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| Detail from “The School of Athens” a fresco by Raphael (1483 – 1520) [Click image to call up all published instalments] |
Last Monday, I was sorting through yet another box when I stumbled across one of the first pieces I ever had published.
I graduated from high school in 1986. Shortly before I did, on my 18th birthday, I stopped into The Moline Daily Dispatch to turn in my 30-day notice of giving up my paper route. The Circulation Director, Hal Wilkerson called me into his office.
He asked me what my plans were after graduation, already knowing he did not receive the application for the newspaper scholarship that I had previously told him I was working towards. I explained that I needed to help out at home. Times were tough and my parents still had four more coming behind me. He told me that not getting a degree would be the only thing that would hold me back from taking his job one day, but told me if I needed work, he had something for me. All I needed to do is show up the day after receiving my diploma.
I graduated Thursday evening, June 5th, and showed up at 8 a.m. Friday to see what his plans were. That job eventually led to another, then to becoming the youngest District Manager they had hired to that point.
By 1988, I was the top selling district manager and was training the new hires, maintaining the high standards for customer service and collections with my 69 kid carriers. Hal, though, was not doing so well. I wasn’t privy to the issue at the time, but he started missing a lot of work.
In September of 1989, at a gathering of all the District Managers, I was presented with the District Manager of the Year for the east region of the Dispatch and Rock Island Argus, the second year of the award. It was nice to be recognized among my peers and my supervisors, but I mostly enjoyed the phone call I received from Hal, shortly after the ceremony and pictures. He congratulated me for the honor and recalled that conversation we had on my eighteenth birthday. “I do believe that you will not be held back by your decision. Someday, my job will be yours.”
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| Yes, I had a perm and yes, they spelled my name wrong, in print and on the award. |
Hal Wilkerson died in January of 1990, from colon cancer.
I wrote the story below the day I heard the news, on January 4, 1990. It was published in The Spirit employee newsletter, February 1990:
By the way, in 2012, I did finally become a Circulation Director. Even without the required degree.
The Windbreaker
Early in my youth, as I wandered across a sandy beach, I came across a man desperately holding his sail against the wind. I stared in wonderment.
Another man came along and so I inquired, “What is he doing?”
The answer came quickly. “He is a windbreaker.”
“But why?”
“I do not know.” He shook his head and slowly passed on.
My curiosity finally forced me to find the answer to my question. I approached the windbreaker slowly.
“Hi!”
“Hello young man.”
He responded with a mature voice, one of insight through the knowledge he had gained as his years passed by.
“What are you doing?”
“I am a windbreaker.”
“But why?”
“Let me show you. Grab on here.”
I grabbed the fabric firmly.
“Don’t ever let it go, son.”
I looked at the man. He was no longer a young man but neither was he old. His face was pleasant, even in struggle his smile was bright. His eyes had a glisten I had not seen. His hands were worn, his knuckles white as his grip never weakened.
A storm came and brought the sail to life, pulling it to and fro, trying to wrench it from our hands. But he held, and so I did too. The strong winds finally subsided.
I could not see. What was the use? The futility of everything was staring me in the face and I could not see the purpose of it all. I weakened, loosing my grip.
“No, son. Never give up.”
“But why?”
“Because quitting is admitting failure.”
“But what is the use? Why should we stay and hold the sail? Wouldn’t it be just fine if we let it blow on its own?"
“We hold on to make a difference. Many have let the sail blow, in fact, the majority. But if no one tries to make changes, to change the course of the prevailing wind, nothing will ever happen. I, for my part, want to make a difference.”
What he said made sense, yet I still did not completely understand. I firmed my hold.
Storms came, storms went. Sometimes even hurricanes crossed our pathway with their violent torrents, but never did we yield.
I looked at the man’s face. I could see he was troubled.
“Someday soon, son, I will no longer be able to hold on.”
“Never!”
“Listen! You must continue where I can not.”
“But why are you quitting?”
“I will not be quitting, I will be here even though I am gone. But I will hold as long as I can.”
I dreaded that day’s coming. Yet it came, and he was gone. And then I knew, he had made a difference, not only in my life, but in everyone’s who had felt his presence. He had gone out, not as a quitter, but a winner.
Now, I hold the sail to change the course of a wayward wind, to make a difference as a windbreaker.
Thank you, Hal. I’m going to miss you.
I wrote the story below the day I heard the news, on January 4, 1990. It was published in The Spirit employee newsletter, February 1990:
The Windbreaker
Early in my youth, as I wandered across a sandy beach, I came across a man desperately holding his sail against the wind. I stared in wonderment.
Another man came along and so I inquired, “What is he doing?”
The answer came quickly. “He is a windbreaker.”
“But why?”
“I do not know.” He shook his head and slowly passed on.
My curiosity finally forced me to find the answer to my question. I approached the windbreaker slowly.
“Hi!”
“Hello young man.”
He responded with a mature voice, one of insight through the knowledge he had gained as his years passed by.
“What are you doing?”
“I am a windbreaker.”
“But why?”
“Let me show you. Grab on here.”
I grabbed the fabric firmly.
“Don’t ever let it go, son.”
I looked at the man. He was no longer a young man but neither was he old. His face was pleasant, even in struggle his smile was bright. His eyes had a glisten I had not seen. His hands were worn, his knuckles white as his grip never weakened.
A storm came and brought the sail to life, pulling it to and fro, trying to wrench it from our hands. But he held, and so I did too. The strong winds finally subsided.
I could not see. What was the use? The futility of everything was staring me in the face and I could not see the purpose of it all. I weakened, loosing my grip.
“No, son. Never give up.”
“But why?”
“Because quitting is admitting failure.”
“But what is the use? Why should we stay and hold the sail? Wouldn’t it be just fine if we let it blow on its own?"
“We hold on to make a difference. Many have let the sail blow, in fact, the majority. But if no one tries to make changes, to change the course of the prevailing wind, nothing will ever happen. I, for my part, want to make a difference.”
What he said made sense, yet I still did not completely understand. I firmed my hold.
Storms came, storms went. Sometimes even hurricanes crossed our pathway with their violent torrents, but never did we yield.
I looked at the man’s face. I could see he was troubled.
“Someday soon, son, I will no longer be able to hold on.”
“Never!”
“Listen! You must continue where I can not.”
“But why are you quitting?”
“I will not be quitting, I will be here even though I am gone. But I will hold as long as I can.”
I dreaded that day’s coming. Yet it came, and he was gone. And then I knew, he had made a difference, not only in my life, but in everyone’s who had felt his presence. He had gone out, not as a quitter, but a winner.
Now, I hold the sail to change the course of a wayward wind, to make a difference as a windbreaker.
Thank you, Hal. I’m going to miss you.
| Copyright © 2023 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
This poem urges me to hope that Hal Wilkerson lives somewhere yet and reads (and rereads) your loving tribute to him.
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