Are You Listening?

I looked into Runt Lawson’s steely blue, 104-year-old eyes and said, “If my grandfather would have lived, he would be 102.” Runt nodded (his hearing ain’t so good).Elmer “Runt” Lawson is a small, quiet man that lives just outside of Walker County, in a little community called Boley Springs. There is a sawmill there, a rotting building that once served as a café, and a four-way stop. And that’s about it. It’s a country place, with country people.For weeks, my friend Bro. Haskell Tinker, former pastor at Boley Nazarene, had been promising me that we would go see Runt. Bypass surgery for Bro. Tinker put those plans on hold for a short while, but my unrelenting prodding assured him that I meant business. So on a Wednesday, we went.Truthfully, I didn’t know what to expect, and I didn’t necessarily have a story in mind when we went to see Runt. But just the fact that there was a 104-year-old man named Runt who lived out in the middle of nowhere piqued my interest.When I picked Bro. Tinker up, his wife Sharon saw him off with a sweet potato pie, Saran-Wrapped on a paper plate. Bro. Tinker and I drove past Oakman, past Corona, and we took a left across the railroad tracks at a sign that read “Salem.” We passed by Salem and then Old Salem (or the other way around), made a left, and emptied out into Boley. It was a hot day.We took a right at the intersection. Bro. Tinker said, “Take a left where that truck’s comin’ out.” The left was a small clandestine opening in the thicket, and as the car turned, the trees on either side of the road seemed to hover over us like swaying giants. The car tires crunched on the rock driveway, which was split in two by a long row of conquering, unkempt grass.Two wood structures materialized and a couple of trucks, one old, one new(er). As we pulled up to the campus and got out, a large white truck followed us into the driveway. A dog rounded the corner of the car, to my side, and I reached down to pet her. The truck pulled to a stop and a very large man got out of the car. If this was Runt, someone was playing a cruel joke.“Pastor, let me shake your hand,” said the man, going for Bro. Tinker (I knew he wasn’t talking to me). Bro.Tinker introduced me to Mr. West, Runt’s caretaker. Because I thought Runt was in the house, I didn’t notice that he had climbed out of the cab of the truck and was scooting toward the front door. Mr. West hurried over and helped Runt inside.Runt didn’t say a word.Bro. Tinker and I followed and swung open the wood screen door and it whacked behind us when we walked inside. From floor to ceiling was unpainted pine. Boxes of Nilla Wafers were on the kitchen table. It was a bucolic domicile, but I liked it.Runt sat, perhaps in “his chair”, I surmised, and Mr. West invited me to sit down directly in front of Runt.“I’m Al Blanton,” I said rather loudly to Runt, as I took off my baseball cap and set it down on the floor.“You’ll have to speak up,” said Mr. West.“BLANTON,” I shouted, almost.“Blanton, “ Runt confirmed as he shook my hand.There were no real formalities, and I presumed Mr. West had prepped Runt for the interview. I was sure, at least, he didn’t think I was a Russian spy.So, I began to ask questions, although I didn’t know what to call him. (Runt? Mr. Lawson? Mr. Runt?). I started with the surer addressing.“Mr. Lawson, what year were you born?”“Nineteen and nine.”“Where were you born?”“Outside of Fayette a piece. Mount Pleasant.”“How long did you live there?”“33.” (That meant he lived there until he was 33 years old).“What are your memories as a child?”“Wadn’t much to do. We’d go over to Fayette and play in the courthouse field. The carnival hired some of us boys to help.”“Do you remember World War I?”“Yeah I remember it. A lot of the men got gassed. I knew a boy that fought in World War I. Belton Nelson.”“What did you do for a living?”“Construction. Sawmill. After I came back from overseas.”“Wait. Overseas?” Suddenly, I was intrigued.“New Guinea.”“You went to New Guinea? Hold on…did you fight in the war?”Mr. West interrupted, helpingly. “He fought in World War II.”Now I was hooked.“So you fought in the Pacific Theater of the war?” I said as I leaned forward in my chair.“New Guinea, Philippines, Okinawa,” said Runt, as if he had just ordered bacon, grits, and toast. (No biggie, I thought sarcastically to myself. Only the most vicious fighting possibly the world has ever seen.). My respect for this man shot up like a Roman candle.I probed him for a while about his military career. Air Force. Trained at Fort McClellan. Went over to New Guinea by boat—“Thirty days going, twenty-nine to get back,” he remembers soundly.Mr. West helps when he can’t hear my questions.And on it goes.“Runt can remember the first car he ever saw,” says Mr. West.“Model T Ford,” says Runt.Runt has lived in the Boley/Mount Pleasant area for most of his life, but he did work some construction jobs just outside of Chicago, on the Wisconsin side, at Waukeegan, Illinios.“How tall are you?” I asked.“I was five-foot-six. I don’t know what I am now. I think I drawed up some.”I realized one thing in my conversation with Runt. He’s seen it all. Two world wars, the Great Depression, the Kennedy assassination, the Civil Rights movement, Vietnam, rap music, Elvis, Woodstock, and now a unipolar world with America at the summit, playing its iPhones and Xboxes.Runt doesn’t watch a whole lot of TV because he rides around in the truck all day with Mr. West. “He’s with me all the time—6 ½ days a week,” says Mr. West, who now runs the local sawmill where Runt used to work. “Sometimes when we’re at work, I’ll just pull out a lawn chair and Runt will sit there in that chair.”By this point, I am amazed that Runt can even walk on his own accord, much less dart around with Mr. West six-and-a-half days a week.“Do you watch the Braves?” I asked.“Not really.”“He’s more up on current events than I am,” slices in Mr. West.After I get finished interviewing Runt, I ask Mr. West if we can walk around for a while, while Bro.Tinker and Runt visit. We go outside and he takes me on a little tour of the “old house” (built in 1919), as the dog cuts loose through the back pasture.“What’s the dog’s name?” I inquired.“Dallas.”I noticed a black Lubber grasshopper or two, pouncing through the blades of grass and I wondered if Dallas ever gave them hell.“This is the country,” I said, almost ignorantly to Mr. West. “Let’s go back inside.” I like air conditioning too much, and the thought of sweet potato pie.We readied Runt for his picture, and Mr. West fixed a plate of pie. I snapped a few photos outside the house, then came back in and had a piece. I walked back outside and got a few more snaps; Runt hadn’t moved and was a natural. Dallas was too scared to get in the picture, even when the owner whistled.I figured Runt had had about enough of us city folk, and so we thanked them for coming and went on our way. As we were driving back, I thought about what I might say in my article. I thought about all of the things that Runt has seen across the years. I thought about all of the things he doesn’t see now. He lives a simple life.He’s secure that he’s going to heaven. He doesn’t let the world trouble him too much, and he doesn’t trouble it back.We can learn a lot from this generation of Americans. We can learn a lot from people that have seen it all. Their stories are dying out, and we better catch them before it’s too late.But more than all of that, I realized something when Runt was talking. I realized that I hadn’t asked my grandfather enough questions while he was alive. I was always too busy, too distracted, too ignorant to the fact that one day, I wouldn’t have a chance to ask those questions anymore.As I sat and asked Runt one question after the other, I stopped. During that moment, I wished that I could go back and ask my grandfather for just one more story. Or at least, I wish I would have listened a little better.Sometimes the Good Lord gives us 104 years, sometimes he gives us 1. I doubt we can do much to deserve a second more. I learned from Elmer “Runt” Lawson that our relationships with one another are to be cherished. That stories ought to be bottled up and passed down from generation to generation. Somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten how to communicate via word-of-mouth. We’ve lost the art of conversation. And I drove away that day knowing one thing.Next time, I’ll listen.