Hero Worship

A friend of mine has a 12 year old daughter who is absolutely enamored with the recently arrested Justin Bieber.  I received the most daggerous look when I opined that he was a terrible singer.   Okay, maybe he isn't "terrible," but he doesn't sing from the soul.

Kids today have significantly less interaction with real people as they are too mired in the fake world of the internet and Facebook.  This was so painfully obvious during church last Sunday when my soloist must have texted a dozen times and took three selfies of herself. 

The youth of today idolize anyone who gets air time or who is idolized by others; they are very much lemmings to pop culture.  Anyone who can discern two pitches would not idolize Bieber as a musician but, kids do because he is who their peers idolize.

When *I* was a kid, I had a lot of idols; The vegetable man who came twice a week in his truck selling his own farm grown vegetables and fruits.  He always gave us kids free samples as dozens of neighbors descended upon his truck when he parked on our street.  The butcher at the slaughterhouse would also give us free samples of his honey, cheese and hot dogs.  The garbage man who drove his own truck and picked up the trash by hand was an inspiration as he looked like He-Man from all the real life manual labor her relentlessly performed on his daily route. There was no need for him to have a gym membership.   Ed the cop who was always walking the streets and talking to people was a person of awe, also. Everyone seemed to enjoy seeing him and he got everything for free as he entered the stores and coffee shops.

I grew up on a lake and we kids always swam at an open area near the dam because that is where most of the land locked people swam (until the public pay beach owner convinced the town to blockade that section - as it attracted undesirable people from the city - but it was okay if they paid to swim at her beach).  One frequent visitor was Earl who was the town historian and he would tell us stories of the town and its people.  He riveted us with tales of who died in which house, which houses had tunnels or hidden chambers and which denizens became famous or infamous.  There was also old man Wilson who used to travel with the circus and at the age of 80 could still perform magic tricks to amaze and amuse.

All these people had two things in common; they were hard workers who provided a good example of dedication and love for what they did; and they were real. They interacted with the community.  They provided services and loved to share those services with everyone.  Kids don't experience that today because their faces are glued to things like the fictional world of Facebook - a breeding ground for stalking and pretending you have a life. 

So, those were my heroes not because they rescued anyone from burning buildings or died fighting in a war or stood on a stage, but they were real.  Bieber is real but he probably could care less about his individual fans and although you may be entertained by his music and antics, he has significantly less impact on our lives than the people who live in our neighborhoods and provide food, heat, shelter, stories, inspiration and care.  It seems that only when a community experiences widespread disaster do they recognize what is important and real.

A public hero of mine is Oscar Peterson.  Not only was he one of the world's greatest jazz musicians, but he suffered persecution, hate, ostrasization and unfair treatment because of the color of his skin.  Rarely did he recoil from prejudice.  He faced it, stood against it and demanded equality.  He didn't always get it but he didn't quit, either.  Although he had every right to be an angry black man, he wasn't.  He knew that the art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook.  He was very much "color blind," too.  As a teenager, I didn't even know he was black until someone pointed that out to me.  I didn't look at Oscar differently, I did view that other person differently, though.  As they say in the constructed language of the fictional Na'vi, "Oel ngati kameie."

If only the young could realize how soon they will become mere walking bundles of habits, they would give more heed to their conduct while in the elastic state.  Not a single one of them will turn fifty wishing they spent more time idolizing Justin Bieber.

Nat The Soldier

Over the past thirty years I have met many men who served our country during World War Two.  What treasures they are.  I have recently been blessed to make the acquaintance of an 85 year old man named Nat who was drafted right out of high school to serve in the army at the age of 17.

He recalled to me about a day while on patrol in France; As they were walking down a dirt road, he curiously noticed dust flying up around him.  He couldn't make sense of it when he suddenly realized that they were being shot at from a distance.  The shooter was so far away that they couldn't hear the gunfire.  He yelled,  “Hey, they’re shooting at us.”  Everybody hit the ground.  Pinned down by enemy fire, Nat could feel the bullets penetrating the ground beneath him.  They guy in front of him yelled “Mother, I’m hit.”  Nat reached up and put his hand on the foot of the wailing soldier and said “You’ll be okay.”  The boy never answered.  This was the first of many soldiers Nat would see die.

Another time, Nat was in a trench and was again pinned down by enemy fire.  He was waiting for support when suddenly a Panzer tank rolled over him and stopped.  It began firing and he said it was both deafening and terrifying.   Every time the tank fired, the ground shook, the ditch he was curled up in was crumbling around him. Nat thought that that was going to be the end of him.  American tank support approached from the other side and the Panzer tank retreated.  Nat would live to see another day.

Nat remembers it being very cold his first winter over there.  Many boys had frost bite on their feet and were taken out on stretchers because they couldn’t walk anymore.  Some even had to have their feet amputated.  Nat didn’t smoke but took every opportunity to scavenge  cigarettes which he would light and hold them cupped in his hands in an attempt to keep his fingers warm.  He would sometimes tunnel in the snow at night in an effort to keep warm from the deep, still cold. 

Nat and ten other men found themselves being shelled one day.  A bomb exploded nearby and everyone was hit by shrapnel.  Nat was hit in the heel of his foot.  Everyone was lying on the ground either unconscious or unable to move.  Nat, on his butt, grabbed each man by their armpits one at a time and on his butt, dragged them to safety and lifted them each over a nearby stone wall.  One boy told Nat to save himself and leave him but Nat said no and saved everyone there.   He later received a  Purple Heart, Bronze Star, and Silver Star for saving the lives of his fellow soldiers that day.

Nat often spoke of killing many Germans but would never go into detail about what happened.  He would pause, choke, stare off, and at times tears would well up in his eyes.  He considered what he did to be murder.   It has been sixty years and he still breaks down into tears when he talks about what happened.   When Nat returned home, his dad was standing on the train platform waiting for him.  As Nat got off the train, his dad ran up to him and hugged him.  Nat said that that was the first time his dad ever hugged him.  Again, Nat breaks into tears as he tells the story.  He has asked me many times to drive him to the cemetery where he always weeps at the grave of his parents.

Nat was taken advantage of by some smooth talking, slow, methodical and unspectacular young man with some sort of a felony conviction in his past. He told Nat that he would take care of him for life if Nat signed his house over to him.  Nat did.  Nat didn't want to risk winding up in a nursing home but wanted to die in his own home.  This young man was his salvation.  Nat had almost a million dollars in savings and it was willed to his nieces and nephews, his only living relatives. The young man knew that the only way he could get the money was to spend it. He had an addition put on the house, new roof, new wiring, new appliances, AC and began purchasing antiques.  The house is filled with so much antique furniture that there is only a narrow path through any one room.  The garage has three brand new Cadillac cars in it.  Nat told me that the latest purchases had been a $30,000 sofa and $20,000 tub.  The young man just makes the purchases and expects Nat to sign the checks, which he does.

Family and friends have all contacted the police, social services or the department of the aging but technically no crime has been committed.  When questioned by authorities, Nat says everything is okay.  He did confess to me one day that he made a terrible, terrible mistake. Despite all of that, the man is taking care of Nat in his own home and Nat's dying wish will be completed. A promise is not to be despised, not even when its advocate is no gentleman.