Just in the nick of time
My friend Vic was not only optimistic but also timely. He died exactly 10 days after we signed the will and drank the scotch. His dying was as graceful and dignified as his living. I will miss him but am forever glad to have taken the time to listen to his stories. I spoke at his funeral - the comments are below.
My friend, Victor, was born on St. Patrick’s Day, 1908. During that year, paper cups were invented, Ford came out with the first Model T and cellophane was invented. The Gideon bible company was started and Theodore Roosevelt was the 26th president. Vic’s long life spanned many other events. He was a young man when the TV was invented and the first Olympics took place in Switzerland in 1924. He probably witnessed the first talkie movie The Jazz singer, staring Al Jolson. Vic also lived through prohibition, the great depression and two world wars and 17 more US presidents. Through much of this, he played Jazz on his trumpet in various bands around the Salt lake area. Enid, his wife, sang with him. He was able to met many of the Jazz greats, like Louis Armstrong.
What a privilege it was to know Vic. For the past several years, I visited Vic and Enid every Saturday and we sat around the dining room table telling stories and solving the problems of the world, Vic with his ice water and Enid and I sharing a beer. Usually my visit started off with me asking “how are you doing, Vic?” “Still Kicking”, He always replied.
Vic was 99 1/2 years old and while parts of him might not have been functioning as efficiently as they once had, his mind was sharp. He told me many stories and most of them involved playing his trumpet, which he did from a very young age. Once when he was in grade school, and playing revelry before school started, a girl ran around the corner and right into him, pushing his trumpet into his mouth and resulted in him losing his two front teeth. He couldn’t play for two years while he waited to get those teeth fixed. It was a long two years for him, I bet. He ended up with a scar on his top lip, which he covered up with a rather dashing pencil thin mustache for many years.
My favorite story that Vic told happened in 1914. His father had just purchased a new model T ford and they were driving it home in Bountiful. They went over the railroad tracks, which were more elevated in those days. The car tipped over right on the tracks and a train was coming. Vic said he could still see that train coming towards him. The train hit his side of the car and broke his arm (some of us remember him saying it was his leg that was broken but in any event, this was a memorable occasion). After that, when his dad got another car, Vic always got out and walked across the railroad tracks. Vic got his first new car, a Nash Lafayette, in 1938. He had an appreciation for old cars and we often talked about how the cars today were not nearly as nice or distinctive.
He told me many other stories about his childhood in Bountiful and things he remembered, like getting his tonsils out on the kitchen table. He especially loved playing his trumpet which he did until his early 90’s and had to give it up because he didn’t have the breathing power to do it. This was hard on him and sometimes when I was there he would get it out and show it to me. I do remember when we first moved across the street from he and Enid, we would hear him practicing and it sounded beautiful. I would have loved to hear him play. I would have loved to hear his band and hear Enid sing with him.
Another thing I will always remember is once Vic and I drank 12 year old whiskey straight from the bottle. He had not been feeling well for the previous few weeks and did not even get up from his bed for my usual Saturday afternoon visit that day. As I was about to leave, I heard him come down the hall with his walker. He peered at me around the corner as he always did and gave me a smile."Shit, Donna, Just Shit!" he said after with much effort, he aimed his bum towards the chair and sat down. This was about as much of a complaint that I ever heard from him, no matter how he felt. He looked at his wife and said "Enid get me my trumpet". She went and got it and he lovingly took the trumpet from its case, still shiny and hoping to be played. Its smell reminded me of the one day in 7th grade I tried to play the French horn and promptly quit band after that. I didn't have any musical ability in my genes, that's for sure. Vic pointed out all of the various parts and then tried to blow a few notes. He could make a few notes, but his 99 years, and weakened condition made it difficult."Those days are long gone", he said with so much sadness that I felt like crying for the things he had lost, mostly because he could remember all of them."Enid bring me the scotch", he said, after he put his trumpet back in its case. This surprised both of us because Vic always said he was afraid to drink because he thought his heart would stop if he did. "Will you have a drink with me?" he asked as she put the bottle down. Enid went to get glasses and Vic stopped her, saying "We don't need glasses".Vic took a swig – or more of a sip really, of the 12 year old scotch and passed the bottle to me. I took a swig too - probably a bigger one than he did. I felt lucky to know a 99 year old guy who remembered everything he had lost but was grateful for what he still had.
I feel so honored to have had a friend who had lived through so much and so long with such grace and dignity and no complaints. I learned a lot about devotion and commitment from the relationship that Enid and Vic shared. I believe that Enid’s support and love kept Vic going for as long as he did – that and putting his grape nut flakes in the refrigerator every night because he liked them cold. I am grateful to Enid, Duane and Sherry for letting me be part of his living and also part of his dying. As a nurse I know that being with someone who is dying is a privilege and a spiritual event – much like birth. Vic died with as much grace and dignity as he lived.
I am grateful to my own father who, when I was a little girl, took me to visit many elderly folks – friends of his parents that he knew as a child. I dutifully went with him and often was bored with their stories. I couldn’t relate because I was never going to get that old. As years went by, and especially after he died, I realized what a gift my dad gave me – respect for the elderly and appreciation for their stories and their wisdom. I hope Vic gets to meet my dad who I am sure will try to convince him to play polka music for him on his trumpet.
From knowing Vic, I have learned that Inside most of us are still boys and girls despite how worn out our outsides might look. We all never lose the need to feel like we matter and we all have stories to tell that someone should listen to.
We all need to pay more attention to our friends and neighbors around us who are elderly and realize what they have to offer. I am reminded of a song by John Prine, who is one of my favorite folk singers. It is called “Hello In there”. The chorus goes like this:
Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger,And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.Old people just grow lonesomeWaiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello."
So if you're walking down the street sometimeAnd spot some hollow ancient eyes,Please don't just pass 'em by and stareAs if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."
My point is that, there are so many elderly people out there that have so much to offer and to give of their lives. But too often, we don’t take the time to talk with them, to listen to their stories, or to spend time with them. We are too busy. These older people could be our parents, and some day they will be us – if we are lucky and make it that far. In memory of Vic and perhaps other older friends and family you have lost, find someone who might need a friend and say “Hello in there.”
When I was leaving Vic and Enid’s house after my Saturday afternoon visits, Vic would always say “Goodbye Donna, it was nice talking with you”.
Now it is my turn. Goodbye my sweet friend Vic. God bless you. It was nice talking to you too.
My friend, Victor, was born on St. Patrick’s Day, 1908. During that year, paper cups were invented, Ford came out with the first Model T and cellophane was invented. The Gideon bible company was started and Theodore Roosevelt was the 26th president. Vic’s long life spanned many other events. He was a young man when the TV was invented and the first Olympics took place in Switzerland in 1924. He probably witnessed the first talkie movie The Jazz singer, staring Al Jolson. Vic also lived through prohibition, the great depression and two world wars and 17 more US presidents. Through much of this, he played Jazz on his trumpet in various bands around the Salt lake area. Enid, his wife, sang with him. He was able to met many of the Jazz greats, like Louis Armstrong.
What a privilege it was to know Vic. For the past several years, I visited Vic and Enid every Saturday and we sat around the dining room table telling stories and solving the problems of the world, Vic with his ice water and Enid and I sharing a beer. Usually my visit started off with me asking “how are you doing, Vic?” “Still Kicking”, He always replied.
Vic was 99 1/2 years old and while parts of him might not have been functioning as efficiently as they once had, his mind was sharp. He told me many stories and most of them involved playing his trumpet, which he did from a very young age. Once when he was in grade school, and playing revelry before school started, a girl ran around the corner and right into him, pushing his trumpet into his mouth and resulted in him losing his two front teeth. He couldn’t play for two years while he waited to get those teeth fixed. It was a long two years for him, I bet. He ended up with a scar on his top lip, which he covered up with a rather dashing pencil thin mustache for many years.
My favorite story that Vic told happened in 1914. His father had just purchased a new model T ford and they were driving it home in Bountiful. They went over the railroad tracks, which were more elevated in those days. The car tipped over right on the tracks and a train was coming. Vic said he could still see that train coming towards him. The train hit his side of the car and broke his arm (some of us remember him saying it was his leg that was broken but in any event, this was a memorable occasion). After that, when his dad got another car, Vic always got out and walked across the railroad tracks. Vic got his first new car, a Nash Lafayette, in 1938. He had an appreciation for old cars and we often talked about how the cars today were not nearly as nice or distinctive.
He told me many other stories about his childhood in Bountiful and things he remembered, like getting his tonsils out on the kitchen table. He especially loved playing his trumpet which he did until his early 90’s and had to give it up because he didn’t have the breathing power to do it. This was hard on him and sometimes when I was there he would get it out and show it to me. I do remember when we first moved across the street from he and Enid, we would hear him practicing and it sounded beautiful. I would have loved to hear him play. I would have loved to hear his band and hear Enid sing with him.
Another thing I will always remember is once Vic and I drank 12 year old whiskey straight from the bottle. He had not been feeling well for the previous few weeks and did not even get up from his bed for my usual Saturday afternoon visit that day. As I was about to leave, I heard him come down the hall with his walker. He peered at me around the corner as he always did and gave me a smile."Shit, Donna, Just Shit!" he said after with much effort, he aimed his bum towards the chair and sat down. This was about as much of a complaint that I ever heard from him, no matter how he felt. He looked at his wife and said "Enid get me my trumpet". She went and got it and he lovingly took the trumpet from its case, still shiny and hoping to be played. Its smell reminded me of the one day in 7th grade I tried to play the French horn and promptly quit band after that. I didn't have any musical ability in my genes, that's for sure. Vic pointed out all of the various parts and then tried to blow a few notes. He could make a few notes, but his 99 years, and weakened condition made it difficult."Those days are long gone", he said with so much sadness that I felt like crying for the things he had lost, mostly because he could remember all of them."Enid bring me the scotch", he said, after he put his trumpet back in its case. This surprised both of us because Vic always said he was afraid to drink because he thought his heart would stop if he did. "Will you have a drink with me?" he asked as she put the bottle down. Enid went to get glasses and Vic stopped her, saying "We don't need glasses".Vic took a swig – or more of a sip really, of the 12 year old scotch and passed the bottle to me. I took a swig too - probably a bigger one than he did. I felt lucky to know a 99 year old guy who remembered everything he had lost but was grateful for what he still had.
I feel so honored to have had a friend who had lived through so much and so long with such grace and dignity and no complaints. I learned a lot about devotion and commitment from the relationship that Enid and Vic shared. I believe that Enid’s support and love kept Vic going for as long as he did – that and putting his grape nut flakes in the refrigerator every night because he liked them cold. I am grateful to Enid, Duane and Sherry for letting me be part of his living and also part of his dying. As a nurse I know that being with someone who is dying is a privilege and a spiritual event – much like birth. Vic died with as much grace and dignity as he lived.
I am grateful to my own father who, when I was a little girl, took me to visit many elderly folks – friends of his parents that he knew as a child. I dutifully went with him and often was bored with their stories. I couldn’t relate because I was never going to get that old. As years went by, and especially after he died, I realized what a gift my dad gave me – respect for the elderly and appreciation for their stories and their wisdom. I hope Vic gets to meet my dad who I am sure will try to convince him to play polka music for him on his trumpet.
From knowing Vic, I have learned that Inside most of us are still boys and girls despite how worn out our outsides might look. We all never lose the need to feel like we matter and we all have stories to tell that someone should listen to.
We all need to pay more attention to our friends and neighbors around us who are elderly and realize what they have to offer. I am reminded of a song by John Prine, who is one of my favorite folk singers. It is called “Hello In there”. The chorus goes like this:
Ya' know that old trees just grow stronger,And old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day.Old people just grow lonesomeWaiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello."
So if you're walking down the street sometimeAnd spot some hollow ancient eyes,Please don't just pass 'em by and stareAs if you didn't care, say, "Hello in there, hello."
My point is that, there are so many elderly people out there that have so much to offer and to give of their lives. But too often, we don’t take the time to talk with them, to listen to their stories, or to spend time with them. We are too busy. These older people could be our parents, and some day they will be us – if we are lucky and make it that far. In memory of Vic and perhaps other older friends and family you have lost, find someone who might need a friend and say “Hello in there.”
When I was leaving Vic and Enid’s house after my Saturday afternoon visits, Vic would always say “Goodbye Donna, it was nice talking with you”.
Now it is my turn. Goodbye my sweet friend Vic. God bless you. It was nice talking to you too.
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