Shalom at Valentines

Mr. Barr is 94 years old.

Just to look at him, you would think he is just some regular ole retired gentleman living in his current condition because his family has forgotten about him and is using his savings to live in this somewhat glamorous building.  You might even assume that he may not be too cognizant and may have onset dementia or early Alzheimer’s Disease. One may be so callous to instantly assume that he is not a good conversationist and perhaps is nice charity work, but not someone with whom we should ever want to have an intimate and deep conversation. Does he have an old person’s smell? Is he hard of hearing? There has to be something that would make him undesirable to talk to; he is an old man of course.

Mr. Barr speaks well, wears thin spectacles, and enjoys a good conversation. He wears button-down shirts with a western-style bolo tie around his neck. Standing at 5’10” he said that he has only shrunk a half-inch over the last few years and feels good when he keeps his weight around 190 lbs. Mr. Barr can walk around his apartment quite alright, but his get-up-and-go vehicle for moving about his assisted-living housing is a motorized chair.

Last Saturday, Mr. Barr had his motorized chair reversed in a corner in front of the television stand that was simply being used by him for a cup rest for his plastic cup full of water. From his point of view, he had the best seat in the room. As one of only two male residents from his building in the room, he could clearly peer over the crowd of gray-haired women sitting around a large dining table as they each chatted and chewed on Valentine’s cookies. He could even keep his eyes on one woman in particular, sitting all the way across the room, separated by the deafening vibrations of 20 conversations. In fact, his chair was pointing directly towards her position, so his head did not have to turn one bit to see her. Any conversation Mr. Barr had with other people required him to adjust his head to the right or left; to view this certain lady his head had to simply return to its default position, if you will allow this.

This group was gathered for a Valentines party, full of sugar and conversation, by my fun group from Karis Community Church to honor and fellowship with the residents of the retirement housing.

His first words to me were of his appreciation to be around young people, as I pulled up my chair beside his and greeted him. “Why,” I asked? In between a few nibbles of a pink cookie, Mr. Barr shared that he had been an educator for almost 40 years, including science and vocational agriculture. My ears perked up.

It turns out that after Mr. Barr left the Army Air Corps, he went to college on the G.I. Bill. This paid his way through the University of Missouri to get a degree in education.

“I’ve always been what you would call intelligent,” Mr. Barr said. He entered the army after high school and wanted to become a pilot. Whether he ever had perfect vision, I do not know, but he did not get that job, even though he did a bit of training in biplanes of the day. His main flying came from four years in the rear of a C-130 aircraft as a weights and load man. His job was to direct the loading of the cargo and balance and secure it for its long journey.

I asked him if he had logged his mileage.  ”I never logged my miles,” he said, “but I kept a record of all my trips.” So, with this record he can estimate his total distance over the four years. His self-acclaimed affinity for numbers led him to an estimate of around one million miles!

He has several stories related to his service in the air. He even was stationed in several places around the country. One stormy night over Wyoming, Mr. Barr recounts that “one minute the ground was here,” pointing left, “then here,” pointing right, “then here,” pointing up, and finally pointing down to the floor. He said that he did not think they would make it out alive from that.

Upon leaving the Service, Mr. Barr enrolled at Mizzou, in the growing river town of Columbia, Missouri, to get a degree in education. He began work for a few years as an elementary science teacher and then switched to vocational agriculture, moving to several schools. One interesting crumb he shared was two summer trips he led to Yellowstone National Park, where he exposed small-town farm boys to the great West. Imagine a high school teacher taking agriculture class camping trips out West for a few weeks!

I asked him other questions: about religion, about growing up as a boy, and about his married life. he was forthcoming and really got into the conversation, such that it was not simply him talking, but he asked my opinion on a few things as well. With his ripe age in the forefront of my mind, I had to ask him his secret to staying so mentally alert. His response was not much different from I expected, but still not satisfying. His best synopsis came from him liking to read, although he added that he knew many geniuses who had dementia. Longevity in his Scotch-Irish family was the other answer. One of his tricks is quizzing himself on the names of his airplane models.

As the crowd shrunk in the party, soon it was only a few members from my group and a few residents still talking. Rescuing his partially-eaten cookie before it would be thrown away by accident, he made social cues that it was time for him to go. But, I could not say goodbye, never to speak to him again. Finishing the conversation, as strangers often do, by introducing myself, I then asked if I may come visit him again. Any timidity I expressed in my question, he dismissed  immediately. Mr. Barr was well receptive and invited me to come see his collection of aeroplane and tractor models.

I stood to say goodbye. Steadily walking towards the two of us was that gray-haired woman who had sat across the room who Mr. Barr had so conscientiously been watching. “Jeannie, this is Michael,” Mr. Barr said familiarly to this woman. “I invited him to drop by.” This woman was his wife of almost 67 years. They met at university the first week, because “she said she wanted to get to know that redhead over there.”

We said our goodbyes and I went to tend to other clean-up duties. In the hallway, we met again, only a few minutes after saying our goodbyes. He beckoned my to come in to see his airplanes and tractors. Inside his apartment are shelves lined with books and his models, rocks, and other ditties, the total of which he referred to as “my junk.” He took pleasure in naming each of the airplanes on his shelves, and pointing out a few choice stones he had. His joy to have a visitor other than family was apparent. I excused myself for fear that my friends were waiting on me and said goodbye.

Who knows what he saw in me. Yet, I saw in him a hero, a man, and wisdom. Never have I talked to a 94-year-old man. I cannot miss this opportunity. Perhaps somewhere inside this conversation, some affinity for him developed. Perhaps, my desire for wisdom and seeing and hearing greatness is excited inside me. Perhaps, it is simply a desire for a grandfather figure. His life is long and full and great.

It is most certainly his story to tell. Perhaps God has led me to Mr. Barr to listen.