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7月18日 The Sod of KansasWhen I first started kicking, I lived in a “soddy” —a sod house. I have a picture of my mother there, and I was with her, but they didn’t know at that time whether I was a boy or a girl. Then our new frame house was finished, and we moved into it. A few weeks after the move, I was born on October 3, 1902…Our home was on a farm three miles southeast of Quinter, in the high plains of western Kansas…
And so began the life of Ralph Waldo McBurney as related in his autobiography, My First 100 Years, published by Leathers Publishing in 2004, and re-published on audio CD by AudioBookMan in 2007—Waldo’s life story, in his own words, and in his own voice.
I won’t spoil the story by telling you about his life. He wrote and read a book that will tell you that, and besides, I couldn’t recount it nearly as well as the one who lived it. And I won’t tell you about his faith, philosophy, or accomplishments. His writings capture such facts and relate them adequately. What I will tell you about is the extraordinary man I was privileged to meet and who shared the most precious of commodities—his time.
I arrived in Quinter after two letters and one phone call. I offered a proposal, he asked a few intelligent questions, I answered them, and my offer was accepted. As promised, Waldo called to invite me to Quinter when he was ready. From those few exchanges, I knew I was dealing with an old-style businessman—the kind who is happy only if all parties are served well in a transaction.
His letters were in legible longhand, and his phone voice was strong. Words were carefully chosen, truthful, serious. If I had not known beforehand, I never would have believed that my correspondent was 104 years of age. At our first in-person meeting, we adopted a work schedule that I nearly objected to as overly ambitious, but there was work to be done, and Waldo had obligations other than entertaining this youngster for too long. I remember chuckling at the thought of negotiating for the sequel, My Second 100 Years, but I didn’t think I’d live long enough to publish it.
We worked closely for four and one-half days—long enough to note some similarities and grow fond of one another despite the half-century age difference. He treated me like family, and introduced me to his town as though I was a son come home to visit after a long voyage. Taking leave was difficult, and was only accomplished by the promise of an event to celebrate the release of our audio book collaboration a few months hence. To my delight, his family suggested a combination book release/birthday party near the beginning of October when Waldo would turn 105 years of age.
The party and the book were successes. When Waldo the businessman totaled up the sales for Waldo the author, he confided to me that he had worried about the potential of my idea, and then he paid me the highest compliment I could have received by saying that I had taught him something. But that was part of Waldo’s success—never stop learning.
I went numb when I read the words, “Sad to let you know of Waldo’s passing at 9:00 PM tonight, July 8, 2009.”
Waldo returns to the sod of the high plains of western Kansas. The sod he watered with his sweat and fertilized with his footsteps may hold his remains, but it cannot hold him. Today, Heaven’s band has a new harmonica player, and Waldo has a centuries worth of accumulated stories to tell. 7月16日 How To Mislead HistoryCartography was not my forte, so I doubt that I could find it again, but it tells my storied past and still holds what I held dear.
Confederate money, a fireman's badge earned, and wire cables—useless bundles on their way to be used again, providing sustenance through their journey.
Some future hiker, an anthropologist perhaps, or a fortune seeker with a metal detector, might pass by this mountainside resting place, dig beneath the black stone marker, and make assumptions that are not true.
They will reassemble a fiction about a firefighter from the 1860s, who, for the cause, breached the dividing line, pushed his way into northern Pennsylvania for wire to win their war.
They will craft a teary end wherein the hero buried his valuables lest they be stolen at his capture, and his war was lost for the want of wire, and he was never heard from again.
It was not my intent to mislead; I’m sure I hardly understood the concept.
Perhaps essential clues were missing—the bubble gum scent long gone from the play money, and the Maxwell House blue was rusted away.
It is the time capsule of an eight-year old.
My worldly treasures in a coffee can. |
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