Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

The ride on the stationary bike was damp and chilly this mid-February morning. However, what I saw in the world of birds on and around the feeders in our back yard confirmed a suspicion of mine formed last week.

Riding along, I saw more than one bird fussing with another, and not always for the sunflower seeds in the feeders and on the ground underneath them. It seemed that everywhere in the back-yard birds were glaring at each other or chasing another of the same breed or carrying on in a frenzy of, yes, spring. Perhaps the most dramatic display was by two brown thrashers: One would chase the other until the chased thrasher turned as if to scold the chaser who retreated a few paces. Then they would individually hunt for seeds, then the chase would begin anew. I finally lost sight of them when they disappeared into one of the large azaleas. The morning ride was easier because I watched the birds instead of the bike odometer, and the time of exercise was past.

However, as I later thought of the birds’ display of early mating, I thought of how the important cycles of the world go on, often without our noticing. We get so captivated by secular happenings we lose sight of the ageless cycles of life of our only planet. But the words of Solomon should be remembered and appreciated each day: “To everything there is a season….”

The natural world has much to offer. Yes, it is violent and harsh at times. Yes, it is beautiful and refreshing at times. But we are to be its stewards “to dress it and to keep it.” Yet, when we get too obsessed with the secular world we have made, such as the political one, we lose sight and appreciation of the natural world that surrounds us. When we become too self-important, we forget that we are just one of the many creations of Him. We are made in His image, yes, but if we allow that fact to “go to our heads” we run the risk of losing sight of our place in the totality of life.

All the birds are doing it—preparing for a new cycle of life. They, like the lily of the field, do what they do. Perhaps if we each got out more, leaving the cell phone in the house, and walk around our block, seeing the world as it is and not as some news channel reports it, we would see that we only have each other, all of us made by Him, who does not make trash.

By Roger Barbee

            In the epic poem,  The Odyssey, Odysseus returns to his home island after being absent for twenty years. Because the suitors have taken possession of his home, he must return unrecognized in order to attack them by surprise. He arrives home disguised by Athena as a beggar, and he goes to the hut of Eumaios, the keeper of pigs, in order to plan his attack on the suitors. Not knowing who the beggar is, Eumaios treats him with courtesy and feeds him and gives him a place to sleep. When the disguised master thanks his servant for being kind, Eumaios responds, “…rudeness to a stranger is not decency.”

            During the years that I taught Homer’s great poem, I required my students to memorize such lines as that of Eumaios and those of other characters from the poem.  The students then had to relate the chosen quotation to their lives by demonstrating a basic understanding of the quotation and explaining how it was still relevant in their post 2000 world. However, my students and I not only discussed what Homer had to say about hospitality to the sojourner, but also what other ancient writers such as Paul meant when they told followers to  “practice hospitality.” In the ancient world, sojourners needed safe and clean places to spend the nights because the few available inns were full of bandits, prostitutes, and vermin. So, for safety, a traveler looked for a kind person such as Eumaios to share the long, dark night. I suppose, as my students will attest,  in some ways we are all sojourners at times. At various moments in our lives, we have been that traveler looking for a haven for a night, a day, an hour even. And, oftentimes, we have looked for that friendly face to offer us warmth and kindness and understanding about our travels.

            Homer’s use of the lowly swineherd as one of two servants to help his long absent master is, I think, a choice of genius. As many readers may know, a pig parlor is not the most elegant place there is. Raven’s Rock, the home of Eumaios, was a smelly and rather vile place a long distance from the manor house. The swineherd undoubtedly would have smelled much like his charges. And, because of his position he would have held a low rung in the social order of his time. Yet, this low-ranking citizen, like the widow in the Gospels, gives out of his poverty, not his wealth. This seemingly low citizen is the one of the two servants who had remained loyal to his master and helps him rid the manor of the selfish suitors.

            All of this and more has been on my mind as I watch many concerned citizens try to build support in our country to help those in the caravan.  These last few days of damp, cold wind have, for me, been a reminder of the need to help. However, I worry that too many church attendees will choose to turn away from this need. I know that some church groups have stepped up and offered to help by word or deed or both.  I appreciate that some church groups are helping the hungry and homeless in other ways. What I can’t understand is how some church groups find reasons not to help.

            Practicing hospitality causes inconvenience. It means changing routines. It means inviting strangers who may be downtrodden into our spaces. It means being empathetic. Practicing hospitality means sharing time and talk with people who are in need of a hand up. Practicing hospitality can cause you to, as I heard a pastor say last June, “think of what you can give instead of what you don’t have.” Practicing hospitality is an opportunity for personal growth in a faith walk. Practicing hospitality means that we Christians step up and take care of the less fortunate. To do otherwise means that we are just “pew sitters” who attend service to feel better about ourselves. Are you the Christian more worried about the new floor in the fellowship hall or the one who cares about some homeless child?

            Early in The Odyssey, the sage Mentor speaks to the citizens of Ithaca (Odysseus’ home island) about the suitors taking over the manor of Odysseus and the injustice of their action. Mentor laments

the violent plundering of the great leader’s home, but he then goes on to say, “What sickens me is to see the whole community/sitting still, and never a voice … raised.” 

            There is a need in our community. If you choose, you can find many reasons not to help end that need. However, I offer you one good reason to step up and help. Again, the answer comes from ancient literature written by a tax collector turned disciple: go read Matthew 25:35-40. Then ask why you should not step up and help.

                                                            By Roger Barbee

            The hand-mixed concrete sidewalk at the front of our past Edinburg  house leads to a gently sloped bank that ends at the road. At the top of the bank is a row of large boxwoods. One does not need to be an archeologist to surmise that at one time the sidewalk met the old road, which was of gravel, and the boxwoods were a border between it and the front yard. But in the 1950’s the gravel road was modernized at the request of its property owners and asphalt replaced the gravel; however, some owners were not fully aware of what modernization was bringing, according to my friend Gordon.

            Mr. Wolf, who farmed at the end of the country road next to the North Fork, had the habit, according to his daughters, of stepping on his “lucky rock” each time he would walk to town. His “rock” was a piece of limestone that protruded above the gravel where the country road met Route 11. When the state paved the road, his lucky rock was scrapped away, and the bed of the road no longer followed the contours of the land. Small rises were cut out and dips were filled in to make the road more level. So, the bank in front of our house was cut lower, causing the sidewalk to lead to a small cliff, and other modern engineered changes to the land altered the contour of Old Bethel Road. What had been a sort of safe, old path for feet, hooves, wheels, and the occasional tire was now a road of modern means.

            Wendell Berry describes a path as “…little more than a habit that comes with knowledge of a place. It is a sort of ritual of familiarity.  As a form, it is a form of contact with a known landscape. It is not destructive. It is the perfect adaptation, through experience and familiarity, of movement to place; it obeys the natural contours; such obstacles as it meets it goes around.” The new road does not follow the landscape, but altered it. The new road, which allows much higher speed than the old one, so people may not see the landscape. The new road covered Mr. Wolf’s lucky rock and other familiar objects created from experience. However, many people will see the paved road as cleaner, safer, and easier to maintain. Those are good reasons to pave a gravel road, but I want to see the old and new road as a metaphor for our present culture.

            Recently I read an interview with a cancer survivor who decided to create a new line sympathy cards. Emily McDowell wanted to create cards for people who “did not know what to say” to a friend who was recovering from a serious illness such as cancer or just going through one of life’s tough times. She received good feedback concerning her honest cards, and she soon teamed with Kelsey Crowe, an empathy scholar who founded an organization called Help Each Other Out where she teaches people how to empathize in times of illness or difficult times. My question: Have we become, as a culture, so void of valid emotions that we need a book to guide us on how to feel for each other and how to express that feeling? 

            I argue that we need more paths in our lives. It seems to me that we have literally and figuratively built so many roads in our lives that we do longer see the landscape and have lost familiarity with its intricate features, such as a projecting piece of limestone that becomes a “lucky stone.” We move so quickly and are so busy that we have forgotten how to express sincere empathy for our fellow humans. We have such a need for so called success that we pack the lives of our children with too many activities thinking that more is better, but they may not see the landscape of their childhoods. We even pave our walking trials as if packed dirt is to be avoided at all costs.

            Of course roads fill a need in our modern world, but can we not create literal and figurative paths in our lives that show us our landscapes while offering us a chance to become familiar with our physical surroundings and neighbors. A path will slow us down on occasion, and that will help us know how to relate better with our surroundings.

By Roger Barbee

            Non-public schools reserve the right to expel a student for a rule infraction, be it one of a discipline or honor violation, or both. Also, poor academic performance may lead to a student being expelled. It is hoped that all such schools print a clear and simple set of expectations and possible consequences for their breaking in some forms for students and parents to follow. As difficult as it is for a student and school, sometimes the best action is for a student to be expelled. But, in my opinion and experience as an independent educator, expulsion should be the last recourse.

            Earlier today when I read the following in an ABC on-line article, I was disappointed: “A Christian school in Kentucky is accused of expelling a freshman student after seeing an image of her celebrating her 15th birthday with a rainbow cake and multi-colored sweater. Kimberly Alford said officials at Whitefield Academy in Louisville sent her an email last week with the image of her daughter, Kayla, and informed her that Kayla was no longer a student.”

            Whitefield Academy, like all non-public schools, maintain its right to expel a student as mentioned earlier. Fine. Yet what I cannot understand, if the mother is correct, why did the head of school notify the student and parent via an email? I understand that the photograph of a student can cause alarm for a school when the school sees the picture as going against one or more of its core beliefs. Alford says that the head of school told her when she called that the cake and sweater represented gay pride, not a core belief of Whitefield.

            On its web page, Whitfield lists its Core Values. Two of them are: Compassion and respect for all people. Whitefield Academy believes each individual is uniquely created by God and endowed with specific gifts and abilities. These gifts and abilities, encourage mutual respect, promote Christian love and provide motivation to resolve conflict in a peaceable and Biblical manner (Matthew 18:15-35). Commitment to family values. Whitefield Academy exists to serve Christian families in the process of education. As such, the school is supportive of family issues and concerns. We exist to strengthen the family through a balanced educational program that considers the academic and relational needs of the family (Psalm 127).

            As a Christ follower, I am aware of the Bible’s teachings on homosexuality. I am also a reader of the Gospels, and as I understand them, especially Luke, I appreciate the two Core Values of Whitfield that I quoted. But, how can the head of school believe in them, if a student is expelled via an email. What kind of compassion/respect and commitment to family values does that demonstrate? Shame on that type of Christianity.

The question is not the policy of Whitfield, but the procedure it followed in expelling its student. I hope it will look at its Core Values and follow them the next time a student breaks a rule.

By Roger Barbee

            Robert Fitzgerald, the highly regarded translator of Homer, writes in his postscript of The Odyssey: “… It [The Odyssey] can no more be translated into English than rhododendron can be translated into dogwood. You must learn Greek if you want to experience Homer….” Not a reader of any foreign language, I am glad to have such a translator as Fitzgerald who admits that his craft is not sufficient to do justice to the original.  I recently encountered David Bentley Hart’s new translation of the New Testament which I enjoy and use. In our Sunday School, we are reading and studying The Forgotten Jesus by Robby Gallaty to better the Eastern Rabbi, Jesus.

            Reared as a Southern Baptist, I grew up reading or hearing the KJV translation of the Bible. As an adult I wandered– sometimes a Catholic, a Lutheran, a Brethren, and sometimes a none. Yet, as an English teacher, I read and sometimes taught stories from the KJV. No translation I read had its poetry and grace. We memorized the 23^rd Psalm and Lord’s Prayer and knew what the archaic words meant. And out of the KJV I held to certain beliefs, such as from Matthew 13:55: “Is not this [Jesus] the carpenter’s son?” Then last week I read in Gallaty this: “Read aloud Matthew 16:18; 21:24; and 1 Peter 2:4-5. If Jesus likely grew up working with stones as His father did, ….” I thought Gallaty had made a huge mistake or the printer did, but when I asked Pastor Steve about the passage, I learned that my understanding of Josephs’ craft was wrong and came to realize that I had been a lazy reader of Scripture who accepted Church tradition. As if to follow that experience, this past week in Wednesday night Bible study, Pastor Jerry taught about sheep and shepherd. Another enlightening followed by my friend Mike who directed me to my favorite commentator, William Barclay, and his view of Mark 6: 1-6.

            I faced my arrogance and re-read and listened. I discovered the various meanings of tekton. I learned about the relationship between a 1^st century shepherd {poimen) and his sheep, I felt like some of the disciples who asked Jesus to explain certain parables. For a brief and silly time, I felt as if I had been betrayed by my cherished KJV. But as I listened to my two Pastors, I came to realize that, just as I had told my students of literature, I had to be an active reader of my text and commentaries. I had to see the wisdom of Gallaty and his guidance into the life of an Eastern Rabbi during the 1^st Century.  It was then that I came to see Joseph and Jesus as craftsmen (Hart and Barclay’s word) or carpenters, or handymen and could grasp the idea of Jesus as a shepherd over His flock. Then I came to a deeper understanding of foundations and shepherds.

            And perhaps I will try to lean Greek. Then I will not be dependent on any translator.

By Roger Barbee

One advantage for me during the pandemic is that there is more time for reading. While it is true that I, as a retired person, did  not have the pressures of a job and young family before the pandemic, there was time for outside activities, such as church and meals in restaurants. The pandemic has caused those activities and others to be curtailed, so more reading has filled the slot.

One day this past week, I decided to re-read A Month in the Country, the delightful and powerful novel by J.L. Carr. The author states in the foreword that he was trying to write  “a rural idyll along the lines of Thomas Hardy’s Under the Greenwood Tree.” Carr accomplishes that and more in his story of Tom Birkin’s brief time in a remote Yorkshire village after the Great War as he restores a church painting depicting the apocalypse and his own re-healing seen through his eyes years hence.

In 2000 or so a fellow teacher recommended Carr’s short novel, and since then I have read it several times, given copies as gifts to fellow teachers and friends, and even owned a signed first edition. However, I gave that copy to my friend Druin who lives near Oxford, England. I had introduced Druin to Carr one summer while working in Pembroke College, and he is the one who pilfered my copy of The First Saturday in May, Carr’s nostalgic remembrance of a cricket match in 1936. Over the years, every time I mentioned First Saturday, Druin admitted his taking of the book while refusing to return it; so when my wife and I visited him and his family in 2010, I decided since he had one he might as well have the other, so I gave him my signed first edition of Month-one pilfered, one gifted.

Another friend that I shared Carr with was Joy, a lady and poet who I worked with at NCS for ten years. She was quite a literary person who enjoyed a strong poem, a well-crafted story, and chocolate. She was my best editor until her death, at age 90, in January 2020. (I often think that her death from heart failure was a foretelling of the dreadful year to follow.) Years ago I had introduced Joy and Druin via email and read many of their literary discussions with awe. One, a writer in Northwest DC and the other in Oxford, England, both sharing their delight in writers such as Carr and many more. Druin and I enjoyed Joy’s pleasure when she received, unannounced, a copy of Druin’s latest book, The Shape of Things to Come.

Now here I was removing the thin paperback from a bookshelf before I settled in to read a bit before the urge to nap took control. But I quickly became puzzled  by what I saw on the insider page when I opened the book,  However, the puzzlement soon evolved into a pleasing appreciation for life’s unannounced moments.  In the upper right-hand corner was a pasted label with Joy’s full name and address. A neat, diagonal line crossed through the label and below it in Joy’s neat hand was written: “From Roger B. 2/14/01” but below that line was written: “To Roger B. 9/23/15.” I had given her this copy of Month not long after I had “discovered” it, and she returned it for some reason fourteen years later. I flipped through the book and noticed pencil highlights that I had made during some reading but stuck between pages 22 and 23 was a bright colored piece of paper on which Joy had written these words from the novel: “And, at such a time, for a few of us there will always be a tugging at the heart, knowing a precious moment gone and we not there.”

I am writing this on Christmas Eve afternoon and wondering at how good literature and good friends intertwine in our lives. This past year, such a difficult one that has been full of toil and trouble and death, is also the one of Joy’s death. But the lines she copied onto that sheet of paper tell much about her and all of us. James, the brother of Jesus,  writes, “For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

I did not nap, but instead placed Joy’s copy of Month beside my signed copy of Carr’s What Hetty Did in the class bookcase.. No longer will the small paperback sit on the shelf for reading copies.  Once in her last year, Joy told me that she was having too much fun living to die. That was all! No fear of death. No tugs of her heart.  Just a recognition and appreciation for life’s “precious moments.”

By Roger Barbee

Soon following our move to Lake Norman almost five years ago, my wife Mary Ann looked for a representative for a particular beauty product she used. Scanning a long list of saleswomen, she randomly chose one and called her. After their long conversation had finished, Mary Ann came to the library to tell me how pleasant Terri the saleswoman was and how much she looked forward to working with her. It was then that her phone rang, and Terri asked, “Did you say your husband’s name was Roger?”

In 1823 the English Romantic poet, Lord Byron, wrote his poem, Don Juan, in which he writes: “‘ Tis strange – but true; for truth is always strange; /Stranger than fiction; if it could be told,…” Over the years many other writers have expressed the same idea in various words, but no matter what version is written, all readers eventually learn the truth of Byron’s words.

There it was for me: Strange but True;  Life not Fiction.  The husband of Terri and I had wrestled against each other in high school. Mike wrestled for Mooresville High School, and I for A.L. Brown in Kannapolis. We competed in the same weight class for two years over fifty years ago and now we meet again, just not on a wrestling mat.

We four had the obligatory lunch to meet and talk and explore. Mike and I then continued sharing lunches, coffee in my shop, and he guided me around our new home, Lake Norman, which he knew well because his career was with the power company that built the Lake.  We soon discovered that we had much in common.: Both of our hometowns had been textile towns when we were wrestling against each other; our parents had worked in the mills; we lived in mill houses, and both of those houses are still family occupied. So much, besides wrestling, shared.

Each week he would call and ask, “Want a coffee?” then in a few minutes he would appear with a soda for himself and the promised coffee for me. Each weekly visit found Mike helping me with some project in the yard or my shop. He is most responsible for the deck that expanded my small shop– giving me much needed work space. A trained engineer, he made certain it was correct and safe. Exact, even. He would rake the abundant pine needles fallen from the 42 pine trees in our yard to use for mulch in his gardens.  Our weekly visit often included lunch, and when we ate at his favorite fast-food eatery, he would pull a rash of coupons from a pocket before paying and say, “A poor man spends money like he is rich, but a rich man spends it like he is poor.”  Then as we ate, some finer points of theology or politics would be discussed. I will always remember how he once looked at me during one of these “discussions” and asked, “Are you that naïve?”

When I work with a project on the deck that Mike more or less built or move in my wheelchair around the yard gleaning pine cones, I see his presence. The bluebird nesting-box with the red roof still graces the pine tree where he fastened it after I “mentioned” to him how it needed to be there. When I admired a long row of irises in a neighbor’s yard, I asked Mike one day as we returned from a road trip to knock on the unreachable (for my wheelchair) door to inquire if I could have some. The kind, elderly lady must of approved of Mike because she gave me permission to take any irises I wanted, and now next to the back garden gate is a small, varied-colored growth of purple irises that Mike and I planted; and, like our friendship, it grows and thickens and blooms.

Both our lives, like all lives, have had their dips and twists and failures and mountaintops. But for two boys from the mill hills of small, textile towns, we have been blessed and have done well. And as I share life with Mike long after our competitive days, I appreciate more and more the odd, interesting, and fulfilling paths that we all travel, whether planned or not. Mary Ann and I moved to Lake Norman not knowing that the “Stranger than fiction” of Byron would happen, and that a friendship would be forged out of a time long ago when two scrappy, mill-hill boys competed against each other. Byron also writes that “…truth is always strange.”  He’s right, of course, but not always in the way it may appear. It’s not strange that Mike and I respected each other as wrestlers. Nor is it strange that there is something deeper now.

By Roger Barbee

(This is a book review by Roger. This is a topic that needs our prayer.)

The Face of Addiction: Stories of Loss and Recovery

Joshua Lawson

Quoir,  $7.95 softcover

A dozen voices from southern Ohio along the Ohio River reveal the humanity behind addiction. These dozen daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, and others speak honestly to Joshua Lawson. In their sharing, they show that they are not to be shunned, but to be loved and valued because what they have is an illness, a disease like any other.

As a culture, we too often agree with a sheriff’s words that the only cure for an addict is “a tall tree and a short rope.” In making the users of the “opioid crisis” invisible faces, we make them enemies and losers and worse. But they are, as shown in these interviews, victims of sexual abuse, parental mistreatment, emotional trauma, and other ills. Being addicted to any drug, we learn over and over from these interviews, is not a choice but a result.

Lawson brief book is a testament to St. Paul’s words in Romans 7:19 and because of those words, we need to love the addict and help each of the many of them in our midst realize that they, too, are a child of God. Blaming is not a cure, but validating is.

By Roger Barbee

Morning rides on my stationary handcycle have led to many friendships.  On one of those rides just after our move here four years ago, a man walked up and asked me, “How much of that [the riding on the handcycle] do you do?” As another friend says about our chance encounter, “A beautiful way it happened.”

Mr. John Davidson lives near us,  and after his four years of naval service during the Korean War,  he taught math in Statesville High School.  Once when I inquired if he had taught algebra or geometry or calculus, he responded, “No, math! You know, like six times six equals thirty-six.” Math! A discipline too often ignored in today’s educational world. His wife also taught, and they moved to the lake in the early 1980’s  and reared three children. Their home and yard reflects the disciplined order of his appreciation for math. While not stuffy or overly ordered, the yard, home, and outbuildings reflect attention to detail, such as the many stones carefully placed around trees, plantings, and the driveway. All is ordered but not rigid. You know! Six times six.

Mr. John, as I know him, recently sold his last sailboat. He first sailed on a Japanese lake while on R&R during the Korean War. His joy of sailing grew from that brief experience, and he was, until recently, an active sailor on Lake Norman. However, that great equalizer–age– made it necessary to sell his last sailboat, but his passion for the simple beauty of sailing still lives, and he is fond of telling stories of his sailing adventures. During one of my morning rides he walked by and upon meeting Ken, another neighbor who moved here from Rhode Island, he discovered their shared love for boating and that they had boated on the same New England lakes. The chatter that morning around the stationary bike was more than I could compete with, so I listened and enjoyed their talk.

While age has curbed his sailing, Mr. John’s age has not affected his operation of the ham radio, and each morning, very early, he is busy talking with his many friends across the globe. More than once he has tried to get me involved in this hobby by joyfully sharing the fun he gains from it. But that is what Mr. John does: He shares the joy he has gained from life.

So many events and encounters in life happen by chance. And as I age, I realize more and more how often we come to understand that whatever happens by chance is often a “beautiful thing.” At the moment whatever “it” was probably did not appear special, but as “it”  moved with that great equalizer time, the beauty of “it” blossomed like a Christmas cactus that we can hold dear and, like young Mary, ponder in our hearts.

So, Mr. John, on your 92 birthday, know that I hold your friendship, wisdom, and keen sense of humor close. Your walking by that morning years ago did happen in a beautiful way.

By Roger Barbee

He was one of the many young Americans who was part of the planned invasion force of Japan in 1945. Because of the fierce defenses shown by the Japanese on Iwo Jima and Okinawa, the  United States military leaders rightly anticipated a similar defense of the Japanese homeland. The young American soldiers assembled for the invading force stoically faced death. One of those young soldiers on the Liberty ships sailing across the Pacific Ocean, Mr. Graham, was all of 20 years old.

Mr. Graham and I met at a local restaurant shortly after  my wife and I moved to Mooresville. We had gone exploring for a good restaurant and found one that we liked. We had a good meal, and as I passed his table at which he was sharing dinner with his daughter, he reached out and asked me had I served in the military. Had I been in Vietnam? When I told him no, he apologized for bothering me, but explained that my wheelchair had caused him to think that I was perhaps a veteran. My wife continued her walk to our car, but I was struck by his manners and grace, so I stayed in the isle chatting with the dignified gentleman as his patient daughter looked on. Before I left to join my wife, we discovered that he lived at the end of our road. With that “sign” our friendship was born.

Because of his age, Mr. Graham has moved into an assisted living complex. But each week his caregiver Marilyn drives him to his house at the end of our road to check on it,  and he always stops to see me. If I am not outside in the yard or shop, he calls to inquire of my health and location. He never stays long, but his visits are packed with news, street chatter, and complaints of my religion and politics, all in good humor but loaded with a bit of salt. Over the four years during such visits, Mr. Graham and I have shared much. I know about his oil business here in Mooresville, how much he paid for his house in the early 1980’s, his religious beliefs, his four sons and one daughter, how he wishes he had been a better reader, and more. When he first told me about his wife of seventy years, Louise, a moist longing came to his eyes, and he grew silent after telling me her name. But my friendship with this 96-year-old man is also held close because he is one of the many, unnamed heroes of our country.

Mr. Graham, regretfully not a reader, probably has never heard of Wiglaf or the poem in which he demonstrates characteristics shared with Mr. Graham and his generation. In the epic poem Beowulf, the great king of that name grows old, and his kingdom is threatened by a fierce, fire-breathing dragon. He and his followers enter the lair of the dragon, but no longer the warrior he was, Beowulf suffers a mortal wound. All but one of his followers flee the lair, but Wiglaf remains to fight by his king’s side, and he slays the beast as Beowulf dies.

Because of President Truman, Mr. Graham and the other young men would not have to invade Japan. But all the other soldiers on Liberty ships along with him, willed themselves to do what was being asked.  They were prepared to invade Japan, but as is written in Beowulf, “Fate goes as Fate must” and they were spared that peril.

At an age in 1945 that today causes parents to worry if a child drives on an interstate, Mr. Graham and his generation walked into the lair of the enemy, just as did Wiglaf. Not because they wanted to, but because duty to a cause larger than they demanded it.