his belly.
Together they settled down into post World War II America and began living the life every man should wish for. He got a good job with a great company, bought a beautiful home and raised three wonderful children. His career played out better than he could have ever expected and he was able to put his kids through college. If there was an embodiment of the American dream it was Harold and Ginger Capshaw.
> Their life, however, wasn’t all roses and sunshine; they too experienced adversity and hardship, but weathered the storms as any dedicated and determined couple might, finding in each other the strength and willingness to lean on one another to see through to the other side. No experience better exemplified this unity than the illness which befell their youngest daughter, Sydney.
Sydney Marie was a quiet, little angel with blue eyes, blonde hair and a pair of dimples to swoon over. Her smile captured the heart of anyone who spied its infectious curve, unable to shy away from the formidable innocence behind the idyllic placard. She spoke deliberately, but politely, not condescending or rude. Her age was marked in years but her ability to communicate with anyone made her seem wiser than the calendar suggested.
Her older brothers seemed not to notice that she had been born differently from them and involved her in many a game of a boy’s making, seeing only that she was not hurt by the obvious size difference. She could run, bat, tackle, and cast a line with the best of them. Sydney baited her own hook, dug her own holes and hammered her own nails. The pigtails she wore in her hair were the only indicator she might be out of place.
One fall afternoon, as the boys were tussling in the backyard, Sydney was laid out in bed with a terrible headache and neck pain. The day before she had participated in a game of flag football with the boys down at the park but seemed to come away from the game unscathed. At some point during the night she had become ill, making it to the bathroom just in time. She vomited a few more times and then just lay listlessly in bed. Ginger checked on her daughter periodically but sensed nothing was totally a miss.
As one day turned into two, the family started to worry about Sydney but seemed powerless to help her in her current state. On the morning of the third day, Doctor Jennings paid the house a visit and gave her a thorough exam. Sydney was running a fever and had small blemishes on her arms. Dr. Jennings had his suspicions but wanted to make sure she was in the proper place if what he feared were true. He called Chief Pearson and asked that the ambulance come to the house and transport Sydney to Mercy Hospital.
Dr. Jennings’ initial fears were met once Sydney got to the hospital and not a moment had been spared. Sydney had contracted meningitis and the illness was shaking her to her core. The medical staff went to work on her but it was a long battle. The options at the time were few and the somewhat rural setting made it all the more difficult.
Initially Ginger had blamed the boys for their rough play and the absentminded attention they paid to Sydney and her slight stature. The boys’ cried foul and Harold came to their defense. In what had become their first true marital disagreement, it came with a heavy price and an unsuspecting target. Neither Ginger nor Harold was prepared for the long days and nights of waiting and praying their little girl would pull through.
One night over an unusually quiet dinner at home, a noticeably empty chair to the right of Harold, the head of the family, the patriarch, put his fork down and began to weep. The tears fell quietly into his plate, seasoning his mashed potatoes with shame and guilt. He reached for his napkin and blotted his eyes, wiped his nose. Clearing his throat he said:
These past few weeks have been draining on us all. We miss Sydney and only want what is best for her. I am saddened by our lack of effort as part of a family to get past all the small insignificant self imposed distractions and focus our attention, our love and understanding, on the one person who needs it more than ever. So until the time we all rejoice in the return home of Sydney, I ask each of you to dig deep and deliver all the hope you can muster so our little girl can get better.
When Harold was done speaking he locked eyes with Ginger and they shared an unspoken moment of clarity and peace. In their eyes each saw the desire and compassion for the other and screamed from the highest peak their loyalty to the other. The darkest hour was upon them and Harold rose to the occasion, embracing his family, his responsibility, his duty, and held them to his chest and reminded them they are stronger together than they could ever hope to be apart.
Dinner ended in lighthearted conversation, stories about Sydney over the years and some of her most memorable moments. The time last summer when she had landed a hefty bass out on the lake and while Harold had reached for the fish, somehow managed to fall head over heals out of the canoe, dislodging the fish in the process. Or when during a spirited game of badminton in the back yard Sydney had scored 10 consecutive points to humiliate a dumbfounded Johnny.
Each day following, the family would gather at the dinner table and take time to be thankful for what they had and were able to accomplish during the day. The focus wasn’t totally on Sydney but she was nevertheless a driving factor behind the connection. Taking the time as a family to reflect on the blessings of the day and in each other came to forge a bond between each of them that would never be broken.
And so it would be that on her 17th night in the hospital she regained an appreciable level on consciousness. The family had not yet settled into dinner and all raced to the hospital to see Sydney and offer their own stories of her ordeal. They were a family and when one was sick they all came together to help the others heal. This lesson learned on the back of a little girl would set the stage for a harmonious life and many, many ways to be thankful.
The vista unfolding out the window narrowly painted serenity across a tumultuous day, blue mixing with red, shades of yellow and orange, an eruption of pink. The chaotic color spectrum faded across a clearly darkening sky lightening some wisps in the air. The whole arrangement shored up the theory of order through chaos, the blending of the many into the sheerness of one, colors from the spectrum thrown together to create an altogether fleeting portrait of God’s true wonder.
Harold lay supine in his adjustable hospital bed, clad in button down flannel pajamas, blue and green, soft socks, thick and white, covered his distended feet. A few strands of white hair lay quietly to one side of his nearly bald head, adding fullness to the barren expanse that was his scalp. His hands were folded and lay across his emaciated frame; his eyes, dull grey and yellowed, aimlessly wandered the room, identifying images in his mind, recalling his life and the fullness of it all.
To his right he saw himself, white shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tie blowing in the breeze, a yellow hard hat on his head. He was holding a shovel with a silver handle and gold spade. He was breaking ground on a new manufacturing facility he had been instrumental in creating. The new building was one of the greatest achievements of his professional career. Instead of forging ahead with a single minded approach to conquering the land, he incorporated all the players and successfully secured a jobs magnet for this sparsely populated part of the country. Generations of young men and women remained employed in the area thanks to his efforts.
On his left, his grandchildren played on the beach, splashing in the water, digging in the sand, running and giggling. He’d been fortunate enough to raise his children to the point they too created life and love and willingly shared with him their bounty. A man is measured in feats and bounds but Harold was content to know he had raised proud God fearing people who knew right from wrong and were willing to stand up for the country they loved.
Front and center, looming large above all else, was the larger question, the elephant in the room, the deafening silence screaming to be heard. He was approaching the end of his life and Death was staring him in the face.
He could see a ripple in time, a slowly moving void in the ceiling through which he guessed he would soon ascend. But to where? He was sure he could see it, a subtle wavering of energy, like heat rising from a radiator beneath a cold window. The more he looked away and saw other parts of his life pass before him the more he was drawn back to this one spot. He was intrigued by what it might be.
He noticed the energy mass at first a few days ago, but had dismissed it as the side effects of his pain meds, the low dose of morphine he had been supplied with. The wrinkle seemed an annoyance, a troubling effect of old age, y
et the more he thought about his life and reconciled some things long forgotten, he sensed the void was not a troubling aspect of his final moments. The more he became acquainted with himself and his life’s journey and found peace with his achievements, the larger the ripples became.
With his focus now intently on the spot over his head, he concentrated on his wife, who sat passively staring out the window. He couldn’t imagine the pain she was feeling, the troubles which lay ahead for her. She had been the rock in his life, the force of one who could make all things right.
Harold knew with his passing she would be alone to think of a life fulfilled and wait for her time to come when she too would pass on. He wanted to comfort her but knew there were no words to truly relate the impact one person can have on another when a time apart is as foreign as another language. A few more moments passed in contemplation and then he spoke:
For the last few days I have noticed a strange sight in the ceiling over my bed. Do you see anything?
Where?
Right there! The third ceiling tile over from the edge.
I don’t see anything.
I didn’t think so.
What do you see?
It’s almost like the ceiling tile has liquefied; I see tiny ripples like on a pond after a rock has been thrown into it.
Do you feel okay?
I think it’s the end Ging. I think I am going there.
Going where?
Into that rippling ceiling tile. I think He means for me to come home and that is the way.
Are you in pain do you want me to call the doctor?
No I’m fine. But I really think the time has come.
How can you be sure?
I just have a feeling. Hard to explain. I feel light, not happy but euphoric. Remember when we took the kids to Disney World, the light in their eyes, the color in their faces, that’s what I feel like. I am confused but have a measure of clarity.
Should I call the kids?
I don’t think there’s time. Come sit with me.
Okay.
You know I love you.
I do.
Without question?