Village Squire, 1980-06, Page 15ONE DAY AT A TIME
The man who wanted to talk
Editors's note: Jim Hagarty is a 29 -year-
old staff reporter with The Beacon Herald
in Stratford. He is the former editor of The
Mitchell Advocate and wrote a weekly
column in that newspaper for the past
three years. Responses to his column are
welcomed and can be forwarded to The
Village Squire or to Mr. Hagarty, Box 456,
Mitchell.
13Y JIM HAG ARTY
I was asleep on the couch when the
phone rang.
In a state of semi-consciuosness, I lay
listening to its ringing. It took a while
before I realized 1 wasn't dreaming.
Through a fog a woman's voice on the
other end of the line introduced its owner. I
remembered the name, though vaguely.
"Billy's in the hospital," she said.
"He's 92 on Monday and he'd really like to
see you. Could you make it for his birthday
party in the afternoon?"
I hesitated, trying to put a face to Billy's
name. The woman sensed my confusion and
patiently prompted my memory with a few
details.
Two years ago I took my camera and
notebook to Billy's apartment on the
occasion of his 9Oth birthday. It was there I
met him for the first time and after an hour
of much teasing and laughing, I headed
back to the newspaper office to write a
story about him.
HE WANTED TO TALK
1 remember spending too long a time at
his place that day. I had a lot of things to do
at work and became uneasy when my first
few attempts to bid Billy farewell met with
failure. He wanted to talk. Not about
himself. I had trouble getting enough
details for a story.
But about me. He wanted to know all
about me. Was I married? Why not?
What's it like to be a reporter? Did I drive a
car? How many brothers and sisters did
I have? What did they do for a livving?
After I left, I thought to myself, "He'd
make a darned good reporter."
That's the great thing about journalism.
Your next unforgettable experience lies
around the very next corner. And spending
an hour with Billy, a retired farmer with
good humour etched into every line of his
face, was a memorable experience for me.
A WOMAN CALLED
Even though I'd forgotten him when a
woman from his church asked me to go see
him last month.
He hadn't forgoten me.
We spent another hour together, Billy
and I, in his hospital room, the day he
turned 92. He was sitting up in a chair by
the window and greeted me with a
handshake only a farmer can give.
We joked and teased, As if we'd been
lifelong friends. And 1 Sterrnbled onto
something he liked. 1 pretended he was
wealthy and scolded him for making so
much money in his lifetime that the rest of
us had been forced to go short.
Nothing could have been further from
the truth.
"You know Jim," he mused, "92 years
seems like a long time. But oh, it goes so
fast."
Now, we couldn't have that kind of talk.
"You've got a lot of years ahead of you
yet, Billy," 1 promised. And watching his
quickness of movement and mind that day,
1 almost believed that he did.
My hour with Billy buoyed my spirits.
There was iust something about him. . .
HE WASN'TTHERF
' Two weeks ago, I was back at the
hospital, to visit a relative. Before I left, 1
took a walk down to Billy's room. He
wasn't there. A nurse told me he'd been
moved to another part of the hospital,
across the street.
Next time, I thought confidently.
On Wednesday, 1 was in that other part
of the hospital. But 1 was in a hurry.
It was too late anyway. Billy passed away
quietly Wednesday morning.
"But oh, it goes so fast."
He was right.
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VILLAGE SQUIRE/JUNE 1980 PG. 13