An old man walked into the store. He’s from the same generational crop as my father. Midwestern boy, hard start to life, milking cows before school, got passed around between several farm families, each taking a year or two, to get him through high school. Hitchhiked down here and landed in Lake Charles with four bucks to his name.
Now he’s here at Eighty-one to buy some stuff to decorate his new subdivision.
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I grew up with these men. Dear God in heaven, what an honor to have seen with my own eyes, that it was possible, to be this honorable…
America, my goodness, we used to make some fine people…
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We’ve talked twice in person and twice on the phone, which don’t amount to much, except I met him before in all the adults of my childhood. He’s deciding between three sizes, and because of his generation, and the trust that it has earned, I send him off with all three – without any deposit, without a credit card number on file, not even his phone number – because I know how these people were raised, and I know that he is honor bound to meet my trust.
He came back. Just like I knew he would. He hands me some bills for what he’s taken, tried, and now is buying. The money is folded up. I know better than to count it in front of him. When I count it hours later there are seven more dollars than what we agreed upon.
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It’s a dance of honor, and how blessed I am to be a part of the music, maybe the last time I’ll ever dance with my superiors!
It is upon me to let it be known that he has overpaid, and to offer the seven dollars back…
…at which point, it will go two ways, that he will say no, I appreciate all you have done, and it will be mine… until I put it in the offering plate, as something Too High for me to keep…
…or the other way, at which he will take the refund of the testing dollars, and know that I have met the test, and he will put it in the offering plate…
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O how few are left!
I grew up with these men. They raised me. They made me. They set the height of the ceiling.
My grandparents raised boys that had no knots in the lumber. When my uncle died they had to find a bigger church to have the service. In my father’s health decline I find that as he loses weight it only reveals the truth, that the power in him wasn’t in his man strength, but in his character strength.
I cannot speak for generations before my time, but I speak Loud, without apology, the Greatest Generation, where they were good, they were great, and nothing, not their kids, nor grandkids, nothing rates to their standards…
Folks, we are watching a Miracle dying off…
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Most were born poor, but they started life rich in The Good Stuff, and through the long decades they’ve guarded their honor.
I can’t let him go without interviewing him. “I gave away a bunch of weeks of my life, proving worthy of a job. Don’t pay me,” he told prospective employers, “just let me work and see if it rates up, and if it does, gimme a job, and if it don’t, then shame on me.”
(Who would do this anymore! I am in awe that America used to have these people!)
And here, at the end of that sentence, comes the sharp line that elevates that generation, “And I wouldn’t let them pay me for that week, even if I was a keeper…”
America, not long ago, we used to raise people like this! From WWII on, America was the dominant country on this big ole blue planet; one reason was that it was thick with quality people.
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Somebody young please read this. Somebody young please believe this. I don’t want to think that this is about to be Gone from the world.
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This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, where we hope you’re inspired to raise your own bar a little higher; we’ve seen it done – why can’t we do it too…
Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories are posted three times a week on Eighty-one’s Facebook page, Sunday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, about pillow time. Uncle P can be reached at 81creativity@gmail.com.
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