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“Which way to the Bishop Athletic Complex?”
There was a fork in the Chehalis River Walkway along which I was traveling for the first time on a pleasant summer morning miles inland from the Washington coast. The sun was obscured by the typical morning coastal cloud bank; the layer wasn’t very heavy – it was easily going to burn off and turn into another beautiful sunny day.
The map along the trail hadn’t shown a fork; I was confused. Luckily, there was a man riding toward me from one of the forks; he’d certainly know the way. We approached the fork simultaneously, exchanging “Good morning,” and I asked my question without stopping. He stammered. I asked again, pointing in the direction I had chosen, riding away from him, hoping he’d quickly answer and affirm my choice. He had now stopped at the fork, nodded at the route I’d chosen, but then said that the direction he’d just come from was a shortcut.
I hopped off of my unicycle, a little confused, turned around and approached the man and his light-blue bicycle. “That way,” pointing in the direction from which he had just ridden, “leads to the Westport highway.” I didn’t want to ride along the highway; wasn’t there was a path that lead from the base of the Chehalis River Bridge to the athletic complex? “Yes, you can get there going that way,” gesturing towards the route I had chosen, ”but the highway is quicker.”
His eyes were curious. “I’m scouting,” answering his unasked question. “I’d like to take my unicycle group on this trail, but I need to ride it first. I don’t think the highway is the direction the kids should ride. I have my rig at B and B Auto and thought I’d use my time in a fun way.”
“B and B?” my direction giver responds. “ Ah, I know Butch. Good guy. I take my car there from time to time.”
“Are there park benches ahead?” I ask. He was wearing a faded U. S. Navy ball cap, faded blue jeans, and a flannel shirt. The cap was well-worn. Years of sweat stains showed, inching upward from the brim, covering the bottom of the embroidered stitching.
“Yes, there are benches. They serve food when they have, ummm…. things there. You can get concessions at the booth. You know, when they play games.”
His answer reminded me of some of my neighbor Jack’s responses before Alzheimer’s fully ensnared its tentacles into his life, leaving it difficult for him to speak intelligible words.
“Oh, we don’t have a need for concessions, just a place to sit and have a snack,” I answered. “U.S. Navy? Did you serve?” It was difficult to guess this man’s age – he seemed older than a Vietnam vet, but Korea? WWII? It was too hard to tell, and I didn’t want to insult him by guessing.
“Yes. I enlisted in 1939,” and thus began my twenty minute conversation with a complete stranger, one I might not have another opportunity, for there aren’t many men, 96 years-young, riding their bikes, willing to give the time of day to someone looking for directions on a well-marked path.
Grant Edwards (I didn’t learn his name until we were ready to part ways) is a graduate of nearby (10 miles) Montesano High School – class of 1938. He told me that he attended school there from fifth grade. Before that his family lived on a farm outside of Lynden, in a farming community (“It really wasn’t a town,” he told me). Was it Clearbrook? It started with a “C.” I hadn’t heard of the community he was referencing, but I didn’t want to interrupt his story. His father didn’t own anything. It was subsistence farming. His father left the family in 1929 and Grant never saw him again.
His mother moved to Montesano with her three children during the height of The Depression. When I asked what kind of work he did as a youth, he told me that he was part of the NYA (National Youth Administration) program, the last of the programs of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal, part of the WPA. Mr. Edwards would work at school after school five days a week as a participant in the program. The first year he worked in the school’s library, the second year he worked in the school’s mechanical room.
Upon graduating from high school Grant told me that he needed to do something to help his mother, so he joined the Navy to serve six years. “People have so many choices when they join the Navy now. I had only three, and I got my third choice – medical corpsman.”
When I asked him what he thought in December of 1941, he paused, seemed a little bewildered and asked, “1931?” I gently reminded him ’41 when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. “Oh,” he replied, “1941. I didn’t think anything. I was a Marine and I had four more years of service.”
“I wish more young people would join the service after graduating from high school and they don’t seem to have direction. The service will give you direction; and with the GI bill …. The Navy was good to me. I never had a bad assignment.”
Grant told me that he served all throughout the south Pacific, transporting troops to shore, taking back the wounded to the ship hospitals. He repeatedly told me during our conversation that he had good assignments during his enlistment, and as he did so during this part of our conversation, he bowed his head, diverted his eyes, looking at the ground to his left. I could only imagine what he was thinking; what he may be hiding from the stranger he was talking to on the path.
He spent time in Japan in 1945, telling me that when he was there he wasn’t afraid, that the Japanese he encountered were friendly towards him; they would give him anything he wanted. “Isn’t it something that we are so friendly with the Japanese now?” he asked. I notice the rusted padlock clasped to the wire bike basket attached to his handlebars. There was a round mirror attached to his left grip with a plastic yellow backing.
When his first enlistment was up, he thought that it went by quickly, so he was up for doing another four years. When those four years went by, he told me that he was half-way to retirement, and figured that he could easily do a full twenty years. He did so, retiring in 1960. “I’ve been drawing a pension ever since,” he said proudly.
“I was in that other war, you know?” He hesitated, seemingly having a hard time remembering Korea. Out of respect I didn’t want to prompt him. “Korea?” he asked himself. “Yes, Korea,” answering his own question. He didn’t elaborate, stating again that he had always had good assignments.
While Grant was enlisted he had heard that people were growing Easter lilies in Westport and making good money. Thus, when he retired from the Navy, Mr. Edwards purchased three acres in South Aberdeen to grow lilies. “It was my only business venture. It was a bust.” He couldn’t sell all his lilies locally, so he brought them to Centralia. “I got one-fourth of what I had in to them. The price had fallen out of the market.” It was then that he got a job with the local Weyerhaeuser lumber mill, working in the pulp mill.
Grant worked for Weyerhaeuser for 18 years, retiring in 1984. “I’ve been retired ever since!”
He told me that he enjoys driving through Monteasno looking at the buildings and reminiscing. He stated that he drives around sensing that there’s something that he thinks he left behind, saying that maybe he made a mistake in purchasing the land in Aberdeen.
While talking to me, Grant stood, somewhat sitting on the bike frame that he kept between his legs. He was standing on a slight incline, occasionally flexing his legs. “Ya know, I’m not too good on my legs anymore. I’m 96 and I don’t know if I’m going to see 97.” I was shocked. As a math teacher, I should have been taking note of what he told me – graduating in 1938, subtract 18 or 19 years, and I was conversing with a man born in 1919 or 1920. I had no idea he was that old. He looked so much younger.
“I bet every day is a blessing.”
“It is,” he replied. “It is. I’ve lived a full life. Each morning I’m excited to be alive. You know, I’ve had a couple falls. If I fall on this path, all I have to do is push this little button,” he pointed toward his chest, “and they’ll come for me. I’ve had a couple falls on my bike. My legs aren’t that good anymore,” he repeated. I sensed he wanted to leave.
I extended my hand, introducing myself. With a firm handshake he replied, “Grant. Grant Edwards.”
“It’s my pleasure Grant. I mean Mr. Edwards,” (trying to remember my manners and show respect). “Do you want me to help you get going on your bike? I can steady it for you.”
“No, if I just get pointed in the right direction,” he said, and with that took, one, two steps with his trusted two-wheeler between his legs. Within seconds he was peddling away from me down the pathway at full speed. A nine year old would have to work hard to keep up with him, I thought.
I waved, hoping that he would glance in his mirror as he peddled from view and wave back. Or was I hoping that I would have another chance to talk to him? For I no longer have time to talk to the others because they’ve passed away, like many of their 16.1 million comrades who served during the war.
Upon returning to B and B I asked the general manager, Jeff, about Grant. “Grant Edwards is a man’s man. It’s unlikely he would tell you if something was wrong with him. There aren’t many like him,” Jeff replied. “He probably doesn’t have much time left,” confirming what Grant told me and what one should expect of a man his age. Jeff told me of the wonderful garden Grant kept and that Mr. Edwards took care of his wife’s needs when she was blind. While taking care of her Grant would find the time to volunteer for many years at Paws, the local animal shelter. Jeff confirmed that Grant still lives in south Aberdeen, leaving me to wonder if he still lives on the land he purchased when he got out of the Navy.
“I need to get to the newspaper and see if I can get them to write his profile,” I declared. The only person I personally know currently working at the small local newspaper is the sports editor, Rob Burns, but I felt emboldened to go directly to the newspaper’s office as soon as I got my truck back. “I bet there’s quite story to be told,” Jeff agreed.
His story riveted me and awoke memories of men and women, fellow veterans of WWII, whom had given me directions and imparted life lessons to me earlier in my life. Those who were in the little known U.S. horse cavalry (later wounded and a German prisoner of war for over a year); a man who served under General Patton; an aircraft pilot so good at what he did that his commanding officer told him that he was staying in the states to become an instructor; a nurse; a seaman on a battleship who described how the whole vessel rolled when firing her 16” guns; the 4-F who worked on submarine nets; and the woman from Transylvania (why can’t I remember her name?) who survived the Holocaust and one of Hitler’s concentration camps, telling of the horrors of digging mass graves in the frozen winter ground. Men named Jack, Howard, Bob, Les, Lou, and Max.
And now Grant.
Thanks for the directions Grant. I listened to you. I reached my destination safely.
Thanks for your service (“You’re welcome,” he answered softly after I thanked him during our conversation).
Thanks for your time. I’ll be forever indebted to you.
There was a fork in the Chehalis River Walkway along which I was traveling for the first time on a pleasant summer morning miles inland from the Washington coast. The sun was obscured by the typical morning coastal cloud bank; the layer wasn’t very heavy – it was easily going to burn off and turn into another beautiful sunny day.
The map along the trail hadn’t shown a fork; I was confused. Luckily, there was a man riding toward me from one of the forks; he’d certainly know the way. We approached the fork simultaneously, exchanging “Good morning,” and I asked my question without stopping. He stammered. I asked again, pointing in the direction I had chosen, riding away from him, hoping he’d quickly answer and affirm my choice. He had now stopped at the fork, nodded at the route I’d chosen, but then said that the direction he’d just come from was a shortcut.
I hopped off of my unicycle, a little confused, turned around and approached the man and his light-blue bicycle. “That way,” pointing in the direction from which he had just ridden, “leads to the Westport highway.” I didn’t want to ride along the highway; wasn’t there was a path that lead from the base of the Chehalis River Bridge to the athletic complex? “Yes, you can get there going that way,” gesturing towards the route I had chosen, ”but the highway is quicker.”
His eyes were curious. “I’m scouting,” answering his unasked question. “I’d like to take my unicycle group on this trail, but I need to ride it first. I don’t think the highway is the direction the kids should ride. I have my rig at B and B Auto and thought I’d use my time in a fun way.”
“B and B?” my direction giver responds. “ Ah, I know Butch. Good guy. I take my car there from time to time.”
“Are there park benches ahead?” I ask. He was wearing a faded U. S. Navy ball cap, faded blue jeans, and a flannel shirt. The cap was well-worn. Years of sweat stains showed, inching upward from the brim, covering the bottom of the embroidered stitching.
“Yes, there are benches. They serve food when they have, ummm…. things there. You can get concessions at the booth. You know, when they play games.”
His answer reminded me of some of my neighbor Jack’s responses before Alzheimer’s fully ensnared its tentacles into his life, leaving it difficult for him to speak intelligible words.
“Oh, we don’t have a need for concessions, just a place to sit and have a snack,” I answered. “U.S. Navy? Did you serve?” It was difficult to guess this man’s age – he seemed older than a Vietnam vet, but Korea? WWII? It was too hard to tell, and I didn’t want to insult him by guessing.
“Yes. I enlisted in 1939,” and thus began my twenty minute conversation with a complete stranger, one I might not have another opportunity, for there aren’t many men, 96 years-young, riding their bikes, willing to give the time of day to someone looking for directions on a well-marked path.
Grant Edwards (I didn’t learn his name until we were ready to part ways) is a graduate of nearby (10 miles) Montesano High School – class of 1938. He told me that he attended school there from fifth grade. Before that his family lived on a farm outside of Lynden, in a farming community (“It really wasn’t a town,” he told me). Was it Clearbrook? It started with a “C.” I hadn’t heard of the community he was referencing, but I didn’t want to interrupt his story. His father didn’t own anything. It was subsistence farming. His father left the family in 1929 and Grant never saw him again.
His mother moved to Montesano with her three children during the height of The Depression. When I asked what kind of work he did as a youth, he told me that he was part of the NYA (National Youth Administration) program, the last of the programs of President Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal, part of the WPA. Mr. Edwards would work at school after school five days a week as a participant in the program. The first year he worked in the school’s library, the second year he worked in the school’s mechanical room.
Upon graduating from high school Grant told me that he needed to do something to help his mother, so he joined the Navy to serve six years. “People have so many choices when they join the Navy now. I had only three, and I got my third choice – medical corpsman.”
When I asked him what he thought in December of 1941, he paused, seemed a little bewildered and asked, “1931?” I gently reminded him ’41 when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. “Oh,” he replied, “1941. I didn’t think anything. I was a Marine and I had four more years of service.”
“I wish more young people would join the service after graduating from high school and they don’t seem to have direction. The service will give you direction; and with the GI bill …. The Navy was good to me. I never had a bad assignment.”
Grant told me that he served all throughout the south Pacific, transporting troops to shore, taking back the wounded to the ship hospitals. He repeatedly told me during our conversation that he had good assignments during his enlistment, and as he did so during this part of our conversation, he bowed his head, diverted his eyes, looking at the ground to his left. I could only imagine what he was thinking; what he may be hiding from the stranger he was talking to on the path.
He spent time in Japan in 1945, telling me that when he was there he wasn’t afraid, that the Japanese he encountered were friendly towards him; they would give him anything he wanted. “Isn’t it something that we are so friendly with the Japanese now?” he asked. I notice the rusted padlock clasped to the wire bike basket attached to his handlebars. There was a round mirror attached to his left grip with a plastic yellow backing.
When his first enlistment was up, he thought that it went by quickly, so he was up for doing another four years. When those four years went by, he told me that he was half-way to retirement, and figured that he could easily do a full twenty years. He did so, retiring in 1960. “I’ve been drawing a pension ever since,” he said proudly.
“I was in that other war, you know?” He hesitated, seemingly having a hard time remembering Korea. Out of respect I didn’t want to prompt him. “Korea?” he asked himself. “Yes, Korea,” answering his own question. He didn’t elaborate, stating again that he had always had good assignments.
While Grant was enlisted he had heard that people were growing Easter lilies in Westport and making good money. Thus, when he retired from the Navy, Mr. Edwards purchased three acres in South Aberdeen to grow lilies. “It was my only business venture. It was a bust.” He couldn’t sell all his lilies locally, so he brought them to Centralia. “I got one-fourth of what I had in to them. The price had fallen out of the market.” It was then that he got a job with the local Weyerhaeuser lumber mill, working in the pulp mill.
Grant worked for Weyerhaeuser for 18 years, retiring in 1984. “I’ve been retired ever since!”
He told me that he enjoys driving through Monteasno looking at the buildings and reminiscing. He stated that he drives around sensing that there’s something that he thinks he left behind, saying that maybe he made a mistake in purchasing the land in Aberdeen.
While talking to me, Grant stood, somewhat sitting on the bike frame that he kept between his legs. He was standing on a slight incline, occasionally flexing his legs. “Ya know, I’m not too good on my legs anymore. I’m 96 and I don’t know if I’m going to see 97.” I was shocked. As a math teacher, I should have been taking note of what he told me – graduating in 1938, subtract 18 or 19 years, and I was conversing with a man born in 1919 or 1920. I had no idea he was that old. He looked so much younger.
“I bet every day is a blessing.”
“It is,” he replied. “It is. I’ve lived a full life. Each morning I’m excited to be alive. You know, I’ve had a couple falls. If I fall on this path, all I have to do is push this little button,” he pointed toward his chest, “and they’ll come for me. I’ve had a couple falls on my bike. My legs aren’t that good anymore,” he repeated. I sensed he wanted to leave.
I extended my hand, introducing myself. With a firm handshake he replied, “Grant. Grant Edwards.”
“It’s my pleasure Grant. I mean Mr. Edwards,” (trying to remember my manners and show respect). “Do you want me to help you get going on your bike? I can steady it for you.”
“No, if I just get pointed in the right direction,” he said, and with that took, one, two steps with his trusted two-wheeler between his legs. Within seconds he was peddling away from me down the pathway at full speed. A nine year old would have to work hard to keep up with him, I thought.
I waved, hoping that he would glance in his mirror as he peddled from view and wave back. Or was I hoping that I would have another chance to talk to him? For I no longer have time to talk to the others because they’ve passed away, like many of their 16.1 million comrades who served during the war.
Upon returning to B and B I asked the general manager, Jeff, about Grant. “Grant Edwards is a man’s man. It’s unlikely he would tell you if something was wrong with him. There aren’t many like him,” Jeff replied. “He probably doesn’t have much time left,” confirming what Grant told me and what one should expect of a man his age. Jeff told me of the wonderful garden Grant kept and that Mr. Edwards took care of his wife’s needs when she was blind. While taking care of her Grant would find the time to volunteer for many years at Paws, the local animal shelter. Jeff confirmed that Grant still lives in south Aberdeen, leaving me to wonder if he still lives on the land he purchased when he got out of the Navy.
“I need to get to the newspaper and see if I can get them to write his profile,” I declared. The only person I personally know currently working at the small local newspaper is the sports editor, Rob Burns, but I felt emboldened to go directly to the newspaper’s office as soon as I got my truck back. “I bet there’s quite story to be told,” Jeff agreed.
His story riveted me and awoke memories of men and women, fellow veterans of WWII, whom had given me directions and imparted life lessons to me earlier in my life. Those who were in the little known U.S. horse cavalry (later wounded and a German prisoner of war for over a year); a man who served under General Patton; an aircraft pilot so good at what he did that his commanding officer told him that he was staying in the states to become an instructor; a nurse; a seaman on a battleship who described how the whole vessel rolled when firing her 16” guns; the 4-F who worked on submarine nets; and the woman from Transylvania (why can’t I remember her name?) who survived the Holocaust and one of Hitler’s concentration camps, telling of the horrors of digging mass graves in the frozen winter ground. Men named Jack, Howard, Bob, Les, Lou, and Max.
And now Grant.
Thanks for the directions Grant. I listened to you. I reached my destination safely.
Thanks for your service (“You’re welcome,” he answered softly after I thanked him during our conversation).
Thanks for your time. I’ll be forever indebted to you.