Of the editorial page staff
published by the StarTribune
April 5, 1970
MY FRIEND George began the big sleep on the hill east of town several months ago. His death wasn't stirring news and I learned about it several weeks later. His last years were known to me only in a general way, but I do know that visits to the little town hard by the Rockies won't again be the same.
Why write about George? Many in the town might ask the question. George was just an ordinary man, a fellow of short vistas and small perception, a man hedged by prejudice born of limited knowledge. He lacked aspiration and imagination, was quick to judgment and short of culture.
HE WAS a barber, and before he died in his mid-sixties he had become a town character. Everyone knew George, many befriended him and many were amused or irritated by him. He had an ego to match his girth, an ego cultivated perhaps as a defense for limitations.
If the typical Westerner is a fellow who likes to eat, drink, talk, hunt and fish, shine up to the ladies and avoid manual labor, then George qualified. Just why he fancied himself as a Casanova is hard to understand but he did, even after time had turned him into a waddling fatty.
His poundage increased inexorably and it was hastened when his eyesight dimmed. He developed cataracts, had a couple of operations and wore thick glasses which magnified greatly but didn't restore his normal vision. My brother Bud said George was the only barber in the country who cut hair by braille.
I ASKED George why he'd let himself get so heavy and quickly regretted that I'd asked."These eyes," he said soberly. "I got so I couldn't see to hunt and fish--and that's what I liked to do best."
So he compensated by eating and drinking more. "Sure I ought to take walks," he said, "but who wants to walk alone?"
Thus this lonely man, who had no appetite for books, joined his fellows at the bar.
WHY DO I write about George? Because for years he was like one of the family. I went from first grade into high school with him. We played basketball and baseball together and for years he bragged about how good we had been. He and Bud and I went fishing and hunting, and the memory of shared experiences enriched reunions.
As a kid, George was at our place as much as he was at home. He always was willing to stay for dinner or wade into the cookie jar.
But it wasn't an entirely one-sided association. When Dad was finally alone, George made it possible for him to continue living where he wanted to live. George moved in with him and became housekeeper, cook and companion. The arrangement was economical but hardly ideal. Dad was a Tartar and George, besides working at his trade, was sorely tried to keep the household running smoothly.
IN HIS twilight years George lived alone and life ran between his room and his shop. People would drop in--to get a haircut or to visit--and George would make small talk, reminisce or look at the paper.
In his shrinking cosmos, he could not drive a car, particularly at night, and anyway, with his weight and high blood pressure, it was an effort to get behind the wheel. Finally he lay down in a hospital bed and drifted into the unfettered beyond.
SAY THAT his was a life of no contribution and no dreams, that he lacked ambition and evaded challenge. This is all true but George, despite his failings, was free of guile and true to his friends. And when I park there again on Main Street someday and approach the barbershop, that hulk of a man won't get out of his chair, give me a big grin and say, "Well, I'll be damned. Look who's here!"
I'll miss that.
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