His name was William, I'm pretty sure, though I can't recall his last name. It wasn't a difficult name, not like Esquivel or Zepeda. But that doesn't mean I can remember it.
What I do recall, however, was the clarity in his eyes, the sharpness of his memories, the black and white battleship photos on his walls. I remember the intricacies of a pecan-stained grandfather clock in the corner of his living room, a piece of furniture that could hold time infinitely, and the fact he had carved each painstakingly perfected piece with his own hands.
I can't think of him as old. Despite his elderly years, I simply couldn't see it then, I can't remember it now.
All I could see was the marrow of the man, the grit of his resolve, the calm of his accomplishments, the fact he had seen the many personalities of war and history I'd only read about. And yet he met me iris for iris. He had an unwavering acceptance of life and all it's cruelties without even a whiff of self-pity in the slightly stale air.
He offered me a glass of sweetened tea. And then we sat down for his tale.
What I realized, as I listened for hours and then came back a second day to listen some more, is that I had found living history. He was priceless and equal parts fleeting. As all humans go, one day he would be gone. I could bottle his story, but I couldn't bottle his essence. That would disappear like an exhale, along with the memories of his Naval service in World War II, of his experience days before infamy came to Pearl Harbor, and of his recollections about his ship's investigation into an oil slick once believed to be the last remaining evidence of Amelia Earhart.
I thought of him today. I think of him, often, really. And one day, I might actually find the article I wrote about him. That is, if I could remember his last name.
Our brief time together marked me, as all my World War II veteran interviews have done. The bravery, the history, the unimaginable struggle to battle back evil, ... well, it's a worthy tale. As my parents always told me when meeting a WWII vet, "These are the men who kept freedom alive. America wouldn't have survived without them."
That's a hard thing to say 'thank you' for. And so perhaps my school girl crush on these men are due in part to unspeakable appreciation. But only in part. The real fascination, I can assure you, is the purity of their gender. It's in their maleness. Masculine men, even when elderly, have a magnetism. This is why I'm still crushing on Ronald Reagan, John Wayne, William Powell, Clark Cable, Charleton Heston, Gary Cooper, the list goes on, I assure you.
Last week, I was at a friend's house. And in the course of the conversation, he and I began talking about marriage. No, not to each other. Just in general. And though I talk about marriage and the like seldom, I explained to my friend the only reason that would induce me to marry, the reason so elusive I never have.
"I mourn masculinity some days," I told him. "Not just the often absence of it in my own life," he took that well, I'm not around him all that often "but the loss of it in the world. It's such a valuable thing and becoming so rare."
Masculinity isn't only physical strength, though I'm not knocking that. Not at all. But it doesn't stop there. It's also strength of character, strength of will, integrity and the power of conviction. It's a man with a sense of rightness about him, a sense that even the greatest offensive, the most powerful temptation, cannot round it's edges. He stands when everyone else remains seated.
It's authority, governed honestly and humbly, executed sharply and with confidence. And it's so needed today. Right now, in fact. This very instance. It's needed while all the talking heads of the world shun it's existence, sneer at it's presence, demonize it's purpose.
Don't ask me why I'm writing this today. I just couldn't help myself. Everywhere I look - from family problems to governmental corruption to cultural deviance - I see the lacking of truly God-centered male leadership. I see the world, even though it may not know it, mourn it's disappearance. And there are days I mourn it, too. Like today. Like the day before. And possibly, tomorrow also.
Those men are out there. I don't doubt that. If I did, I'd buy a piece of property in the middle of Alaska, go off the grid, and spend my days catching fish with my bare hands. And what a lousy existence since I can't catch fish with my bare hands.
My real hope is that these elusive Godly-men, these rare specimens of character and integrity and masculinity, are aware of how much they are needed. Life is waiting for the mark they will leave on it, like the mark William left on me.
Now if I could only remember his last name...
