"No one ever asks . . ." ~Doc Hamilton
Greetings from My Mountain Cabin,
OK, I will admit it. Ever since my grade school years I have viewed Labor Day as simply a Monday in September that gave me a three-day weekend for extended play, and later, a respite from work. If the powers that be saw fit to provide me with a freebie, then so be it. I won't challenge the reasoning behind a gift.
Labor Day is the symbolic end of summer. Often marked by parades, hot air speeches by politicians, neighborhood cook-outs, and one last trip to the ol' swimming hole, the Labor Day Weekend is a time when childhood thoughts of capricious merry-making yield to a back-to-school mindset. And attending school is the work or labor of childhood.
A holiday marking the return to school might well have been called "Independence Day" if parents had anything to say about it, but that holiday name was already taken.
Yet, in the present day and time, Labor Day has taken on a different meaning for me.
My dear friend, "Doc" Jim Hamilton turned 88 on 2 September 10. A lifelong physical educator, Doc's passions were once basketball and handball. He also played a ferocious game of badminton—not the pleasant beach variety that we often see as a summer diversion. But in 1991, a bad shoulder forced him to channel his energies elsewhere. Doc became a runner.
There is a 5K race each year in nearby Bryson City, NC, held on the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend. Doc has run in that race for decades. A bit slower in pace, Doc now walks much of the course. Coming across the finish line toward the end of the pack does not dampen his enthusiasm.
Back in 2003, I was sitting in my office at the university trying to make some sense out of life. My wife, Annette, had been diagnosed with cancer earlier in the day. Doc came in and could easily see there was something wrong. After I told him the news, he dragged me out of my office and took me to my home. We sat in the living room (polishing off a scotch or two) and awaited Annette's return. When she arrived, Doc gave Annette a big hug and promised her that she would be well and that we would all run in the next Labor Day Race. (Both happened.)
As an aside, a few years ago I learned Doc was a World War II Veteran. He was in the Navy and participated in the D-Day invasion of Normandy. He is a member of what journalist and author, Tom Brokaw, referred to as "The Greatest Generation." In a very real sense, Doc is one of the reasons we are not speaking German as our national language, today.
I once asked Doc, "How come you never talk about the War?" He replied, simply, "No one ever asks . . ." How sad it is that we allow our Heroes and their stories to pass into oblivion over the passage of time.
Tomorrow is the 2010 Labor Day Race in Bryson City. When he crosses the finish line, Doc will not be the last runner. Annette and I will be his companions throughout the course and will make sure we finish trailing him. As my fighter pilot friends would say, we'll "be watching his six."
He deserves that simple tribute . . . and so much more.
Be well, do good work, keep in touch,
Ed
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