Author: Billy Mac

I attended the funeral the other day of a very good man. A well-respected retired police officer; a decorated Air Force Veteran of Vietnam; a beloved member of the community and by all accounts a devoted family man.

I wasn’t very close to him personally, he was a Police officer in my hometown and a friend of my Dad’s. My best remembrance of him was getting pulled over by him for speeding when I was 16 1/2 years old. He didn’t give me a ticket, he just told my father. That was enough; my dad read me the riot act for disrespecting a police officer, his friend and my Dad’s name. When he retired he moved up here and became a very involved member of this small but vibrant town. When I saw him last year I apologized for mouthing off to him when I was a teen. He laughed it off.

He fought cancer for 18 years before he finally succumbed.

The funeral was well attended. Many members of his home town drove the 2 hours and people from town poured in to pay their respects and hear the many humorous homages to a man who was ironically remembered as a man of few words.

At the grave site was a folded flag and a delegation of uniformed soldiers at the wait. After the local minister said his last prayer and the last gospel song was tearfully performed by a grief-stricken granddaughter the familiar sound of Taps wafted through the breezy autumn air. The delegation then proceeded to unfold and then refold, with precision echoing great training and a sincere dedication to the grim task at hand, and then handed the flag to the widow.

“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

That’s where I lost it. I challenge anyone to not be emotional when this service, which I have seen way too many times for a man my age, is performed. I freely admit that I cried. I also cried when my Grandmother was handed one, when my mother and I were handed one and I will again every time I see this done in the future. Because the Flag means something to me. And it meant an awful lot to the family.

See, that flag represents something bigger than ourselves. It represents service to country and community The very nature of the National Anthem is an observance that while bombs exploded in the night sky, in the worst possible conditions, the Flag not only survived but shone like a beacon. That flag has been a beacon of freedom to immigrants for centuries looking for a life that only the United States can provide. It has been raised on beaches, planted on the moon and it has draped every casket of every soldier who didn’t return home from battle.

This week some people are going to take a knee while that very flag is being honored. I don’t know how many because I won’t be watching. Yes, I’m one of those people that the “educated” elitist left call Patriotic, Nationalist and easily distracted from “real” issues. I keep hearing how kneeling during the National Anthem is acceptable and “their right to do so.” I’m not arguing that. No one believes in free speech more than I do.

My father once told me that while he would never disrespect the flag, but if someone were to do he would only hope that they had a hell of a good reason to do so. Because such a strong statement needs to stand on a strong issue. But in the case of the NFL the issue(s) at hand are convoluted at best, self-serving at the least and they can be handled another way.

Just because you have the right, because you can, doesn’t mean you should. Anyone who has a folded flag on their mantle will thank you.

“Did you get that at Fenway?”
Startled from my apparent trance I turned to the kind-faced gentleman behind me in line at the market and recognized that he was referring to my hat. My favorite hat, the Red Sox Scali Cap. “Yes I did, actually” I replied.

“Bet that set you back a few bucks” he said

“Yea, but it was worth it. It’s my good will hat. Besides, it hides my chrome dome” and for effect I took it off and gestured self-deprecatingly at my bald head. He laughed and I then realized it was time to pay the clearly annoyed cashier who obviously had much better places to be today. I paid and walked out.

As I walked to my car I reflected on how NH life was growing on me but I’m still taken off of my game when someone just initiates friendly conversation. While I am a big fan of it I come from an area where people will generally read a candy bar wrapper to avoid eye contact. Enjoying that brief exchange with a friendly stranger, I opened my car to put my groceries in.

“What did you mean by Good Will hat? I thought you said you bought it at Fenway?” My friend from line was parked next to me. He thought I bought it at a GoodWill store.

I told him the Chili’s story.

Many years ago I was at Chili’s restaurant knocking back a few with my buddy Chuck. I liked the bar a lot and I really liked the bartender. Jane was a slightly heavy, forty-ish woman who was a refreshing change from the usual younger, vapid bartenders that flashed cleavage for tips but had little personality. Don’t get me wrong, I love tits but I’m old fashioned and like to have a bartender I can talk to also. I was wearing my hat. Jane was obsessed with my hat. She also had asked me if I had bought it at Fenway. She kept telling me how good I looked in it and I kept telling her to stop hustling for tips. She laughed. Then she told me how much her brother would love a hat like mine.

Over the course of several more beers Jane told Chuck and I of her brother in VT. He was dying of stage 4 prostate cancer. She wanted to get him something to cheer him up. She got a little emotional as she talked of him. The subject was changed.

When I paid my bill, I put the money inside my hat and left it on the bar. When she came over I slid the hat across the bar and told her to give it to her brother. She teared up and I tore out of there. No drama for me that night. Chuck slapped me on the back and told me what a nice gesture that was. Not to be immodest, but I do stuff like that pretty often. If I see a chance to make someone smile, unless I’m really attached to something I will usually give it away,

The next day I saw my buddy Steve on the street. He asked me where my hat was. Unbelievable. I told him the story and he also thought it was great.

2 weeks later I heard a knock on my door and when I opened it there stood Steve with a new hat. “For you” he said. “I was at the game last night, saw this and had to get it for you. You paid it forward and now I am too. Besides, you need to cover that bald head.”

When I finished telling my supermarket friend the story he was full of smiles. ” All of that from one hat, huh?”

“Yup, and every time I wear it I am reminded to spread some good will. Small gestures my friend”.

As we parted ways I jokingly remarked ” do you want it?” He laughed and got in his car.

Small gestures can mean the world to someone.

“People suck” Steve said. He said this frequently.

“No, they don’t. I refuse to think that way.” I was getting weary of this conversation with my roommate. He is a real nice guy with a good heart but people, with very few exceptions, annoy him.

“Would you at least concede that a good percentage of people suck?”

“Define good percentage” I countered.

“95%, and I’m low-balling it”.

“Not even close, I said. 5% tops.”

“Well, I wish I was like you. You honestly believe that. It must be nice to be as tolerant as you”. By nice of course he really meant gullible, weak and maybe even a “sucker”.

We left it at that. There is no winner with Steve and I. He’s the competitive type who insists on a clear winner or loser, no grey areas. To me, it’s not that simple. Besides, we’ve had this conversation so many times and he has yet to get me to change my percentages. I love how much my faith in humanity, or as he would call it my “naive side”, disturbs him. To his credit, he has a few people in his life that are either bitter disappointments, terrible friends or just downright bad people. He is a good guy with a big heart but he has been burned, anyone can tell, and his inner circle is pretty hard to access. I’m one of the few people he likes and respects. I respect him as well, a lot in fact. And he stands by his numbers.

Me, I also stand by mine. I believe in people. I honestly try to live by the mantra “be nice to all you meet for they are fighting a hard battle”. I believe everyone has a reason that they act as they do. Everyone is dealing with what life is throwing at them, and the faces don’t tell the whole story. And that’s the point. You don’t know so don’t judge. I like people until I have a reason not to. Most people are decent, caring and want the same thing: to be safe, to have a roof over their heads, have food in their stomachs and for their kids to have a future. They are regular people.

People who “suck” are easily definable, bear in mind I am giving my opinion and no one else’s. Murderer’s, child rapists, any criminal who sets out with a clear head intending to hurt people. Add to that religious zealots that harm innocents, thieves who prey on the weaker among us, and those who simply lack empathy. We see those people on the news every day. To Steve’s point, those people do suck.The rest of us, even convicted criminals, may have had a reason to do what they did. And, provided they served some kind of punishment, deserve a chance to redeem themselves and receive forgiveness.

There are a lot of unpleasant or difficult people out there that deserve their own category. The power-hungry mean boss, the back-stabbing co-worker, the aggressive driver that cut you off and then gave you the finger, the list goes on. These people are known as assholes, and they too deserve forgiveness. Because they are not worthy of the anguish they cause. We are a people of forgiveness, understanding, and empathy and we can overcome almost anything.

Steve points to my life and chalks my different attitude up to my circle. As a Freemason, I know a lot of good people. As a frequent volunteer at charity events, I see a lot of nice, giving people. In my professional life, I always had friendly relationships with all of our customers and vendors. With my friends, I am usually the one laughing and slapping backs. He points to these things and says that I live in a bubble. What he fails to see is that I created my situation and the ensuing happiness. I chose to join a fraternity to meet good people; I volunteer to create a positive experience and combat bad situations, I chose to be kind to even the most difficult of professional contacts in order to work better with them; and I choose my friends based on who I want to spend my time with. I control it. The people I can’t control, I deal with them by not giving them the time or the effort. I cut them off like oxygen to a fire.

We are mired in negativity and a lot of people are acting badly. Just like John Coffey said…”I’m tired boss, I’m tired of people being ugly to each other.”

Some people suck. That is true. Anyone who celebrates death and calls 59 deaths at the hands of a shooter in Las Vegas a “community service” because they are likely supporters of the candidate who beat yours…yeah, they suck. People who attack you on social media for your beliefs…yeah they suck. But there’s a block feature or you can scroll through it. We can control it. But the more of us who believe that people suck, I hear people say it all the time and I hate it, are missing the point. We can make a point to find the good, to forgive, and for Christ’s sake let some things go without reacting to it. But don’t give up on them.

Shit! I thought to myself. Where am I going to sit? I told my mother that if you want me to go to a football party with your friends can we at least be early.?

“Here,Billy take a seat over here” said a guy with a kind face, a grey beard and a pot belly who I soon learned was named Charlie. I was then greeted by a bunch of people who I vaguely knew, all greeting me and asking me how I was feeling.

Seeing the opportunity to only have to say it once I told the whole room ” I am feeling better thank you for asking”. That seemed to work and they all went back to what they were talking about when I walked in. “They” are Mom’s friends. A kindly bunch who all seem to make my Mother happy, have somehow been involved with caring for my late father, and have apparently have been kept apprised of my health issues by my mother. I really like the ones that I have met, and I have no doubt that I will like Charlie and everyone else that I will meet during the course of this game. I sat back, grabbed a handful of Smartfood and watched the game. I inserted a couple of wise-cracks, after all it was a room that had never heard any of my jokes, and before I knew it half-time was here.

Enter the buffet.

Arlene, our gracious host and dear friend of Mom had laid out quite the spread. The living room cleared and headed for the kitchen. I politely waited for the line to settle. I’m a little claustrophobic in lines and I hate being bumped into. Personal space matters. Besides, I wanted to see some some half-assed analysis by the sportscasters.

I finally elbowed my way into the kitchen. There was beer. Nope you swore off of it for a while.

Ooh! Antipasta! Dude do you know how much salt is in that “salad”? Your legs will swell like Rosie O’Donnell’s ass!

Chips and dip. Oh man you can’t eat a little you’ll open up that fat guy inside you today if you eat them.

I settled on Chicken wings with no sauce, a piece of Rice Ball Fried (shit I have to eat something!), some antipasta without the prosciuto, carrots and Ranch dressing. I grabbed a diet coke and headed back to my seat.

As I picked at my restrained meal I looked around the room at the happy people, loading up on Arlene’s sweet spread, laughing and having a great time. I wondered to myself how many of them are thinking about their blood pressure right now? Who is concerned about their cholesterol? Who is thinking shit! my legs are going to be so blown up tomorrow? Who is thinking about anything but being in the moment? Just me.

It then occurred to me that I am probably the only one in the room, at half-time on a beautiful day in September thinking about my mortality. And here’s the kicker, By at least 20 years I am the youngest person in the room.

 

There they sat. Ken and Keith. Two big guys sitting on two small chairs in my dimly lit hospital room. Despite my pleas otherwise, they had come to visit me. Dear friends and Masonic brothers. We call each other brother to denote how devoted we are to each other, especially when one of us is in distress. I had just finished telling them about how I had given a vase of Sunflowers to the Nurses. They were sent by one of my customers and a masonic brother from Maine. A very thoughtful gift.  Ken challenged me on giving them away. They’re just flowers I told him. Not a big deal to me, a big smile for the Nurses.

“What about you though”  he asked. “They were for you. You know your happiness is important also. At some point you need to make you a priority”. What about me? I thought to myself. I was bloated, miserable, tied to an IV bag and sick of being in a goddamn bed. Other than the now donated flowers the only pretty thing in the room was the occasional twenty something nurse that would trickle in and out. Every time they came through they stopped and admired the flowers. They enjoyed them. I felt that they would be better served at the Nurses station so that they could all enjoy them. I thought it might make their tough day a little more pleasant. And by all accounts it did. But Ken was right also, I didn’t put my own happiness first. I’m not sure I even know what happiness is.

It’s July 2016 and I am in the hospital for the 3rd time that year. I had become so affected by edema (excessive swelling in the face, torso and legs) that I had to be admitted. I was being administered massive doses of diuretics to rid me of the excess fluid and bring my BP down to safe levels. If I could have summed up my mood in one 3 word sentence it would have been fuck my life. That morning I had been informed by my Nephrologist that my kidney function was in decline, that my 5 year old transplant was indeed failing. My dream of having a 15 (or longer) year stretch of good health was now gone. Apparently the disease that ruined my original kidneys was now working on round 2. I was angry. Why wasn’t I told that this could happen?

Conversation shifted from the flowers to other things. I was on day three and my days had been a blur of naps, being woken for blood work, different doctors traipsing in, a restricted diet and being up all night. Then I remembered a particularly interesting encounter from the day before.

I relayed to my brothers how my Nephrologist had come into my room, sat down and asked for a favor. He had medical students with him that day and he was having them interview select patients. Dr. G was concerned with the lack of “bedside manner” in today’s interns. There is more to “doctoring” than pills and charts he explained. He said “Bill you have a great story, will you meet my students and let them pull that story out of you?” Where was I going? I agreed.

The students had come in. I made it hard for them. They had to ask me the questions, dig into my history. They didn’t know what they were getting into. As they refined their questions they heard about personal and professional failures due to health. They heard about family issues, kids who wanted Dad to play ball but Dad couldn’t get off the sofa. They heard about losing a house and filing bankruptcy. They heard about the battle between a mind that visualizes a level of performance that the body simply cannot deliver. I got emotional at points, and they did as well. Dr. G would later thank me and tell me that my story had profoundly affected his interns.

When I was done telling Ken and Keith about this I caught Ken’s direct gaze. He excitedly said “you should write about all of this!” We talked about it some more. Maybe it would be cathartic to write about my experiences. Maybe someone would want to read it and possibly benefit from it. Most importantly, it would help me define my situation before the situation defined me.

The next morning I got a visit from my brother in Maine. After we exchanged pleasantries I saw him looking around the room cautiously. I said “let me guess…you want to know where are the flowers? Funny story…”