With much regret I admit that I cannot recount the full extent of Harold's life
for I only met him toward the end of his days. Late into a gentle spring, on
the outskirts of Santa Cruz, California, our first meeting occurred completely
by chance, if you believe in such a thing.
In those years I was in the habit of taking my dog, Jake, for long strolls,
morning and evening, through a small but very well kept park. Aspen, cypress,
and pine trees populated the park, mingling throughout the grassy areas
interwoven by meandering pathways. Situated just a block away from the top
floor apartment I rented at the time, it was quite convenient. Something about
beginning the day with a serene walk through that small haven of greenery amidst
the hustle and bustle of a quasi-city opened a valve for life within me.
That morning I happened to be passed by an older gentleman dressed in gray
sweatpants, a red baseball jacket without an official insignia, and some
well-worn, black leather shoes. Though unsure of the man's age, the gray hair
atop his head was cut short-spiked, in fact. An old pair of black plastic
rimmed glasses adorned his lightly reddened face. Surprise overtook me for two
reasons, first that he passed me on the path, as my pace was by no means
befitting a turtle. Second, as I knew most of the residents living around the
park, I didn't recognize him.
He moved with a rare determination and alacrity. The key to that rarity would
not be revealed until much later. As he moved ahead I also noticed that he
seemed to be affected with some sort of peculiar body movements, most memorably,
twitching of his hands. His gait was erratic as if he had lost some muscular
control, but this he compensated with concentration.
Fifteen minutes later I came upon him on the path again but this time he was
sitting on a bench well placed amongst the trees where sunlight shone through in
a twenty-foot region to spread its warmth. He read a small piece of paper that
had type written text on both the front and back.
He looked up as I approached his position alongside the path. A smile crossed
his stubbled face as his hands shook somewhat uncontrollably from whatever
ailment
possessed his body. We spoke in casual terms about the dog's age and demeanor.
I watched him stroke Jake with an uncertain hand, as if an unusual fear gripped
him. At this point, I didn't think anything about the tentativeness other than
it was an unfamiliar animal.
Not wanting to impose my pet or my presence in his solitude, I offered a good
morning and was on my way. Not until after I had departed his company I
realized there was something remarkable about him. So remarkable, I could not
put my finger on it, though I certainly felt it. This intrigued me and each
morning thenceforth I set out in hopes of an encounter.
My hopes were dashed for several weeks, as the pleasure of acquaintance eluded
me. In fact, the day I had resigned myself to be satisfied with the mystery of
his unknown character, he reappeared. We were both walking upon the path that
led to the bench where I had spoken with him before. Again the sun radiated us
with generous warmth and kindness. The aroma of summer lingered in the gentle
breeze that ruffled my brown curly locks.
At a short distance we nodded to each other and I realized I had been so taken
with him in the previous discourse that I'd forgotten the courtesy of
introduction. Hence, I immediately introduced Jake and myself to the man, who
told me his name, Harold J. Stonewall. I noticed the dryness of his hands as we
shook. He invited me to sit with him on the bench as he had been walking for a
time and was in need of a rest. Just prior to greeting I had observed that his
erratic walk seemed a bit worse, but I didn't dare ask what was wrong.
As we sat side by side, he looked up at the sky, letting the sun's rays bask his
face in the golden light. Gentle weather had finally come. In fact, the summer
solstice had just passed. He exuded a genuine appreciation for all that was
alive around him, not that he spoke of all he observed. With an unusual
alertness his eyes said as much.
After telling of my position at the local university, teaching classic
study-Greek and Roman history with a smattering of language, I asked about him.
He began to tell me of his life, which had begun in the heartland of the country
in a tough urban area. At ten, he knew he wanted to be an actor. After viewing
the latest Sunday matinees, he and his friends would often imagine themselves as
famous actors, creating new scenes and dialogue.
'Since I was poor,' added Harold, 'my friends would buy their tickets and then
open the side door for me to sneak in.'
His face still expressed pain as he told me of the beating he received from his
father when he had shared his desire for the stage with him. It was the first
and last time he ever mentioned it to his father.
Despite his secret ambition, at sixteen he followed his father's footsteps
directly into the automobile factory as an assembly line worker. Though settled
in repetitive heavy labor, sometimes working side by side with his father, he
still lived the dream of acting in his head as often as he could, but not with
the feeling of hope that graces someone who might actually live that life.
'My dream was just that, something I could wish for but not enjoy,' he said, the
corners of his mouth like a sad clown without makeup.
Then one day, five years into his indenture as an assemblyman, Jann, a healthy
young lad from Sweden, came running over to Harold and motioned for him to come
quickly. Following his friend, Harold arrived just in time. His father lay
face up on the cold concrete floor next to his welding gun. Harold knelt down,
his ear close to his father's mouth. He heard his father's last words: 'Take
care of your Mum for me.' Then, with his welder's helmet still on his head and
the face guard up, the flutter of his father's eyes ceased with a final
heartbeat. Later, the coroner informed the family he had suffered a massive
heart attack, even though only forty six years old.
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