Preserving a Legacy, Inspiring Another
“The only sin a writer can make is not to write.”
His name was Ray. He was 96 years old. A World War II vet and a longtime freelance writer for a number of publications, he held the quiet, casual, and humble demeanor of any writer.
His hand was warm and fragile to hold. I could feel his bones underneath my fingers. I dressed up for the occasion, even though I was told by his son that Ray was blind. I wanted to feel nice meeting a man whose legacy I was enlisted to preserve. It’s no small task to honor the life of a local literary legend.
He held my hand and tugged at the fabric on my dress. Even if he didn’t admit it, I knew he was trying to place my voice with a face, imagining what I looked like and how I held myself.
At that point, I knew I was in the presence of greatness. I was sweating from nervousness and I feared he could tell. I asked him what he thought of what his children were doing for him, publishing a collection of his articles with the aid of me — a transcriber — and he said he thought they were crazy.
Even so, he thanked me multiple times during our conversation. He spoke of his son and then of his own writing, of how he never thought he would be a journalist but it just came naturally to him. He didn’t start writing until his 30s and it amazed me that he picked something up like that so late in life. He followed the side conversation I held with his son as best he could. His breathing was deep and raspy.
His daughter poked her head in and mentioned that Ray had requested a hair cut and that the woman might be available tomorrow. I told Ray about my own grandmother and family, how my mom had recognized his last name and grown up in the same town. The thirty minutes I spent there flew by.
When I left, I vowed to return and to see him again. I don’t know how long he will last but while I’m preserving his legacy, he is inspiring my own as a writer.