Good Christmas story: A Very Important Person
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A Very Important Person
By Lea MacDonald -
11-16-00
After publishing a query edition of a newspaper I wished to distribute throughout a small township area in Ontario, Canada, I received a phone call from a woman who suggested I was missing an opportunity for other human interest stories by not talking with folks at local nursing-homes. She was right, of course. The following is the condensed story about Max, 'A Very Important Person.'
In advance of my visit with these golden citizens, the nursing-home staff agreed to tell anyone who allowed me to visit with them that I had asked to speak with a very important person. They further agreed to record the facial expressions and comments these folks made when they were informed that a reporter wanted to speak with a "very important person."
I arrive at the home and walk to the common area as I had been instructed. A nurse is waiting with a man in a wheelchair. She nods to me indicating this was the man who had been chosen.
His white hair is combed neatly back to the right above a baby face, which projects an aura of childlike innocence. "Hi, I'm Max," he says in a quiet voice extending a soft, well-manicured hand. The nurse pushes his wheelchair forward so we can shake. "Hello Max, I'm Lea and I'm pleased to meet you."
"Please forgive me, I was not always crippled." Max looks like a child sincerely asking forgiveness for having done something wrong. I smile politely and nod as we walk to a small meeting room off the main hall - the nurse leaves.
"Do you know why you're here, Max?" Max straightens in his chair; his face adopts a serious look. "I'm here because you asked to speak with a very important person." His eyebrows arch with a look asking if he gave the correct answer.
"That's right, Max. I believe everyone has a story to tell and I like to write those stories. Is that okay with you?" His look relaxes with a smile. He softly says, "Oh God, I'm flattered."
Max easily opened up and shared his story. In the weeks to come I would soon understand that many within the home yearned to share their lives -- their hopes, dreams, loves, regrets and triumphs.
"Start wherever you like, Max. Tell me about yourself." Max blinks in quick rhythm. "Oh, me. I have wanted to tell people about my life for some time now. They don't seem to listen long. Now that someone wants to listen, I don't know what to say."
Max frowns; his eyes narrow. He looks distressed -- as though he feels I will leave. I smile reassuringly. "I have all day, Max. Perhaps if I ask you a few questions, will that will help?" Max relaxes again, "Oh yes, that would be good."
How old are you?" "I'm seventy-six." "What did you do for a living, Max?" "I started as a boat-builder at the Henry Boat Works. I left there and moved on to building canoes. I left there and found the best job in the world -- I was a fireman for the railroad. I worked on the steam engines; I fired the engines." There is an unmistakable pride - if not longing - in his voice. "I loved the railroad," he says softly. "I wrote my tests in Toronto, you know, when we went from steam to diesel. I never saw it as the old, dying, but as something new, coming." He tightens his grip on the wheelchair armrests and he stares out the window. "Yes, those were the days," he says in a distant voice. His grip gradually relaxes -- perhaps from a coal-shovel held for an instant in a memory of thundering down the tracks in darkness . . . clicketly, click, clicketly, click . . . sitting in the bowels of a flaming, steam swollen behemoth feeding it shovels of food to keep its appetite and blood pressure just under control.
"Tell me about your dad, Max." "Oh, my father could make me laugh. He would do something called the soft-shoe-shuffle. He would hold his hands straight by his sides and make his feet go really fast, then he'd spin around." Max giggles as his hand circles, animating his recollection.
"How about your mother?" "She made the best homemade bread and candy. One year she dressed up as Santa Claus. Dad went along with it but, we knew . . . we were really happy about her doing that."
"Would you ever tell a child there was no Santa Claus?" Max reverts to a serious look; he frowns. "Oh, no. He is the spirit of giving. Why destroy such a spirit before it can be replaced with understanding? Children will grow up soon enough, they should be allowed to be children."
"Do you have any regrets, Max?" "Yes, I have one great regret. I never married." I smile, saying, "Max, some would suggest that is a blessing." Max giggles. "I wanted to get married and have 4 children." "Why 4, Max?" "It's an even number," Max replies in a voice suggesting the answer should be obvious. He breaks into uproarious laughter -- I can't help but chuckle.
I ask Max what this Christmas will hold for him. "I will get some presents," he says enthusiastically. "I will get mitts and shoes for the snow. My brother, Bill, will come and take me for the day. He will buy me a hamburger. Then we will go to the airport and watch planes land. I can't go to his house, he has no ramp -- I like watching the planes."
I sense a change in Max.'s demeanor. His comments are childlike and innocent. He continues.
"I have 4 brothers. Three are still alive. I'm not sure if my mother, father, and my brother Frank are still alive. I wasn't at the funeral so I don't know." Max seems oblivious to the paradox his statement has raised. I think about asking how they could be alive when he knew a funeral had taken place. He asks: "Could you find out where they have been?" His look is sincere a profound innocence in his voice.
Quickly, in a desperate attempt to hide my sorrow, I hold my thumb and forefinger to my eyes. "My eyes get tired while writing," I say. "I think I need new glasses." Still trying to recover, I blurt another question: "When was the last time you saw them?" In my rush to deflect his attention from my obvious sorrow, I realized I had just asked a question that carried an answer which I intuitively knew.
"It's been years now, I think. They are probably busy -- I miss them."
His voice is sad and distant. My heart silently shatters. Any attempt at hiding my sorrow is now lost. "My eyes get tired like that, too," he says softly, "when I think of mother and father and Frank."
I leave him at the cafeteria -- after a promise to return. As I drive home my thoughts of Max are interrupted by several stops on the shoulder of the road -- my eyes keep getting tired.