How a Simple Gesture Defines a Special Man

There was really no reason to hurry...

...I thought to myself, as I pushed my shopping cart down the luggage aisle at the Walmart Supercenter in northwest Oklahoma City. I bet Dad is still talking to the elderly facility maintenance associate at the end of Aisle J20, otherwise known as the “Bulldog™ aisle” in hardware. His name was Harold, and in addition to the usual Walmart vest we all recognize, he wore a plaid shirt rolled up at the sleeves, a faded pair of blue jeans, and a cap on his head with the words “Korean Vet” stitched on it. His aged left hand rested on the edge of a large, wheeled trash bin that was nearly full of cardboard and other refuse. A broom and dust pan poked out of a cubby in one end. His name was Harold, and he was 83-years old. He told us he didn’t need to work but wanted to because, as he put it, “I need to do something to feel worth my salt.” In the few minutes I chatted with him and Dad, I sensed that he represented everything that was good and honorable from “The Forgotten War” in which nearly 6 million Americans served. His personality was warm and gracious. He was patient with my dad, only a few years his senior, and humble about his service.

I left Dad and Harold to chat while I shopped for a few things I needed. After a trip to the grocery side of the store, I hurriedly made my way back to hardware to check on Dad. Sure enough, he still held Harold captive. He’d found a kind stranger who hadn’t heard his recital of how he made tables, shelves, walking sticks – “whatever you need!” – out of his favorite wood, black walnut.

Shaking my head in mild amusement, I quickly did a one-eighty and perused the luggage choices, figuring Harold wasn’t at any risk of getting into trouble. After all, who’s going to call out an old man giving an ear to a loyal customer, especially a sweet, well-meaning, elderly one?

Dad is 85-years old now, and although his knowledge of woodworking is as sharp as ever, his workmanship is not what it once was. Nevertheless, he will tell anyone who is willing to listen about all the things he makes, about his workshop in his garage, and about the processes he uses to make his wares. My sister and other close family members have heard all of the stories repeated ad nauseum and admittedly grown wearing of hearing them. Dad seems oblivious to our annoyance, and we do our best to be patient and understanding.

Having been a Walmart manager for 15 years, I knew that Dad had

detained Harold far too long, so I pushed my buggy to where they were standing, smiling apologetically as I approached. Just then Dad handed the walking stick to Harold.

“I’ve never seen one like it,” he said admiringly, his hands gliding along the smooth, natural surface.

“Do you have a walking stick?” Dad asked him.

“No, I don’t,” Harold replied.

“Well, you can have that one,” Dad smiled and said resolutely.

“Oh, no,” Harold responded, “I can’t accept it.” He tried to hand the stick back to Dad, but Dad held up his hand.

“I have more,” he said.

“Yes, he does,” I interjected. “He has five or six more in his truck out in the parking lot!”

“If you’d like a different kind, I can get it for you,” Dad persisted.

“But you won’t have it to use while you shop,” Harold protested, but the attempt was futile. Dad assured him he didn’t need it.

Harold hesitantly placed the walking stick in the cubby next to his broom and turned to thank my dad for his generosity. I could tell he was touched, as was I, by the simple gesture. He wanted to know Dad’s name and asked if he had a business card. On this occasion, Dad didn’t have his usual supply with him, but he did have a printed, adhesive sticker with his name and address which he stuck onto the side of the walking stick. The two elderly men had made a connection, and I was certain if the timing was right, Dad would see Harold again on future visits. At least, I hoped so.

This is my dad. Though growing increasingly mentally fuzzy and sometimes exasperatingly oblivious to the passing of time or the restlessness of his audience, he embodies the Golden Rule. Knowing him enriches one's own virtues of patience and compassion for the elderly. He knows no stranger and delights in doing for others. He is sensitive and humble, thoughtful and generous. I am fortunate to call him “Dad.”