Mandy Newham-Cobb illustration
I’m a walker. I walk for several reasons, not the least of which is a triglyceride count which tends to rival the number of laps in the Coca-Cola 600. That and it gives me time to think about things.
Now, I’m a specific type of walker. I’m not a mall walker. We haven’t got a mall in my little town. And I am not a power walker. I’m not really a power anything. And we needn’t mention streetwalker, for obvious reasons. What I am is a sidewalk walker—the reason being that if I tried to walk on the twisting county roads out where we live, I’d last about as long as the roadkill that litters those broken white lines. And walking on the sidewalk is easy and safe, and it’s only five miles into town where they have such conveniences. In our little town, gridlock is two pickup drivers stopped in the middle of the street discussing their sweet potato crops. So even crossing against the light isn’t exactly Russian roulette.
A while back I was trucking along at the blazing pace of 3.2 miles an hour (by my phone’s GPS), listening to Nancy Griffith on Pandora and contemplating the fact that I had passed my 65th birthday and wondering how in the world that could be possible, when I noticed an elderly African-American gentleman slowly making his way up the sidewalk ahead. He was wearing a brown ball cap, a brown and beige plaid shirt, khaki trousers, and dazzling electric blue and metallic silver running shoes. I didn’t want him to be startled as I overtook him, so as I drew near I said, “Hey, how ya doing.”
He stopped and looked around, smiled, and said, “Not so good. I’m dizzy.”
It was unusually warm, so I stopped and offered, “I have some water here. How about a drink? Or maybe if we find you a place to sit in the shade for a little while you’ll feel better.”
The old fellow shook his head and said, “Thanks, but I’m always dizzy.”
We walked on a few steps and stopped in the shade of an overhanging dogwood branch, and I asked, “Always dizzy? Why is that?”
“Been that way ever since I started over.” He could see the question forming in my head and answered it before I could ask. “See, I started my life over when I was 72. Ten years ago I was in an automobile accident out on Highway 64, this side of Rutherfordton. Hit my head hard. They say part of my brain was hanging out of my skull.” He removed his ball cap and rubbed his hand across a scar that literally looked like the top of his head had been removed and replaced just a bit off-center.
As it turns out, that’s exactly what happened.
He continued: “Ambulance took me to the Morganton hospital where I was pronounced D.O.A. They told my wife when she got there that I had passed. Then, for some reason my heart started beating again on its own. They flew me in a helicopter to Mission Hospital in Asheville where they operated on me. I was in a coma for a year and a half. Then I woke up one day and didn’t remember anything. Not a single thing. Not my wife, not who I was, didn’t know how to read my own name or what a ham sandwich was. Never heard of Jesus, Jackie Robinson, or Franklin Roosevelt. Wondered why my doctor was pink and I was black. Didn’t know lime Jell-O from green beans. And I was dizzy. Still am, but walking helps some so I try to get out and walk a little every day if I’m able. And I’m still learning who I am and what things are.”
As I stood there speechless, he smiled and continued. “My wife has told me all about our lives, how we met and fell in love. About our parents, siblings, and school. I found out that I had been a carpenter and a deacon in our church. That we never had any children. And, I have friends who come to visit. Oh, somebody will stop in every day or so to talk about the past. It’s fun to meet them and hear about things that we did. I know their faces now. I know my friends now when I see them. I know who I am because of them.”
I offered my hand and he took it. “My name is Michael. And now you know me, too.”
He grinned and said, “My name is Tom. If I knew you before I’m glad to meet you again. I’ll be looking out for you, Michael.”
He turned north, and I watched him shuffle off.
Stories are everywhere.