...
By Peyton H. Roberts
0
Share
Newsweek is a Trust Project member
See more of our trusted coverage when you search.Prefer Newsweek on Googleto see more of our trusted coverage when you search.
I don't recall the first time I heard the phrase, "Once an adult, twice a child," but I remember when it began to sink in.
I was in my early twenties working at a nonprofit in San Diego when our 90-year-old volunteer, Hugh, announced he would be adding a few more hours to his weekly regimen.
Instead of coming in for two hours every Friday, Hugh would be joining us full time—five days a week.
Read More on My Turn
After working with Hugh for a few years and enduring our share of his frustrations, the busy young professionals in our overcommitted development and communications department were as thrown as I was by the news.
...
We didn't have enough hours in the fiscal year to meet our multi-million-dollar fundraising goals, and catering to a volunteer's demands didn't sit high on the priority list.
Nevertheless, we felt pulled to be compassionate and, seeing the difficult transition he was going through admitting his wife into an Alzheimer's facility, we decided to give fulltime-Hugh a chance.
As it turns out, we didn't have a choice. He came to the office no matter what.
Identifying worthwhile projects for Hugh was a constant struggle. A retired lawyer, Hugh was a welcomed asset using his legal background to help manage trusts and legacy bequests.
But that was a small fraction of our workload, which left our small, overcommitted team scrambling to fill the other 38 hours of his workweek.
His computer skills were impressive for someone born during World War I, but still wildly limited in tackling our task lists. Mail merge never quite caught on.
Our most challenging days were when Hugh didn't have something important enough to do. Repetitive tasks like stapling documents and stamping brochures were not stimulating enough.
But even so, he begrudgingly accepted even the most mundane assignments. Stuffing envelopes, it seemed, was preferable to entertaining himself in a quiet, empty house.
When project ideas ran dry, we suggested Hugh leave early, take a day off, or bring a book to read. But it was never that simple. Hugh couldn't let his time be wasted.
He also refused to eat lunch alone, so every day at 11:30 a.m. sharp he treated a different staff member to Arby's, which he religiously collected coupons for. Despite my aversion to fast food, I joined the rotation and tried to take "lunch duty" once a week.
I'll never forget how the office howled when my manager returned one day and reported the Arby's cashier had remarked, "You must be Ms. Tuesday."
I imagine that a 90-year-old man showing up with a different 20-something-year-old young woman each day was plenty of fuel to spark gossip among the food servers.
Week after week, lunch with Hugh became a calendar hold I secretly looked forward to—and not because of the curly fries.
Out of the office was my chance to find out the inner workings of a near century-old brain, which in contrast to his hunched over back and bad knees, was still functioning quite well.
As a newly married Navy spouse, I especially enjoyed when Hugh shared about his service in World War II. He served all over Asia in the Army Air Corps.
He learned a bit of Japanese, a skill he reminded us of when telling us, "Kansei!" which meant, "I'm finished with my project. Where's the next one?"
Aside from the tense moments yelling at the copy machine or demanding a more worthwhile project, Hugh was a wise, gentle man who lived frugally minute-to-minute but generously in creating a legacy.
He and his wife donated millions to the opera, the symphony, and our own organization but refused to eat lunch without a coupon.
There were days when he would get so frustrated if we didn't stop mid-email to attend to his project. Some days you couldn't tell who was volunteering for whom.
But on other days his youth peeked out from beneath the wrinkles. He wore surfer shirts and snuck chocolates from the jar on my desk, leaving evidence all over his fingers, and, consequently, his keyboard.
He told us heartwarming stories of his wife from decades earlier when they were dating. He shared how much he missed her and how hard it was to watch her memory of their life together fade.
At a stage in my life when there was no need for eye cream and birthdays were still a counting-up, Hugh showed me how the winter years can be fruitful and full of purpose.
I was sad for him for having lost so many people dear to him. I grew to admire his diligence in persisting at life.
At age 92, Hugh's service as a volunteer ended when doctors evaluated his health and decided it was no longer safe for him to drive. He passed away a few months later leaving the rest of us to contemplate what it means to truly live.
Some of the most surprising conversations I had with Hugh involved finding out I had something in common with a 92-year-old man.
As it turns out, we were both Newsweek subscribers. When I asked him if he read my favorite section, the My Turn essay, he replied, "Why would they put something in Newsweek that isn't news?"
We argued about that the rest of the way back from Arby's.
Peyton H. Roberts is a communications professional, Navy spouse, and creative writer living in Virginia Beach. She writes inspirational fiction and nonfiction, and her new book is My Dearest Bea: Love Letters from the USS Midway.
All views expressed are the author's own.
Do you have a unique experience or personal story to share? See our Reader Submissions Guide and then email the My Turn team at myturn@newsweek.com.
View 0 Comments
Submit Correction
View Editorial & AI Guidelines