Springtime in New York City--my first apartment; a new, good-paying job; and a great-looking, new girlfriend--it couldn't get much better than that. In fact, I felt so good, so magnanimous, I decided to share my happiness with others. Helping someone less fortunate seemed the noble thing to do. Following a friend's example, I volunteered with the Lighthouse for the Blind. The volunteer coordinator explained they needed help with an outreach program for elderly, recently-blinded shut-ins. Telling myself I'd bring a little joy to some unfortunate senior citizen, I agreed. The night before my first meeting with “the shut-in” my girlfriend and I had a big fight. She left; I sulked. Next morning, a Saturday, found me dragging myself to meet this “shut-in” person, but my generous mood had evaporated. Instead of sleeping I'd spent most of the night reliving the fight. Cranky and saturated with self-pity, a root canal seemed preferable to visiting some old blind man. Charlie lived in a rough section of Manhattan--the Lower Eastside--very low, very east. Dodging delirious winos, occasionally crossing the street to avoid desperate-looking drug addicts, I trudged toward our first meeting. Getting closer to the address, I tried to imagine what Charlie looked like. The coordinator said he was very old. At 23, I considered anyone 65 to be ready for The Dirt Nap. Charlie, I'd been told, was older than that. “Great,” I muttered on my wino-strewn walk, “he's probably senile too.” Resigned to a lost Saturday morning, I promised myself I'd call the Lighthouse first thing Monday. By then I'd think of a really good excuse to free myself and my Saturday mornings. Climbing crumbling steps to his run-down building, I began the ascent to his sixth floor apartment. No elevator. After several loud knocks on the graffiti-covered metal door, shuffling sounds signaled his approach. Through a narrow gap allowed by the thick chain a face appeared. I gasped silently, “This guy's older than God!” Cataract-clouded eyes, wispy white hair, he was ancient. Charlie ushered me into his small but surprisingly tidy apartment. It looked better than mine, and I could see. Conversation soon revealed that Charlie wasn't 65, he was 65 years older than I was--Charlie was 88. He'd been my age during Teddy Roosevelt's administration. Sitting on a slightly musty sofa reminded me of my grandparents' apartment. My favorite, my mother's father, had died more than a dozen years before. He'd told me stories, took me to the circus, but unlike my parents he never lectured me. Cancer claimed him before I reached high school. Sitting in Charlie's apartment reminded me of how much I missed my grandfather. Small talk, the lubrication of first encounters, soon became biography. Gazing toward a window, Charlie told me how cataracts had stolen his vision. A sudden massive stroke had robbed him of his wife of 60 years not more than ten months before. The shock of losing her had yet to wear thin. For the first few moments each morning, Charlie said, he was still surprised by her absence. As I tried to imagine the tragedy of his life, Charlie explained how fortunate he'd been to have such a wonderful marriage for so long. His clouded eyes seemed to brighten as he reminisced over the way he met his wife at a friend's surprise birthday party. Already working at sea, he'd not expected to be ashore for the occasion. A wonderful surprise, he said, eclipsed only by her unexpected death. “I'd be suicidal if that happened to me,” I thought. “Blind and a dead wife? Ya gotta be kidding.” As I tried to imagine what he must feel like living with such pain, Charlie turned toward me. And then, as if sensing my uneasiness, he smiled gently in my direction. That first day as Charlie held onto my arm we visited his barber, had lunch and walked more than he had since his wife's funeral. Charlie'd outlived everybody. Friends and relatives were all gone with the exception of one remaining son who lived in California. As we walked, we talked. Charlie spun tales of his youth, working on ships, exotic foreign ports that until then he'd only read about, his abiding love for the sea--especially at daybreak when it seemed as if ship and ocean were all his own. Lost in his memories, Charlie wistfully recalled standing at the ship's prow, powerful engines vibrating the metal beneath his feet, the silence of the approaching day broken only by the sounds of hungry gulls. Charlie described scenes etched deeply in a mind now deprived of sight. And, of course, Charlie told me about life with the woman he'd loved for more than a sixty years. The woman he had loved even more than the sea. Time slipped-by. My agreed-upon one-hour visit stretched to three. Charlie was a wonderful storyteller, but more than that--no matter what life event he shared, no matter how sad I thought it sounded, he didn't complain. Charlie looked at life in a way that never occurred to me--he was wise in a way that only some of those who think deeply about their experiences become wise. By the time I left him that afternoon--eventually he needed his nap--my self-pity had vanished. Actually, by that time, my whining about any of my troubles seemed petty. Monday arrived, but I never did call the Lighthouse. Visits with Charlie became the high point of my week. His stories always put things in perspective--without ever giving me advice directly. Life's full of surprises, Charlie often said. And I knew that to be true, as never before, on that Saturday morning many years ago. |
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Bill Asenjo is a PhD. Candidate in Counselor Education with a minor in Aging Studies at the University of Iowa. He entered this winning essay to our competition which demonstrates an insightful situation he experienced 25 years ago. Bill’s life has been filled with insightful circumstances. His account of his experience with multiple brain tumor surgeries appeared in “Personal Transformation” magazine last summer. He says, “Ironically the brain tumor experience proved to be an unanticipated blessing; afterwards I began college as a 37-year-old freshman.” He adds that writing for people other than professors keeps him sane as he struggles to complete his doctorate. |
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GROWTH--FOR AUTHOR AND READER: Bill won 1st Honors for this essay in our summer 1999 writing competition. Like many people, Bill had met a special person who changed his outlook. In his desire to express that experience to readers, he wisely chose to open by showing himself prior to that enlightenment. By letting the reader see the growth process in Bill, it allows the reader a chance to grow also. Too many writers use essays to "preach" the insights they have found in life to their readers. The wise writer, like Bill Asenjo, shows his own ignorance at the start of an essay. Readers will appreciate this act of humility. Even more important, readers find a "story" within the essay that will carry the message home to their hearts. |
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