Sunday Quiet
I sat in the choir room, in the back corner, and waited for the next church service. I enjoyed my quiet time- the key words are “my” and “quiet”, and I enjoyed singing in the choir. Every Sunday I was home I would show up at 8 a.m. and join the choir for all three services. I attended the middle service after the choir sang at the beginning. It was a normal, comfortable routine. When not singing or attending the service, I found a nice, quiet corner in the back of the choir room to read.
One day, an old man came in the room and walked over and sat down a few chairs away. I can’t remember how it started, but my quiet time between the 8 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. services changed. Vern, that was his name, was 88 years old. His wife died the year before, and it was hard on him. He dressed in a black suit, white shirt and tie. Week after week, on Sunday mornings, he would find me out and come sit next to me. We would talk about whatever came to his mind. He was a veteran of the Navy. He was in a minesweeper. “The only wooden ships left in the Navy,” he would say. He would tell me about the big storms they went through, how the ship almost rolled over, the different troubles they had, and how he was commended for his service by the Commanding Officer. He brought in the actual Commendation, yellowed and typed on an actual typewriter, and proudly read it to me.
Vern grew up on a small farm in Nebraska, one of seven children. He was the only surviving child. He told me about each one of his siblings, how one married and had all girls, and one had all boys, with amazement in his voice. He told me about life on the farm. He told me about the Oregon Trail, how it cut through their farm, and how you can even see the ruts left in the dirt. Once he and his sister had to go out and double feed the cows when a particularly bad blizzard was settling in. He was about 10 and his sister was 12. After they rolled the hay off the back of the old truck, they headed back the five miles to the house and realized the road was drifted over and they couldn’t see it. In addition, they couldn’t see through the windshield with the snow and ice sticking to it. So, Vern got out on the running board, while his sister drove, and he gave her directions. They ended up driving across the pasture, into the teeth of the storm, to a cross fence, then driving the fence line a mile until they hit a road that was protected in the river bottom. Vern got down and pulled the staples from the barbed wire post so they could drive through the fence and on to the road and make their way home. He said his feet were frostbitten so bad, the bottom layer of skin came off a week later. He said it hurt pretty bad.
His stories and adventures were entertaining. Some were funny, some bittersweet, but I never doubted they were true. One story about a mule had me shaking my head and laughing at the same time.
“The County Fair was a big event every year,” he told me. They had the usual events with cows, sheep, and pigs. Kids would show their animals for ribbons. Moms would bake pies and Dads would go to the turkey shoot. One event that intrigued Vern was the Quarter Horse race. The organizers would get eight or ten horses lined up and would lead them out with a Pace Horse around a track. When the Pace Horse got to the start line, it would pull off the course and the Quarter Horses would take off, finishing in front of the stands. There was a cash prize for each race with six races in a day.
One day, Vern rode their mule, Bob, to the Fair. He asked to enter the race, and was told, “Sure, we have room, kid.” So, Vern rode Bob to the track. He got some looks riding Bob, the mule. He and Bob were in the gaggle of Quarter Horses when they hit the start line. The Pace Horse veered off the course and the horses took off. Vern was riding bareback with no bridle, and when the horses took off, Bob took off too and Vern went off the back. He got up, dusted himself off and watched as riderless-Bob won the race by three lengths. The people in the stands were cheering and laughing in equal parts. They’d never seen a mule run like that. Vern was hoping he’d made some money, but they said no. Only First Place got money, and they had a rule about riderless mules, or horses for that matter.
He caught Bob, and this time he borrowed a rope and looped it around Bob’s neck. “I wasn’t going to let that jerk drop me like that again!” he said. The next race, he noticed the crowd doubled in size and he heard the words “mule” and “Bob” and “fast”. He was a veteran racer now, and he was ready when the herd took off. He thinks Bob took offense to his whooping and kicking, because for the rest of the races he never finished higher than third and only first place got the money. Vern laughed when he remembered his Dad saying, “a lot of money was won and lost on that mule that day!”
Vern and I still see each other every Sunday. Like old friends, I’ve heard his stories many times. I don’t need to do much more than nod and pay attention and sometimes ask the appropriate question at the appropriate time. When he tells me about how he gives every grandchild a new $2 bill every Christmas and they think it’s fake money, I laugh. I will help him with his dealings with the Veteran’s Administration and check to make sure he’s doing what he needs to get his disability payments.
It occurred to me I was looking forward to listening to Vern on Sundays. Then, it occurred to me Vern was a good friend. He is an old man that wanted someone to talk to, and I’m the one that got blessed.
