THE LUNAR REPORT - SPECIAL EDITION - "THAT'S ALL"

All the man wanted was his home office back.  He wanted his desk, his computer and enough room to situate his new chair in front of his old keyboard.  That’s all.

He had used that keyboard for several years.  For many years before it was a typewriter and telephone.  And face-to-face engagements never scared the man.

He had a very successful career with that stuff.  He was a pioneer in his field, I’ve been told.

He was a family man.  A pretty good one.  He had a beautiful wife who had a notable career as well.  Together they struggled through careers, moves, financial crises, more moves, muggings and even more moves still.  All the while, he and his beautiful wife neglected their six independent and unique daughters not one second.  Even as the girls found adult struggles of their own, the man was there for each of them.  So was his wife.

His girls are spread all over the lower 48.  Arizona, Texas, New York, New Jersey and North Carolina.  The couple lived in Maryland.  Outside DC.

I got to know the man and his wife through their youngest daughter.  I was with that daughter during a rather important transition for her.  It was a time when she discovered her artistic talent.  I was with her at a rather important art show.  Her first big one.  At Topsail Beach in North Carolina.  It was a big couple of days for that daughter.  She had the support of her parents.  She knew that.  But on that sun filled early fall morning, sitting beneath the wind blown white canopy that covered her work, I looked out with squinted eyes at the people passing by and stopping and looking.  Suddenly, on this storybook morning, I was speechless. And motionless.  Except for the single tear running down my right cheek, I could easily have been mistaken for dead.  And if I had died at that very moment, I would have been the most satisfied man to ever do so.  The man and his wife were standing there, looking for their daughter, the artist.  And smiling so proudly when they found her amongst her work.  They were proud of her.  They were proud of themselves.  

They were just like that.  You know?  

Some time passed after that magical Topsail weekend.  More life.  More transitions.  For the entire family.  The transitions for my friend’s parents became a bit more serious over time.  Things weren’t looking quite as sunny for them.  

After about a year of botched hip surgeries for the man and some health issues with his wife, some Maryland medical staff or insurance company or government Medicare people or hospital “social worker” told the man and his wife that “arrangements should be made” for their care.  They chose to leave the DC area where the man had made his career for so long.  They chose the comfort of the home of his youngest daughter in North Carolina.  

On Father’s Day weekend of 2007, the family rented a truck. Most of the girls, a son-in-law and I gathered at their parents’ home in Maryland.  We loaded an old U-Haul that Saturday.  That night, I drove that truck, with bad front wheel and all, to Chapel Hill.  My hands were numb from gripping so tightly and for so long the steering wheel of that old shaking truck.  But I made it.  And on Father’s Day, my own son spent the day with me unloading and setting up the new home of this man and his wife.  It was a good day.  Later that Sunday, I met the man, his wife and daughter at the train station.  We took the couple to their new home.

My son and I made things as home-like as we could in the short amount of time we had.  But we fell short.  At least on that day.  We had failed to adequately set up the man’s home office.  But the man didn’t allow that task to lose its priority.  He insisted.  And we all listened.  And did as we were told around him.  He was just that way.  And when we did as we were told, it always brought a smile to that man’s face.  That smile was well worth all the humiliation of being an obedient order-taking adult.  He loved it.  And so did we.

Still, I didn’t know what the rush was all about.  The man was crippled.  He was 78 years old.  He was here to recuperate and gain strength and live the life of leisure in a quaint old southern town.  What in the world would a home office do for him?

But, as I say, we did as we were told.  We set up that office.  The computer was placed on a table in a corner of the room.  With plenty of wheel chair floor space.  His lamp and phone were within arms reach.  Reaching his printer required just a slight move to his left.  The man was all set.  And.  I got that smile.  And a “Thank you, Moon.”  Priceless words.

It was my custom back then to join that family for dinner every night.  I was around them quite a bit each day, but always for dinner.  A few evenings, I would find the man in his office.  He trusted me to man the back of the wheel chair and wheel him from that office to the dinner table those few nights.  He didn’t say much about the “work” he had been doing.  Not during those first few days of having his office back.  And I did appreciate his trust.

But one evening, I learned that he had accomplished something.  It was what he set out to accomplish.  For days, he had been working on this. Consumed with the task and anxious about its outcome.  A 78-year-old man in a wheel chair.  With a wife in not so good health.  Living away from that DC culture and comfort hundreds of miles away.  Yet, he was excited about his future and what he had done that day.

I had only seen the man that proud one other time.  That sunny fall day in Topsail.  But this time, he was proud of only himself.

I caught a glimpse of his work.  It was printed out and placed on his desk.  It was maybe four or five pages long.  At the head of the first page of that document was, “John Keller, Chapel Hill, North Carolina.”  Below his name and address was his resume.  His resume.  His updated resume.

So late in life.  With so much uncertainty looming.  This man was still looking forward.  Trying to find work.  Trying to do what he did.  Trying to be who he was.  

John Keller never got the work he was working towards.  He moved on to a new place that required no printed resume for his acceptance.  On July 11, 2007, three years ago today and just days after completing his task and feeling such pride, John died.  

Until the very end, the man tried.  John Keller faced change head on.  Big change.  And he moved on with courage and boldness that would make Churchill cringe.  

John got his home office.  For a short while.  What he taught me about change and courage and strength will live with me for quite a long while.

Thank you, Keller.
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Posted by David Moon at 7/11/2010 10:06 AM
Categories: People

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