Lessons for a Lifetime

How often do you have the opportunity to teach your kids lessons that will stay with them for a lifetime? If you are like me, the answer is pretty infrequently. But that is exactly what happened on Sunday, November 5, when my 11-year old son, Everett, and I were heading to the beach to take advantage of a beautiful fall day in Fairfield, Connecticut. 

Driving through town, we noticed some sort of gathering, which turned out to be a ceremony celebrating Connecticut-based military veterans. Everett was not pleased with my suggestion that we stop and see what the event is all about. I responded to his protests of “it will be boring” and “dad, let’s just go to the beach” with lofty promises that “life is an adventure” and “you never know what you’ll learn...”

After parking our car in the lot across the street, we began to walk over. Just a few yards ahead of us, an elderly gentleman tripped over a curb and fell. Hard. His body crumbled to the ground, his cane, eye glasses and commemorative cap exploding around him. I ran towards him, crouched down and began to help him gather his things, get his bearings, and see if he was OK. 

He had banged his head pretty good and had cuts along his face and hands, blood dripping onto his clothes and sidewalk. I instructed Everett – who had hung back a bit due to what I presumed was general caution / fear - to come closer and stay with Jimmy (real name protected) while I hurried across the street to summon help from emergency personnel, who happened to be on-site for the ceremony. I returned with a crew of very capable (and kind) emergency personnel who immediately started to work on Jimmy, gathering basic personal information, assessing his medical history, treating his injuries, and determining whether he should go to a hospital for further evaluation. 

After some back and forth and subtle, yet firm prodding from the EMS team due to a likely concussion, Jimmy agreed to go to the hospital. Not knowing if Jimmy had friends or family in the area, Everett and I remained nearby. Before the ambulance left, I told Jimmy to call me if he needed anything and provided my contact information to one of the EMS workers.

During our walk along the beach and throughout the remainder of the day, Everett and I talked about what had happened. We discussed the value of helping others in need, the challenges of growing old, the importance of volunteerism and serving one’s country (Jimmy is an Army veteran), and more. Everett – despite being a bit scared / shocked at the entire incident - was proud of what we did and that we were able to help Jimmy. (I later found out that while I was across the street getting help, Everett not only dutifully stayed with Jimmy, but also was telling Jimmy he would be OK and that help was on the way. Not bad for an 11-year-old!)

To my complete shock, I received a call from the hospital around 7 PM. “Mr. Winter? I am calling from St. Vincent’s Hospital in Bridgeport. There is a Jimmy Smith who provided you as his contact and asked for a ride home.” “Yes,” I responded. “I will be right there.” The caller was clearly surprised that not only had someone actually had answered the phone, but also that Jimmy’s claim of a stranger offering him a ride was not some fantasy of a recently traumatized elderly man.  Before leaving, I asked Everett whether he wanted to come. Deep in the throes of a Fortnite game (the true scourge of all humanity), Everett ran upstairs with an enthusiastic declaration: “Let’s go get Jimmy!” I was simultaneously surprised and even more proud. (For those of you with Fortnite addicts in your lives, you know where I’m coming from…)

We met Jimmy in the waiting room of the hospital and began to help him into the car. Jimmy was very happy to see some friendly faces. Bloody clothes, bandaged hand, and a bit bewildered-looking, Jimmy thanked us profusely, and, walking gingerly, generously offered to pay for parking.  I demanded $200, took it, and drove away, leaving Jimmy standing outside waiting room. (Joking, of course. Just making sure you’re paying attention.) 

On the ~15-minute ride back to retrieve his car, we learned a lot about Jimmy. From his age (85), to his experience as a volunteer in the army (two years in Nevada in the 1950s working on nuclear bomb tests), to his family’s bar and restaurant in Southport, CT (he was third generation), to his hobbies (he raced Greyhound dogs and trotter horses), we were treated to some of the highlights from a humble, yet proud man’s life. 

Jimmy also enjoyed our short time together and subsequently invited Everett and me back to his nearby house. I must admit that I initially hesitated at the offer for a variety of reasons: would Everett want to go; it was getting late on a school night, the unfortunate lack of trust of strangers that has crept into modern society. But I quickly realized there was much more to be gained by spending more time with Jimmy – for all of us. I enthusiastically accepted, drove a short way, and parked in his driveway. (For those you wondering...Yes, Jimmy was a competent and safe driver, though he won’t win any NASCAR races any time soon). After a very cautious walk to the door, including some fumbling of keys, we entered the house, and Jimmy went right to work. 

Small, unkempt, but not dirty, the house was all Jimmy. There were stacks of what I can most accurately describe as “stuff”: a smorgasbord of memorabilia, medical devices, newspaper clippings, magazines, photographs, manuals, and the like. Jimmy busily walked around, picking up “stuff”, sharing stories and recollections associated with each artifact. What concussion? While Everett was leafing through a set of framed photographs of race horses Jimmy had given him, each with Jimmy proudly standing next to all of the horses in the winner’s circle, Jimmy continued. He knew what he was looking for, knew precisely where everything was, and every minute or so, he’d stand up – Eureka! – and share a new story or piece of local trivia.

Amid this activity, Jimmy’s older brother, who lived in Wyoming, called. Apparently, the two speak regularly, and Jimmy relayed an incredibly abbreviated version of the day’s events (FYI this was his third visit to an emergency room in the past couple of weeks). He then abruptly told his brother that he had to hang up because “the guy that saved him” was visiting. (I can only imagine what his brother was thinking.) We also learned all about Jimmy’s health – from the IoT-enabled blood pressure machine to the cacophony of pills he took (“that’s what they tell me to take”). 

Despite wanting to stay with Jimmy, it was getting late (almost 9 PM) and was a school night for Everett. Jimmy did not take our gentle hints and continued with his stories. This made me sad, but Everett could have listened to him all night. I took down Jimmy’s contact information and we said our final, final goodbyes. 

On the drive home, Everett rapid-fired questions: how serious is prostate cancer; what does Jimmy do all day; what if we weren’t in the parking lot to help him; what was Fairfield like back when Jimmy was born) and more. Everett had learned so much not only about Jimmy, but from him. He also learned some valuable lessons about helping others in need; the power of adventure, and basic kindness. It was a day I will never forget; and neither will my impressionable son.