Never forget--those things good

The old man and the old woman walked slowly down the sidewalk in the park along the Marina Waterfront. He, with his cane and she, holding his arm, their strides almost heal to toe; their posture with a noticeable lean forward. They were dressed for the chill the bay breeze always brought, with tweed overcoats, hats, and scarves. She wore black gloves and a green scarf to accent her blouse that couldn’t be seen and he with formal dress of slacks, a dress shirt, and tie but on his head, a Forty-niners ball cap his grandson bought for him and on his back, a small backpack. Both wore brand new white Nike’s.

They found their traditional bench and so began their sit for an hour or so as they looked out towards the water, towards Sausalito. They enjoyed the walk down from their apartment where they knew they were going to spend the last stage of their lives together. They were close to their two daughters and son, grandchildren and great grandchildren. They had a close family and received calls or visits from one of the group every day. They loved those times but cherished these, when they could lace up each others shoes-bending over that far was too hard to do themselves, and walk down from Mason Street just south of the cable car turn-around to this bench and sit with each other. Sometimes they would walk back and other times they would call a cab. They never called their family for a ride.

They would sit for the hour, watching the ships and the joggers along the sea wall, the tourists taking pictures, the foreign voices as they walked by. Often, the old man and old woman would sit and not say a word. Fifty-four years of marriage caused the old man and old woman to be able to read each others thoughts. Words were spoken-love words were spoken, but the best of those words were said with the eyes and heart. He would point with his cane at the passing ships or points of interest without speaking; she would nod and smile, while still holding his ungloved hand.

It was 1944 when the old man and old woman met. She was a twenty-year-old nurse at the Alameda Naval Air Station. He was twenty-five and in the hospital for burns and shrapnel when his Corsair was shot up over Saipan and his return to his carrier was ‘a little bouncy’ as he would sometimes recount. She became his nurse and knew him when he was at his lowest. They first became friends. As part of his therapy, a day trip was planned with several patients into the city and this park, only at that time, it was a gun emplacement. He sat in the open air of that bay, just he and his nurse, and for the first time, he felt life might be worth living. The two never left. She would later talk about his ‘chocolate drop’ eyes and he would write home about this woman of amazing grace and compassion. His warrior spirit never left. When you get old, your spirit doesn’t leave, it just makes room for other parts of your life, eventually adding the spirit of husband, father, mentor, lover, and now, in the final chapter-trusted council, wisdom, guardian of those things good.

It was time in their walk and in their sit. The old man reached in to the small backpack he had taken off just before he sat down and pulled out a thermos and two cups. He poured his bride some of the fresh brew, always leaving room so she didn’t burn her lips or spill, and then he poured himself a cup. And so they sat some more. Silent. Vigilant. The warrior and nurse.

Friday morning, tomorrow, come and sit. Share a story of your warrior days or of those times when bones weren’t brittle and the breeze was cool on your face. Coffee and sacks are free. In the Coffee Shack at about 7:15