The Old Man and The Boy – “An Angel Without Wings”

He was sitting on a bench just watching the ocean roll in and out.

A storm was brewing off the coast and as the sun began to set you could see the lightning display on the horizon. It was one of God’s marvelous concerts with a back drop of a growing tumultuous and angry ocean.

At first, I was a little offended, after all, I had worked all day and I came to the bench in the evening to sit, smoke my pipe, contemplate and reminisce.

The Old Man, that is what I will call him as he later asked I do so, was approaching 80, I would guess. He also was sitting calmly and smoking a pipe looking out at the horizon as the sun slowly put itself to bed.

I recognized the aroma of his pipe as a Black Cavendish one of my favorites and a tobacco blend I still smoked. I smoke it when I choose to be contemplative. I had given up the pipe for many years; now, though as I edged toward “retirement” whatever that meant, I had come to find the pipe and my afternoon cocktail the two things I cherished again for my own self-fulfillment. The pipe helped me focus and relax and the cocktail helped me come down after what always seemed to be a stressful day anymore.

As I approached the bench, the Old Man looked up; he seemingly had been in deep thought and smiled. He was wearing an old Hawaiian shirt, hush puppies of the 70s era with no socks, a neatly dressed pair of twill khakis, old frameless glasses and an old and very well-worn boonie hat.

I recognized that old hat, as I had had one for many years from my days with the Army until I lost it one day deer hunting at Daddy Paul’s in Alabama. I had carelessly pushed it loosely into my back pocket. The remains probably still lay somewhere in the swamps next to the Tombigbee River on the Paul’s 177,000-acre plantation.

A boonie hat, is also known as a giggle hat. It is a wide-brim hat, which became the uniform of the day in the 70s in Vietnam. Its design is similar to a bucket hat but with a much stiffer brim. Often a band of ‘branch loops’ is sewn around the crown of the hat. This ‘fuck you ring’, as the grunts called it because they thought it provided a ready-made target when you stuck shit in it, was used to stick local plants and stuff in the band to ostensibly “enhance the camouflage.” A strap keeps it on your head when near evac choppers or when crawling under tree branches or jungle crap.

“Son, would you care to join me? That is if you don’t mind my pipe,” he said.

I felt a little ashamed now. I was feeling entitled to “my bench” and “my time to de-stress and unpack and heal for the day” and here was an elder, a

UdvSonvhi –

a Grandfather –

Ududu

inviting me to join his company.

Being brought up by my Cherokee Aunt (Elogi) Anzie, I have tremendous respect and even admiration for my elders and my elogi’s teaching quickly surfaced.

“Thank you, sir. It would be my honor. That is, if you don’t mind me smoking along with you.”

 He beamed a smile and I could see he seemingly still had all his teeth. His upper lip had a graying ‘stash and he had a rather full goatee speckled with salt and pepper shades of grey. What hair I could see under his boonie was greying and was in a short military cut. His smile was warm and inviting. His hands speckled with liver spots. He wore a wedding ring and some other ring on his right hand. A 1970s POW-MIA bracelet and a medical bracelet were on his right wrist and an older Lummox watch was on his left wrist.

I sat down and for a short bit we just did the pipe smoker thing. I have found over the years true pipe smokers are an interesting lot. They speak and engage only when they are ready. The pipe acts as a device to allow the mind to settle and for the dialogue to be constructed.

Finally, I leaned back and sighed. The lightning display was improving with each sway of God’s hand. The angels, the good adanádos began to “bowl” in the distance. A full-fledged tournament could soon be underway.

Often, I have wondered if God might be a pipe smoker himself and if he uses the lightning to recharge his chosen tobacco. Such, is the wonderings of people like me.

“Had a hard day?” he asked.

He took what looked like a very old .243 bullet casing and tamped down his dottle. The pipe like the man was well worn. It appeared to be a Petersen briar. Petersen pipes are cherished by pipe smokers because Charles Petersen when he began making them in Dublin, shortly after the War of Northern Aggression in 1865 approached his craft unlike many others of his day.

Mr. Petersen was a master craftsman with a feeling not only for the subtleties of the materials with which he worked, but also for the tastes and preferences of the discerning pipe smoker.  He believed that a fine pipe is not only a source of lasting pleasure but the expression of a man’s personality.  And since every man is an individual, a good pipe will reflect his individuality in the character of the briar and the skill with which it is fashioned.

“Sir, I had to admit this but it seems lately every day is a hard day,” I smiled as I said it though and he nodded.

“Well, son I can understand that. Been there, done that. Except I do hope you also understand every day is a gift.”

“That I do , sir. A little cancer will make you look at things different for the rest of your life, if you survive it.”

I had had bladder cancer in my mid-50s and had given credit to my Higher Power, my surgeon, my wife, a dog and especially my dear friend Bert for having saved my life.

“Yep, I can appreciate that as well,” the Old Man said now obviously settled in and feeling comfortable with this junior pipe smoker. The thunder rumbled a little louder now, as an angel most likely had connected on a spare or even possibly had a strike.

“What brings you to the ocean?”

Now, typically I am the one who introduces the first question in a relationship. I admired the Old Man. He obviously had had some intel training.

“Well sir, my wife and I live here 6-months out the year and run our business from a little two bedroom place up on Moore.”

Knowing that to regain the upper hand I had to continue and then introduce my own inquiry I continued, “It’s sort of a public relations and communications kind of business,” I said.

“What about you?” Attempting to regain my position and an upper-hand.

The Old Man smiled.

“Probably, the same as you. I come to the ocean to heal myself daily.”

Oh, I thought he meant what brought me to the bench.

“Well sir, you’re right. I do come here usually daily to heal my soul before I take it to bed another night,” I said realizing that I was about to strike up a conversation.

“Do you like stories told by old men?”

“Yes, sir I do like stories from my elders.”

The Old Man smiled and winked at me.

His gaze now seemed to adjust to the far horizon. He tapped the pipe bowl upside down on his hand to release the remaining dottle and reached into his pants pocket, took out an old sock and stuffed his pipe with his version of a Black Cavendish. His pouch reminded me of the Persian slipper that Sherlock Holmes always used to house his tobacco on the mantle of his home at 221-B Baker Street. He gently pushed the tobacco down and lit his pipe from a disposal Bic.

I watched and waited. I had learned being around my elders growing up that in good time the conversation would resume.

When he adjusted his body to turn slightly toward me and cross his leg with his foot pointing towards mine, I knew rapport was established and a story was brewing.

“My name is Leroy David Strong.”

He extended his hand. I noticed it was steady and the fourth finger was badly mangled. He wore an insignia ring on that finger and I suspect it had rarely ever been removed. The finger was flattened and the nail exaggerated width wise. He was obviously a well groomed person. His nails were evenly cut, no signs of yellowing even for a man his age and his hands were rough yet clean with no signs of oil or grease. His handshake was strong and when he looked at me I saw his brown eyes were clear, no signs of cataracts. He had a severe looking scar across one eye and part of his nose bridge.

“You can call me Lee,” I said.

He grinned and said, “How about I call you Son and you can call me the Old Man.”

And so, with a shake and a smile our relationship began.

“Care for a nip?”

The Old Man he reached into his back pocket and took out a very well-worn flask with a small silver top that also served as a larger than thimble-sized cup for guests. I could see an Airborne Special Forces insignia on the front.

“Thank you sir. I have just had a fine scotch before I came and I can still savor the taste.”

“I’m a bourbon man myself. Mind if I do?”

“Please make yourself at home.” I smiled and he drank several large swallows and returned the flask to his pocket.

“Once upon a time Son, I was a young man and I met an angel.”

The adanádos must have approved. The thunder was distant now and infrequent, as if they were listening more intently and giving up their tournament. The Old Man settled in to tell his tale.

“I have known and loved three women plus my Momma. I married two. One lasted almost 10-years. I was way too young when I married the first gal. The second, well, it took and lasted for more than five decades. I have had and loved many dogs but one I swear was an angel without any wings and he saved my life.              

When January, 1995 rolled onto the scene, things in my life were already less than satisfactory. I had started my own business, and I know Son you can appreciate that running your business as you do. Although my business had taken off and I had been quite pleased with the money and work, the project that meant the most to me — a government land use planning project had been placed in a ‘black hole’ by the agency’s senior management.

 Now, you would expect that someone like me who had spent 21-years working in and around the government would not have been so distressed over such asinine and capricious actions. Quite the opposite, however, was my reaction. For the first time in my own business I felt, not thought mind you at first that is, I felt as if my personal and professional self-esteem had been ripped from me. I felt as if the government and contracting associates who were making such decisions were personally and professionally attacking me and my credibility as a person and professional. Combine these feelings with some painful losses I had had and well life was a blackened coal in a heap of dying embers.

 Truth be known, this was compounded because I hadn’t mourned the death of some friends. And, I had other anxieties and worries. My Dad had cancer, as did my best friends Bert and Diane. Hell, everyone seemed to be coming down on the bad side of their health and perhaps you can being to understand some sense of my angst.”

 The Old Man took a deep draw of his pipe and the exhaled smoke blew back to us from the ocean breeze. I sat and listened.

 “It wasn’t as if I didn’t have work and billable hours – you know the most important aspects of working for yourself, as a consultant, are those scared billable 60-minutes. The work continued just at a slower pace, the bills could be met, and me and the missus, we didn’t have any kids we weren’t going to starve.

 What I didn’t have — it seemed to me– was my voice, or a way in which to influence, educate, inform, and elucidate the importance of not screwing up such an important undertaking as this land use work project to those assholes in government.

 What I experienced again in my life — I had experienced it before when I worked for the government for almost 20-years. There a lot of stories there. Maybe one day you will want to hear them.”

 “Yes, sir that might be most interesting,” I said as I now was beginning to emphasize with the Old Man having had my share of government contracts myself.

 “It was the damn government and its management pointing the proverbial gun at their foot and beginning to pull back on the trigger once again. Yet, this time my foot also was within striking range and I damn well didn’t like it!

 Days and weeks dragged by while decisions weren’t made and in reality avoided by the ‘will bees,’ that’s the term I used for all the slackers and ‘suck ups’ in government that look out for themselves and have long forgotten they are there to serve the public. Many, not all Son, but many government employees now work to just serve themselves and maintain their own political power.

 You’ve seen it like I have in the IRS, Benghazi, Fast and Furious and Iranian scandals of the recent past.”

 I nodded.

“Commitments to interact and involve the public began to fall to the side when government and contract managers began to realize that the efforts being undertaken could really mean that the taxpayer, the public, the stakeholder — was indeed being asked to speak up and speak out about a subject that could impact them as footers of the government’s bill for years to come.

 ‘My gawd,’ as my dear friend Bob Mundy used to say, we were actually providing a forum for government and its contractor to not just play the game of public participation but to actually participate by listening and responding not in a ‘spin-control’ way but rather in a true problem-solving, conflict resolving mode.”

 He had exaggerated the ‘gawd’ part and drew it out in the style of a typical southerner and I was beginning to get into the story even more. Being from the South, I have always known we are the better storytellers.

 “Before I proceed Son, let me tell you that I recognize that such a mode of operation is foreign to any government agency. Hell, I understand that it makes absolutely no difference what the secretary of such and such department says, or for that matter what a President says — those ‘will bees’ will be there long after any president or secretary is gone. Those ‘will bees’ actually run our government you know? I used to think like a ‘will bee’ and I knew the ‘seemingly powerful position that such a government manager thinks he or she has.”

 In the distance, I could see a cargo ship beginning to make its way into the mouth of the Savannah River. He paused a minute and seemingly collected his thoughts and then continued.

 “However, I had been optimistic enough to believe that maybe, just maybe, government really was changing it stripes. Can you imagine I was ever that wishful?” he chuckled.

 “Now, in reality I should have known that when I was hired as a subcontractor — the last of the food chain and lowest of the low in the contracting business – to ostensibly ‘manage and coordinate’ this project from a community relations viewpoint that the management of such a process was not possible. I had recognized early on the issues, problems and frustration associated with such an untenable position. Eventually, I got myself from the middle of that position and into one where I could provide counsel, consult and practice those skills which I could and did excel at.

 Perhaps, it was the culmination of all this angst, frustration, and bafflement that ultimately led to the feelings that were about to erupt in me. Whatever it was Son, they simmered only briefly and then let me tell you they blew up into an inferno.

 Questions of my self-worth, self-respect, and self-esteem began to haunt my sleep and waking hours. I drank more, now don’t get me wrong I like to drink but then sleep either evaded me or encompassed me, irritability, and anxiety became daily and constant companions.

 Perhaps, it wasn’t until the day that I knew beyond any doubt that the bullets for the gun had to be locked in the storage house outside did I realize how deep a depression I had fallen into.

 “You ever fought that ‘Ole Black Dog’, as Sir Winston Churchill called it?”

 “Yes sir, I sure enough have.”

 “Well Son, that realization – that the ‘Ole Black Dog’ had come to visit, and maybe even stay, came to me one day when I found myself sitting alone in the floor in the guest bedroom gun in hand.”

 The Old Man was looking eastward now and you could tell from the tone of his voice and his demeanor these were old and painful thoughts that fortunately he had not acted upon.

 “I felt and believed for this period of time that I was totally and completely alone, unloved, uncared for, and I was lost. My wife’s presence, nor the two cats we had at that time, or those occasions where our dear friends Robby and Diane suppered with us, well, it didn’t change my feelings one bit. I found it made no difference what I did. I threw myself into what work I could focus on, I wrote some of my feelings down but that got too painful.

At the first of January, I had spent a few days in the hospital that year right after my annual deer hunting trip. The doctor never figured out what was really wrong with me but let me tell you the morphine they gave me for the pain was fine stuff. I began to drift back to that time and think about how cared for I was but that didn’t help stop the spiraling downward depression from relentlessly attacking me like some wild animal bent on taking me down to hell personally.

 Now, Son being the type of person who has never asked for help I found it was no easier when I was in such pain. I called friends under the pretense of checking on them. One night when my wife was gone to a meeting I drank very heavily and called to talk to my ‘brothers in spirit’ Jim and Bert, and my long-time lady friend, who is also a psychologist and therapist dear sweet Marilyn.

 Well, would you know it Jim was out at a meeting, Bert and I visited briefly yet superficially as I couldn’t get down to really telling him what was going on with me, and at Marilyn’s I got a recorded message.

 Still, I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone I needed their help and yet Son I did need help and needed it badly. I couldn’t admit the need to my wife — for the fear that she would see me as weak and immature and lecture me even thought that wouldn’t have been her intent.

 She had warned me that one of the most difficult things I would experience working alone would be the loss of companionship. Those words haunted me as I tried to decide what was best for me, for her and my friends.

 I honestly can tell you that I thought seriously about suicide. This had not been the first time in my life such thoughts had come to me. The other times, as I reflected, all had similar traits to this occasion. I had had similar thoughts as a teenager when my Dad left home and I went to work at thirteen sweeping floors and stoking a furnace, then after my first and only divorce, and after the aborted relationship I had with the married woman while I was single.

 Yes Son, I have stories to tell.

 Each of those times, however, I had been able to talk with someone that I worked with or a friend that was nearby and available that could provide me an objective perspective. This time I felt I had no such outlets. I considered seeking private counseling — something that I have always suggested to my own clients and friends. Yet, my ego wouldn’t allow me the courage to ask for help from a stranger.”

 Grandfather was on the roll now. It was obvious he needed to share this story. He relit his pipe, swatted at a no seeum and continued.

 “Then, one weekend when my wife and I were walking in the woods on the ridge behind Oak Ridge, the home of the atomic bomb — this ‘angel’ appeared in my life.”

 “An angel?”

 “Yes Son to say that this angel saved my life wouldn’t be an understatement. Like many people who experience angels I really didn’t know what to make of the situation. You see, I was scheduled to go on a trip to Vegas on business and frankly I just didn’t feel I had time for an angel or anything else. But it seems the Universe and God had other intentions.

 We called this angel ‘Stempy.’ Although my wife later realized, only after naming him that ‘Stempy’ was the name of a the cat in a cartoon series at that time called ‘Ren and Stempy.’

 His official name became H.J.D. Stempson — at least that is what I told anyone who wanted the ‘official’ name of the angel. That stood for “Happy Jumping Dog Stempson.”

 He brought a totally new meaning of joy, love, compassion and feeling to my life almost instantly. I named him the Chief Financial Officer for our business. I would ask him a question and he would do one bark for “yes” buy it or do it; two barks for “no” let’s take a walk and skip this crap!

 More importantly Son, he provided me a focus and a depth of understanding about myself that had never previously existed.

 Does any of this make sense to you Son?” the Old Man asked.

 “Yes, sir I can say it does.”

 He reached into his pocket and brought out the flask again and offered it. I took a slug this time, as I also was beginning to feel I needed one, the story was becoming more than a parable it had taken a life of its own.

 He polished off the remaining bourbon and wiped the back of his hand across his lips and continued. His eyes were a little misty now. The angels were silent and breathless and all thundering and even the lightning had ceased.

 “You see this dog was a combination — at least in my eyes– of perhaps, wolf, coyote, shepherd, and husky and Son, this dog somehow brought perspective back to my life. Oh, I had dogs as a child — cats too. Yet, as an only child, I always hesitated getting too close to them or any person for fear that they would leave me. I always felt that to provide unconditional love to them would somehow end up hurting me.

 This is not to say that I wasn’t warm and affectionate toward them, as I am toward many of my friends, yet it is to say that I always withheld a small part of me to protect myself. Stempy would bear no quarter in letting me withhold anything. His soulful brown eyes and smiley face captured my heart and wormed its way into my very soul.”

 At this, the Old Man let a tear slip out of his eye. I ignored it and he continued after a bit.

 “You probably think I am an old fool for saying this. Somehow this four-legged angel helped me open up and talk again — if just to him — about those things which troubled me. He helped me to show genuine and uninhibited affection, attention, and generosity. He helped me Son to better understand what sharing of the spirit can mean in feeling okay with yourself. I had for years compartmentalized my feelings and emotions. I had had to. Some of the work I had done for the government in my very young days haunted me at times and my old Sergeant Major had explained that if you didn’t learn to compartmentalize things you would go fucking crazy.”

 I nodded. I got it. I was very clearly understanding.

“I loved this dog unconditionally. Perhaps, more than I ever loved any other dog in my life. He had become my best friend and constant companion. My friend Bert, the old bastard that I hunted with 30-years until he died on me, reminded me at deer camp that year that we shouldn’t get too close to our dogs since ,too often, something happens to them.

 He was right, of course, all things end one way or another and they are not always happy endings. But I wanted to be close to this dog. He listened to me and he didn’t judge me. He showed me respect and kindness and he loved me back unconditionally. Perhaps, the lesson that this funny little angel brought me was one that I have known all along but that needed some serious reinforcement.

 Sometimes in life Son, we must take risks and when we do sometimes we are generously rewarded — we are at all times better for it because we are then and only then fully living life.”

 I realized the Old Man was sharing life lessons, not parables, not just stories but real world life lessons that perhaps we all have to learn and relearn through many different avenues. I also realized that Grandfather had chosen me to tell his tales to and that he was full of much wisdom.

 “The feelings of depression began to ease up when Stempy came into our home. Son, my level of emotion and depth of feeling about life became deeper, I became more appreciative and things became more meaningful than ever.

 Perhaps, I thought to myself Son that I had finally begun the slow and arduous process of forgiving myself for not being the perfect son, soldier, friend and husband.

 Perhaps, I thought, maybe, just maybe I had recognized through this dog that life is too short to not live it too its fullest; that laughing, crying and feeling the depths of my emotional world were okay.

 And, maybe I thought, that I was learning that at 45 years old there was much more to life than just trying to make money, stay up with the ‘Joneses’, and be something that I was never cut out to be.

Son, it is these life lessons that Stempy helped bring into perspective for me. You may say that it was all part of going through the ‘middle age’ crisis. As I said, I was after all in my forties. Maybe it was. Yet, somewhere within me I know that angels do come in all shapes and sizes and sometimes they are a funny little dog that makes you smile and laugh.

 Of course, Son the time came when I had to put my old friend down. It was one of the hardest and saddest days of my life.”

 The Old Man began to weep. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He took out his bandanna, took off his glasses and he wiped his eyes. His voice broke more than once and for a while he couldn’t continue.

 I sat there and remained quiet and respectful. I put my hand on Grandfather’s shoulder and tears came to my own eyes. I had been there myself and I knew how this felt. This was one of those rare times in life when I could offer not just sympathy; I could also truly empathize.

 After a while, the Old Man reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. It was a bulging old leather bi-fold with a rubber band around it. It reminded me of the one my own Grandfather had carried all his life. It appeared that all the treasures of the Old Man’s life were housed there.

He took out a well- worn and folded postal card that had obviously been used as a Christmas card and there in all the glory of his days sat the Old Man, his wife and two dogs.

“That little fellow there. He was Stempy’s best buddy – Little Bit – a story for another day.”

I looked closely and a smiling bischon looked back at me along with the Old Man’s wife, who was rather stunning and smiling broadly. In front of the man in the photo, he was about 50 at the time lay a wolf, husky, shepherd mix of a dog that I swear was grinning a bigger grin than the Old Man.

“There are some things in life you never get over,” the Old Man intoned, “Your first true love and in my case the angel without any wings. The day I had to take him to the vet I tried to bribe him.”

He looked at me with the saddest eyes I had ever seen.

“That dog and me we used to sneak off and have ice cream or a burger now and then. We didn’t let the missus know. Just him and me, we would load up in my old truck and sneak off. He loved vanilla ice cream. So, a block away from the vet and his fate I pulled into a Hardees and bought a cup of ice cream. Two scoops of soft vanilla. I pulled to the side and backed in my truck and offered him a big spoonful. I figured if he would eat that spoonful that it would be a sign that I could turn the truck around and take him back home. But he just looked at me with those big ole brown sad eyes as if to say, ‘We both know old friend it is time for me to go home.’”

The Old Man sat there for what seemed to be very long times silently weeping his shoulders sagging and heaving with each breathe. Finally, composing himself he looked at me.

“I knew and he knew.”

The Old Man took his time and composed himself. He put the old card back in his wallet. He relit his pipe and looked out at the ocean and sighed.

“Yes, Son like you I come to the ocean to heal myself of all the sadness I’ve experienced but I also come to remember all those wonderful times in my life.”

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