by Edward Fays
“Chester, and thank you for the hospitality, sir.”
“You’re welcome, Chester, it’s been my pleasure,” I said, aware that another gentleman was patiently waiting for a shine and perhaps a subtle boost of self-confidence. Taking a seat, I watched Chester work his magic with a few more customers before he retreated down the hallway, out of sight.
Arriving in Atlanta five hours later, my shoes were still gleaming. Marching toward the baggage claim, I passed a shoeshine man buffing up a pair of black cowboy boots. Four dollars? I wondered. I didn’t know the price, but I’m sure when that cowboy dropped his wooden heels to the floor and his boots sparkled beneath his Wrangler jeans, he swaggered away with more confidence than he’d come with.
How clearly do we see things, circumstances, situations, other people, our world? Perhaps Chester was so wise because it’s easier to see things when they shine. Maybe too many of us view the world through clouds of preconceived ideas and opinions we accept as true. As I hoisted my bag off the carousel, I couldn’t help but wonder, What would happen if we all “shined on” and saw the world sparkling before our eyes?
P.S. Chester, since you read so much, I hope that one day this book is resting in your hands and you discover the impact you had on me. And by the way, it’s been over a month and I just gazed at my shoes—and they still look great. Thanks for the shine.
Inspired by CHESTER,
last name unknown
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WARMTH AND WISDOM
Uncovering the morsels of timeless wisdom that warm our hearts and nurture our spirits
Foresight. It’s the ability to anticipate the future so we can make better decisions in the present. From renowned business leaders to bashful children beginning their first day of kindergarten, everyone is eager to learn and none of us can advance without the insight we receive from those who came before us. The people who know the most about life—its possibilities, its heartaches, and everything in between—share their wisdom and show, by example, how each of us can better prepare for our future.
The End of Innocence
I’m ashamed to admit it, but I was one of the kids in school people loved to hate. My friends and I were part of the “in crowd,” with a warped sense of self-importance, making us feel that the normal rules of decorum did not apply. Most kids were friendly to us, preferring to stay on our good side, but I can’t say the reverse was true: There were always one or two whom we targeted for insults, mocking them for our own entertainment.
One of our victims was Walter—we called him Wally. I can see him now as if I were looking right at him, an awkward model in an art class I was told to sketch. The gawky curves of his face studded with pimples, the bulbous nose with the flared nostrils, the ears that looked like lapels, and the tangled locks of hair that he always brushed away from his eyes. While everyone else nonchalantly carried one or two books, Wally lugged a stack in his hands or strapped them in a sack slung over his shoulders. He teetered when he walked, the weight of those books rocking him from side to side.
My friend Vinnie fingered Wally the first day of school, putting gum inside the combination scrambler on his locker and knocking books from his hands. We’d laugh and watch as Wally ran up the stairs into the boy’s bathroom, trying to fight back the tears.
He sat in the last seat of the last row, behind everyone else, where roaming eyes couldn’t gaze upon him. He wore the same clothes to school each day: a ragged brown pair of Hush Puppy shoes, a white button-down shirt with a dingy collar, and a pair of matted brown corduroy pants with horizontal creases every few inches from waist to cuff. The pants looked as if they’d been crammed into an old steamer trunk for twenty years and finally removed when he slipped them on without throwing them in the wash.
He delivered newspapers on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings. I’d see him sometimes when he stopped in front of my house. It was always an awkward moment, pretending we didn’t see each other although we were aware of each other’s presence. I felt like a jerk during those encounters, laughing at him during school and watching from the corner of my eye as he stuffed a newspaper into my parents’ mailbox that afternoon. He tried to hurry away, pedaling furiously but never getting far. The rusty old bike he rode—with a missing rear fender and a chain that unfastened every few minutes—made a quick getaway impossible. The papers he delivered always had a few black smudges from the grease he got on his hands while looping the chain over the teeth of the bike crank.
Staring at him as he pedaled away, his upper body leaning over the handlebars, standing instead of sitting, his dirty white shirt flapping in the breeze over his bony torso, I thought about the firecrackers my friends and I sometimes hurled at him during school—those stinging words about the clothes he wore and his homely appearance. But one day Wally didn’t come to school and a new kid delivered the paper that afternoon. What happened to Walter? I wondered. Suddenly I was using his real name and realized I didn’t even know his last name. And I couldn’t help but feel regret for the harsh words my friends and I had launched in his direction.
Years later, long after I’d lost touch with my pals from high school and Walter had faded from memory, I moved to a new neighborhood with my family. It was a difficult transition, especially for my son, Hank, who was beginning his sophomore year in a new high school. He came home the first day and barricaded himself in his room. Things went on like that for a while before he finally opened up, telling me about the kids at school and how they were mocking him—the new kid with the braces and ugly haircut. My stomach churned as the memories of my youth came spinning toward me. I remembered the guys I’d hung around with and Walter, the kid we taunted mercilessly. Now my son had been cast in that dreadful role.
The things other kids mocked my son about—his braces and haircut—I never even noticed. All I saw when I looked at him was a young man whom I was proud to call my son. I couldn’t help but think that Walter’s dad must have felt the same way, so many years ago. The teasing continued even after Hank’s braces came off and I got him an expensive haircut instead of taking him to my nine-dollar barber. It seemed the taunting even got worse after that, for a little while. Hank had tried to change his image and was being punished for it. The other kids had pinned him in a cage, refusing to let him out.
I never told Hank, but I went to see his teacher, Mr. Simmons, asking if there was anything that could be done.
“Mr. Fitch,” he said, “when parents come to see me they only want to know if their son or daughter is working diligently. Many of them forgot how hard it is growing up. The algebra test I’ll give next week, most of the kids will forget how to do those equations by next year. What they’ll remember, what will stay with them throughout their lives, is how they were treated by their classmates, and not all kids will have pleasant memories. Hank is a good student and a good boy and although I discipline the kids in my class I cannot monitor everything they say. I’ve been teaching for a long time and believe that the most important thing for young people to learn is to believe in themselves. That’s where you come in.”
“But what these kids are saying is destroying Hank’s self-esteem! I can see it. He’s not the same boy he used to be,” I said.
“My son was the same way in high school,” replied Mr. Simmons. “The other kids rode him, looking for any excuse to tease him. My wife was sick at the time and we didn’t have money to buy new clothes so my son was forced to wear the same outfit to school each day. The other kids ridiculed him, tearing down his self-confidence, so at night, when he came home, I helped build him back up again. He got a job and studied hard in school. I told him he could do anything with his life and those other kids, one day they would be a distant memory. I’ve got a grandson now, about Hank’s age, and I’m helping build walls of confidence for him, too.”
“I’ll do my best to build up Hank’s confidence at home but he’s the one who has to attend school each day and bear the brunt of those remarks.” Standin
g there I couldn’t help but think, Why can’t everyone see the goodness in him that I see? I introduce him to people I meet and state with pride, “This is my boy.” “Thank you,” I said, and turned to leave.
“I understand how you feel,” said Mr. Simmons. “Allow me to introduce my son to you. Here’s his picture. He faced the same challenges as a boy that Hank is facing now. Feeling out of place, the target of jokes and harsh words from fellow students. But today he’s a respected doctor, a proud husband and father, my best friend. Stand by your son the way I stood by mine, Mr. Fitch, and build those walls together.”
I took the photo, grasping the frame in both hands. Staring hard at the picture, I saw a confident-looking man. But then, after a moment, I slowly began to see the awkward curves of his face, minus the pimples. The bulbous nose with the flared nostrils, the ears that looked like lapels, and—although not as long as they used to be—the tangled locks of hair he always brushed away from his eyes. I was staring at Walter. His name embroidered on the white jacket he was wearing said it all: WALTER PATRICK SIMMONS, M.D. I clenched my mouth shut, fighting desperately not to say, Mr. Simmons, I was one of the boys who teased your son in high school. Instead, I thanked Mr. Simmons for his time, thrust the photo back into his hands, and rushed out of the classroom, tripping over the leg of a desk along the way. Across the hall I shoved open the door to the boys’ bathroom and cried. I cried for the way I was as a boy: Too weak to stand on my own, I hid in the crowd. I cried for Walter and Mr. Simmons and the nights he had stood talking to a locked bedroom door trying to console his son, the same way I was trying to help Hank today. And I cried because the kid I mocked as a boy, the one whom I thought wouldn’t amount to anything, had suddenly become a source of inspiration for me, and the type of person that I hoped my son would one day become.
Inspired by HANK FICH
Reflections on the Passage of Time
I was clamoring away at the computer keyboard when I felt your hand laid gently upon my shoulder. You leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Edward, I love you. It’s great seeing you this week.”
I stopped my tapping to say, “I love you, too.” I let you know that it was great seeing you, and with that, you idly turned away and paced back to your room.
Looking at you, I could see that you didn’t have to lean over much to whisper in my ear. You’ve gotten a little shorter from the last time I saw you. You always joked that you were shrinking, and now I see it’s true. You’re a little more hunched over than you were a few years ago. And your steps are more a slide than a walk. Maybe the arthritis in your knees prevents you from picking up your feet. But all the signs of age don’t change the way I feel about you, Grandma. I just love you more each day.
If I said that you’d aged gracefully, you’d scoff at me and laugh. I’d explain that it’s your attitude that has enabled you to age gracefully. You maintain the same sense of humor you had twenty years ago. I bet you’ve got the same need to tell jokes now at eighty that you had when you were twenty. That’s why you’ve aged like a fine wine.
You’ve said that you’ve lived a simple life, but a good one. You fell in love with a wonderful man and were married to him for forty-two years before he died. Earlier, when we enjoyed a quiet lunch together, you told me that it wouldn’t be long now. I knew what you meant, but I didn’t want to hear it. I brushed off your comment and said, “Grandma, you’ve got another twenty years.”
You giggled and said, “In twenty years you’ll have to carry me around.”
Our laughter was followed by a moment of silence. You gazed outside at the wind blowing through the trees and my attention was caught by the sound of the TV—it was turned to CNBC, and the talk was of the stock market. “The Dow was down fifty-three …”
I looked back and saw you enjoying the view. The breakneck pace of Wall Street and the stress of the traders on the floor were in stark contrast to you sitting peacefully on the sundeck. The traders anticipate what will happen by the closing bell at four o’clock, but for you the hours on the clock no longer matter—time has a more profound meaning.
You glanced back at me and said, “There are some things I would have liked to do with my life, but my life had other plans for me.” I softly nodded my head, letting you know I understood. Daily commitments prevented you from pursuing a dream. I sensed a slight amount of disappointment in your voice. I guess every life has a few regrets.
As you sat there, Grandma, I learned a lot from you. Even when you weren’t saying anything, I learned things just by studying your face and your eyes. I couldn’t do that with someone who hadn’t lived as many years as you. We don’t see each other often, so I see the changes in you. I joke that you’ve got another twenty years, but I know it’s not true. Part of me feels that I should move closer to you, but I’ve built a life for myself and just can’t pick up and move, so I visit as often as I can.
I’m in my thirties now, Grandma, and love you more than when I was a little boy. Often it seems that as children grow up and their grandparents slow down, the relationship starts to wane. That didn’t happen to us. I’m thankful, because a strong relationship with you has truly enriched my life. I love you, Grandma.
I saw you getting up and asked if there was anything I could get you. You said thank you, but no. As long as you can do things yourself you will do them. I watched you walk away—your body hunched over and your feet sliding along the floor. I laughed to myself and thought, Luckily, she has linoleum.
As if you knew I was watching, you turned and gave me a wink. It was your way of saying I may not win any races, but I’ll get there and I’m doing just fine. As you cautiously turned the corner, I said to myself, I love you, Grandma. I really do love you.
Inspired by MARY COLUCCI
Travel Companions
Speech! Speech!” It was my grandfather Raymond Whistler’s ninetieth birthday party. We were in the midst of a blowout bash celebrating a wonderful man and the remarkable life he had lived. The ninety candles on the cake looked like a bonfire burning, but with the enthusiastic help of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, the flames were snuffed out and only hints of smoke emanating from the blackened wicks remained. It was an appropriate setting. The smoldering candles that had burned luminously a moment ago reminded me of my grandfather. He still had fire in his eyes but the light was slowly extinguishing.
The crowd of friends and family chanted for him to make a speech. Ray, as everyone called him, always had a few witty things to share, and everyone hoped to glean a little wisdom from this exceptional man. “Speech! Speech!” they demanded. Ray slowly raised his hand and a hush fell over everyone’s lips. He smiled and began …
“Many hands are involved in the creation of a life. Each one of you has touched and molded me in some way, and I am grateful. I could not have reached this milestone if it weren’t for the support and love I received from family and friends over the years.
“My mother and father traveled to this country when I was a baby. The hurdles they overcame on their journey have allowed me to stand here before you. They guided me as a child; as an adult I sought their advice. I keep the memory of them close to my heart. When the roads diverged before me and I was unsure of which route to travel I always asked, What would Mom and Dad do? After that, my decision was easy.
“You, me, each of us, we are never alone. We go through life with “Travel companions.” These are the people with whom we share time and who have helped shape us into the individuals we have become. There are also the guardian angels who look over us. I feel the presence of my mom and dad watching over me and hear their words whispering in my mind. Life is a journey, and it’s one we cannot travel alone.
“Scanning the room, I see many faces that don’t look like they’ve been around as long as mine. I guess that makes me the oldest one here. It also means I’ve made more mistakes than anyone in the room. Perhaps that’s why people always ask me so many questions. They figure I’ve been around so long I�
�ve probably made every mistake there is, so based on the process of elimination I must have all the right answers.
“The fact is, I have come to a point in my life where I know that I don’t know very much. At twenty, I thought I knew everything. Now, at ninety, I know that I know very little. You might want to jot that down; it’s sure to be the smartest thing I’ll say this evening.
“I have been blessed with a loving family and great friends and remind myself of that fact during times when I feel desperate and alone. I hope you do the same. We will all stand under the sunshine of success and the rain of failure during our tenure here on earth. Success is sweeter when we have people to share it with and failure is easier to overcome when we have people to lean on. Recognize your travel companions: They are the ones who stick with you through the seasons of life. We owe them a debt of gratitude, for without their support our lives would be stripped of the things we treasure the most—love, camaraderie, and happiness. They are the ones who make life worth living and help us become better people than we ever could be on our own.”
A small fan club waited to give Ray a hug and wish him a happy birthday as he finished his speech. He’s traveled farther than the rest of us, I thought, and the way some people look at a child, innocent and unknowing, is perhaps the way he sees most of the people in this room. Ray has already been the age that I am now, and therefore knows some of what lies ahead for me. I see my wife, Sarah, talking with a friend and I wonder what Ray thinks of when he sees us together. Opportunities to grasp, struggles yet to face, heartache to endure. Sarah has been my travel companion for a few years now, just a short span of time. So I smile and blow a kiss her way as I step in line, the last person waiting to speak with Ray this evening. I want to wish him a happy birthday, but I’ve also got a lot of questions and don’t want anyone standing behind me. Ray is a travel companion of mine who has already journeyed down many of the roads I have yet to take. I know there will be plenty of things I’ll have to figure out on my own, but the same way Ray reflects upon his parents for advice, in the years to come it will be his voice I hear during the times when I feel lost and alone.
