Your Life Matters
Wednesday, July 14, 2010 at 02:04PM 
THE PINK AND PURPLE AZALEA BLOSSOMS WERE SO FULL that they overpowered even the dogwoods and redbud, blocking out any hint of the green leaves that lurked beneath them. Seventy-six springs now, Willow Callaway had watched them bloom. She moved slowly from her front porch, through the yard to the road, and waited for the traffic to pass. Willow lived on Canal Road, about a mile west of the big curve. Canal Road is formally known as Highway I80, but only the tourists call it that.
As she waited, the old woman thought back to when the road was a simple dirt track. Now she had to stand and endure the fumes and pace of people she hadn’t asked to move here, folks she didn’t understand, who were loud and unappreciative of the way things once were. Willow remembered when she and her children would ease out of the house about this time of evening and play by the banks of the canal. They would wave to the men on the barges and make up guessing games about the faraway places to which they were bound. Now the tugs and barges were air-conditioned, and nobody came outside to wave. Still, though, she sat and watched.
Willow stepped quickly across the road and moved toward the only bench within sight. It wasn’t in a park. There was no light above it. No garbage can beside it. No fish-cleaning station or water hose or sign nearby about what was or wasn’t permitted. Just a simple bench set beside another just like it. They sat side by side on a tiny dock no larger than fifteen feet square. Her husband had built the dock and benches decades ago.
By the time the small structure had been proudly placed on the canal bank, the children had already gone, leaving the house empty except for Willow and Bobby Gray, the man she married when she was sixteen. Many evenings were spent on one bench or the other-sitting there with a big glass of sweet iced tea between them, watching the slow-moving tide, talking about nothing-just being still and feeling God and loving each other, until he died.
Willow’s oldest, Tommy, lived in Dallas now. He had children and even grandchildren of his own. Ray and Martha, the twins, were in Sarasota with the families they’d raised. Bradford, Willow’s baby, was gone. Hard to believe she’d outlived one of her own children, but she had. Brad was only forty-seven when he died; she still thought of him as her baby. Yes, he was a grown
man to some, but to her he had always been the sweet child who ran barefoot, tripping through the honeysuckle vines, who laughed at silly jokes but cried at Christmas that one year, so sad for baby Jesus because he had to be born in a barn.
She was proud of what she had accomplished, of the life she had led, but her life was over, and it was time to go. That was a fact she had decided months ago-knew it for certain-yet here she was, hanging around like somebody’s forgotten holiday wreath, still on the front door in March. But, not inclined to take the matter into her own hands, Willow waited.
“Oh! Excuse me!” she said. Willow had not seen the old man sitting on her dock as she approached. And it was her dock. Even the mayor of Orange Beach had said so in a newspaper article one time. Everyone in town knew her husband had built it, and the dock was right across from her house. No car ever stopped there. No one else ever used it. The city mowed around it for her. It was the Willow Callaway Dock.
She had been so enthralled with the azaleas, never suspecting another person might be there, that the old man had taken her quite by surprise. He stood and smiled. “It’s a lovely evening,” he said, “and the location-extraordinary-a view to match!” Then, bowing slightly, he added, “Please, Mrs. Callaway … do sit down. I can leave if you wish to be alone, but I would love to join you for a time, if I may.”
“Sir,” Willow said, “I find myself at a disadvantage … for you obviously know who I am, yet I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of being introduced.” He bowed again, this time offering his hand. “I do apologize, beautiful lady. You are well known in these parts, while I am but a raconteur, a traveling gentleman without means, a common drifter. My name is Jones, madam. Not Mr. Jones, if you will humor me-just plain Jones.” Willow smiled and held out her hand, allowing the very polite old man to help her to the bench on the right. ‘And may I join you?” he asked.
“Yes,” Willow answered graciously, “please do.” They settled onto the small bench, Willow crossing her legs at the ankles and folding her hands in her lap, while Jones placed his suitcase on the planks at their feet. “I was admiring the woodwork,” Jones said patting the seat between them. ‘An outstanding example of care not often seen today. I am told your late husband is to be credited for this fine bench?”
Willow beamed with pride. “Yes,” she said, “my Bobby Gray built this in I969. All pegs and notches. Not a nail in it, you’ll notice.” “Yes, I did notice, “Jones replied, touching the joints with his fingers. “Beautiful, just beautiful.” ‘Am I to assume you are not a local?” Willow asked.
“You are correct,” Jones answered. “I am not, but through the years, I have been here enough to know the area, love the people, and appreciate this bench.” Willow laughed warmly. “Well, you are certainly welcome here … Jones, I believe you said?” “Yes, ma’am. And thank you.” Willow leaned out and pointed to her right, past Jones, into the water. “Do you see that big rock?” she asked. “I do.” “It’s low tide now. You can see it. Most times it’s underwater. About five feet out from that rock, there’s a big hole. The water’s not so deep there, but the redfish group up in it when the tide’s running hard. My boys took many a meal out of that old hole. Nobody knows about it now-boats running all around-but I still see those big old red drum sticking their tails up, rooting around the bottom for crabs and shrimp. Boats don’t ever stop though … “
“You mentioned children,” Jones said. “I assume they are grown and away. Do they visit often?” ‘As much as they can. I don’t expect them to, really.” She turned as if amazed. “Did you know everyone of my children has grandchildren? I never thought I’d be so old,” Willow said. “Don’t know when it happened. Probably when Brad died. Brad was my baby,” she explained. “Not really a baby … almost fifty … but still …”
Both were silent for a bit before Willow spoke again. “It didn’t hit me so hard when Bobby Gray passed, but a mama ought not to outlive her children … seems a cruel thing.” Willow’s lip quivered, and her voice broke. “I have outlived my usefulness. How in the world did I get so old?” She sniffed hard, then stuck her chin in the air. “Listen to me,” she said. “Going on like a crazy person. I apologize. You must think I am terribly rude.”
“No, no,” Jones said gently. “Not at all. I do not think you rude in the least. Wrong maybe, but certainly not rude.” Willow turned sharply, not sure she had heard correctly. “I beg your pardon?” Jones smiled and chose his words carefully. “My dear lady, I would banish from the realm of possibility that you might ever be rude; however”-Jones held a finger in the air-“when you make a statement so patently ridiculous as ‘I have outlived my usefulness”’-he shrugged-“I fear I must openly disagree.”
Willow turned and looked back at the water. “You are kind to say so,” she said. “But you don’t believe me?” Jones asked, knowing the Willow was too polite to stand up and walk away or even to suggest he mind his own business, but for goodness’ sake! She was aghast that a man she did not even know possessed the gall to dispute her conclusions about her own life. Then, to press the matter! “Sir,” she said, a bit flustered, “I am an old woman wishing merely to live out my days without being in the way of those who still have much to do.”
Jones raised his arms and looked upward. “oh, Lord,” he said, “don’t let this old person die on this bench beside me.” Holding the pose, he peered at Willow from the corners of his eyes. “Don’t tease,” she said, and he chuckled softly. “Well then,” Jones said, “you be serious. You aren’t that old. How old do you think I am?” Jones paused as she looked at him. “Come on, now … think about it. Look me over. How old do you think I am?” “I have no idea,” Willow said.
“Well then,” Jones said good-humoredly, “you’re a winner for sure, ‘cause I haven’t got any idea either!” They both laughed; then Jones added, “I quit counting on the fiftieth anniversary of my thirty-ninth birthday!” Willow shook her head. “Do you really not know?” “oh, I’m sure I could call it within a couple of decades,” Jones said, “but what’s the point? Should we let a number dictate how we feel? Besides, young lady-and I do consider you a young lady-who gave you permission to decide that you had nothing more to do, nothing more to offer?” “Well,” Willow said, “that is just an honest look at things.
After Bobby passed away, and with the children living lives of their own … ” Willow trailed off, but then, as if trying to convince herself, said with an air of finality, “There is only so much bridge one can play, and after all, isn’t it the duty of the old to make way for the young? I simply feel that my time has passed.”
“Wooowee!” Jones said in a high-pitched voice as he slapped his knees with both hands. ‘And aren’t we glad everybody doesn’t feel that way! The world would surely have missed out on some grand achievements.” “Mr. Jones,” Willow said, trying not to smile. “you are teas- ing again.” “Well, I am and I ain’t,” he countered, “and it’s just Jones. But let me give you a different perspective about feeling that your time has passed. Isn’t it a good thing that Harlan Sanders didn’t retire when he turned sixty-five?”
The name didn’t register with Willow. “Harlan Sanders?” “You probably remember him as Colonel Sanders. But it wasn’t until he was sixty-five that he took a family recipe and began franchising restaurants to serve his fried chicken. And all he had at the time was his Social Security checks to get started one hundred and five dollars a month.” “I didn’t know that,” Willow said. “Sixty-five, was he? Pretty good for a young person.” Jones chuckled. “I thought you might see it that way.
Well, what about Benjamin Franklin? He didn’t invent bifocals until he was seventy-eight. Winston Churchill was also seventyeight and finished with more than a couple of careers when he wrote a book that won the Nobel Prize for Literature. Want me to continue?” Then, without so much as another breath, he said, “Nelson Mandela was inaugurated president of South Africa for the first time-after years in that country’s prisons-at the age of seventy-five. Igor Stravinsky was still doing concerts when he was eighty-seven. Grandma Moses, the artist, did not sell her first painting until she was ninety. Michelangelo didn’t begin his work on St. Peter’s Basilica-one of the world’s greatest treasures-until he was seventy-two.”
“Stop!” Willow ordered, throwing up a hand and trying her best to stifle a smile. “How long could you go on with a list like this?” “How much time do you have?” “I suppose that’s what we have been talking about,” Willow replied, “how much time I have.” Frowning suddenly, she said, “Only … ” “Only what?”Jones prompted. “Only .. , I seem to have come to a lonely, fearful place. I have lived quite a few years myself, you know. And … trying not to make more of it than it is … this is the worst time in my life.”
“Would you like logical proof that things will get better?” Jones asked. “Oh, come on,” Willow scoffed. “Does proof like that really exist?” “Of course it does, “Jones answered earnestly. “Many of life’s treasures remain hidden from us simply because we never search for them. Often we do not ask the proper questions that might lead us to the answer to all our challenges. We are so caught up in fear and regret, that hope seems a foolish endeavor. Proof of hope, however, is not only possible; it is an overlooked law of the universe.” “Okay,” Willow relented. “You have my attention.”
“First,” Jones began, looking down at his weather-beaten hands, “even during trying times, it is important to understand that such times are a normal part of life’s ebb and flow-nothing to be too alarmed about. After all, everyone of us is always in a crisis, coming out of a crisis, or headed for a crisis. Crisis? That’s just part of being on this planet.” Then, suddenly turning to face her, Jones said, “Take a deep breath.”
“Excuse me?” she said. “Come on, now … a big one. A big, deeeeeep breath.” As Willow’s shoulders rose and then fell, she looked at Jones questioningly. “What does that tell you?” he said when she had exhaled. “Well … uhhh … that the air is clean.” “No, no,” Jones said enthusiastically. “More basic. Give me a literal view. What is the fundamental thing we know about people who can breathe?” “That they are alive?” “Correct!” Jones exulted. “That they are alive! Therefore, what might we ascertain from the fact that you can breathe?”
“That I am alive?” Willow said, a bit more certain this time of her answer. “That is correct,” Jones said. “And with that realization, we have the beginning of a chain of simple, unvarnished truths about your existence on this earth. Your very breath provides authentic and infallible absolutes that cannot be disputed. Here, my friend, even during what you may consider the worst time in your life, is proof of hope. Incidentally, this proof is genuine regardless of a person’s age, physical condition, financial situation, color, gender, emotional state, or belief. Now, listen closely …
“If you are breathing, you are still alive. If you are alive, then you are still here, physically, on this planet. If you are still here, then you have not completed what you were put on earth to do. If you have not completed what you were put on earth to do … that means your very purpose has not yet been fulfilled. If your purpose has not yet been fulfilled, then the most important part 0(’ your life has not yet been lived. And if the most important part of your life has not yet been lived … ” Jones paused, waiting for Willow to follow his thought to conclusion. “That is my proof of hope,” Willow said softly.
“Yes, it is,” Jones agreed. “If the most important part of your life is ahead of you, then, even during the worst times, one can be assured that there is more laughter ahead, more success to look forward to, more children to teach and help, more friends to touch and influence. There is proof of hope … for more.” They were silent for a time before Willow spoke again.
“Where do I begin? How do I start?” she said quietly. “Don’t misunderstand me, Jones. I am old, but not hardheaded. I am convinced”-she smiled shyly-“and excited. I’d like to accomplish something, even though I know it won’t be a big thing. It would be nice to know I am at least making a tiny difference.” Jones pursed his lips and looked at Willow warily. ‘How would you react,” he said, “if I disagreed with you twice in one day?” Taken by surprise, the old woman opened her eyes wide.
“What did I say this time?” she asked in disbelief. Jones took a breath and blew it out noisily. Shaking his head, he said, “That part about a ‘tiny’ difference?” “Yes? What was wrong with that? Surely, I can make a tiny difference! ” Shaking his head, Jones said, “Sorry, but I’ve never known a single person who ever made a tiny difference. I am not even convinced it is possible. So, you will have to settle for making a huge difference.” Intrigued, Willow cocked her head. “Go on … “
“While it is true that most people never see or understand the difference they make, or sometimes only imagine their actions having a tiny effect, every single action a person takes has far reaching consequences.
“A moment ago, you and I were talking about particular people who had accomplished great things during the later years of their lives. Do you know the name Norman Bourlag?” Willow shook her head. “Norman Bourlag was ninety-one when he was informed that he had been personally responsible for saving the lives of two billion people.”
“Two billion .people?” Willow exclaimed. “How is that possible?” “Norman Bourlag was the man who hybridized corn and wheat for arid climates,” Jones answered. “The Nobel committee, the Fulbright Scholars, and many other experts calculated that all across the world-in Central and South America, Western Africa, across Europe and Asia, throughout the plains of Siberia, and America’s own desert Southwest-Bourlag’s work has saved from famine over two billion people … and the number is increasing every day.”
“Incredible,” Willow said. “Yes,” Jones agreed. “Isn’t it? But the most incredible part of the story is that Bourlag, for all the credit he has received .. .” Jones glanced around as if to prevent someone from hearing what he was about to say. “For all the credit he’s received, Bourlag was not the person who saved the two billion people.” “What?” “That’s right,” Jones confirmed. “I believe it was a man named Henry Wallace. He was vice president of the United States under Roosevelt.” “I thought Truman was vice president under Roosevelt,” Willow said suspiciously.
“He was,” Jones agreed, “but remember, Roosevelt served four terms. His first two terms, John Nance served as vice president; his fourth term, Truman; but it was during Roosevelt’s third term that his vice president was a former secretary of agriculture named Henry Wallace. While Wallace was vice president of the United States, he used the power of his office to create a station in Mexico whose sole purpose was to somehow hybridize corn and wheat for arid climates … and he hired a young man named Norman Bourlag to run it. So, while Norman Bourlag won the Nobel Prize … it was really Henry Wallace whose initial act was responsible for saving the two billion lives.”
“I never knew,” Willow said. “Why, I don’t even remember the man.” “That’s okay,” Jones replied. “Now that I think about it, maybe it wasn’t Henry Wallace who should’ve gotten credit anyway …” Willow appeared startled. “Now, why would you say that?” she asked. Jones dropped his eyes to the ground and rubbed his chin, as if deep in thought. “Maybe it was George Washington Carver who saved the two billion lives.” Then, his head popping up again, he said, “You remember him, don’t you?” “Yes,” Willow answered quickly. “Peanuts. But what does he-“
“What people don’t know about George Washington Carver is that while he was nineteen and a student at Iowa State University, he had a dairy sciences professor who allowed his own six-year-old boy to go on botanical expeditions every weekend with this brilliant student. George Washington Carver took that little tot and directed his life. And it was Carver who gave six-year-old Henry Wallace a vision about his future and what he could do with plants to help humanity.”
Jones shook his head in wonder. “It is amazing, isn’t it?” he said. “That Carver could spend all that time with the peanut? Hours and months and years of work. I mean, the man developed two hundred and sixty-six products from the peanut-that we still use today. And then there’s the sweet potato. Eighty-eight uses he developed from it.” Jones leaned forward, hands on his knees. “He also wrote an agricultural tract and promoted the idea of what he called a ‘victory garden.’”
Willow smiled. “I remember victory gardens. We had one.” “Yes. So did most people,” Jones said. “Victory gardens-even in the middle of major cities-fed a significant portion of our population during World War II. “But with all the time and effort and years that Carver spent on things like peanuts and sweet potatoes and victory gardens, isn’t it amazing that a few afternoons with a six-year-old boy named Henry Wallace turned out to make that much difference!”
“Truly,” Willow said with awe in her voice. “So it was George Washington Carver whose action saved all those people.” ‘Ahhh … ,” Jones shook his head. “Not really.” “What?” “It had to have been the farmer from Diamond, Missouri.” Jones grinned as Willow threw up her hands.
“There was a farmer in Diamond, Missouri, named Moses,” Jones continued, “who had a wife named Susan. They lived in a slave state but didn’t believe in slavery. Well, that was a problem for those crazy people who rode through farms at night, terrorizing what they called ‘sympathizers.’ And one cold winter night, Quantrill’s Raiders attacked Moses and Susan’s farm. They burned the barn, shot several people, and dragged off a woman named Mary Washington … who refused to let go of her infant son, George.
“Now, Mary Washington was Susan’s best friend, so Moses sent word out immediately, trying to arrange a meeting with those cutthroats, trying to do something to get Mary and her baby back. Within a few days, he had the meeting set; and so, on a January night, Moses took a black horse and went several hours north to a crossroads in Kansas.
“There, he met four of Quantrill’s men, who arrived on horseback, carrying torches, wearing flour sacks with eyeholes cut out over their heads. And Moses traded his only horse for what they threw him in a burlap bag.
“As they thundered off, Moses fell to his knees. There, in the freezing dark, with his breath’s vapor blowing hard and white from his mouth, Moses brought out of that burlap bag a cold, naked, almost dead baby boy. And he opened up his jacket and he opened up his shirts and placed that baby next to his skin. Moses fastened that child in under his clothes and walked that baby out! Talking to that child every step of the way-telling the baby he would take care of him and raise him as his own … promising to educate him to honor Mary, his mother, who they knew was already dead.”
Jones looked intently at Willow who stared back in wonder. “That was the night,” he said softly, “that the farmer told that baby he would give him his name. And that is how Moses and Susan Carver came to raise that little baby, George Washington. “So there. It was obviously the farmer from Diamond, Missouri, who saved those two billion people.”
They sat quietly for a moment until Jones raised his finger as if an idea had just come to him. Teasing, he said, “Unless maybe … ” But then, seeing the tears in Willow’s eyes, he said, “So you see, madam, we could continue this line of reasoning all evening. For the truth is, who knows who it really was whose single action saved the two billion people? How far back could we go?” Jones reached over and took Willow’s hand. ‘And how far into the future could we go, dear lady, to show how many lives you will touch? There are generations yet unborn, whose very lives will be shifted and shaped by the moves you make and the actions you take … tonight. And tomorrow. And tomorrow night. And the next day. And the next.
“No matter your age, physical condition, financial situation, color, gender, emotional state, or belief … everything you do, every move you make, matters to all of us-and forever.” “Thank you,” Willow said faintly. “Thank you.”
‘And thank you, young lady,” Jones said as he stood. “Thank you for the opportunity to spend a few moments with you and rest in such a beautiful spot.” He began walking slowly westward, toward the canal. “Let’s not rest too long, though,” Willow heard him say as the evening darkness took him from her sight. “Time is precious, and you have much to do.”
