Bill Crowell relaxes in his easy chair to tell me his story.
Friday, March 4, 2011
I had a 10:30 interview scheduled with Bill Crowell today, but I hadn’t seen him in a while, so I wasn’t sure he’d remember. But of course he did. When I got to his room, he had just showered and dressed (nicely, as always), and a note with my name and “10:30 a.m. Friday” was stuck right there on his big wall calendar.
Turns out, Bill has an excellent memory—not just for interview dates, but also for specifics from more than 60 years ago: like Doris, in Texas, who carved her phone number into a key so Bill would always have it (until he lost the key); the obelisk that greeted him at the Oklahoma Navy ammunitions depot, listing all the men killed there in explosions; and the heartbreaking childhood abuse he says he endured at the hands of his widowed mother.
Bill’s life has not been easy, but he sure is an amazing conversationalist, and he tells his story with emotion and great detail.
I went straight from the Soldiers Home to the hospital, where I learned the “private room” Mike was moved into actually is an “isolation room,” meaning I had to slip into something decidedly more uncomfortable before visiting him: the required gown and gloves, plus the optional face mask. (I am not a fan of germs.) The nurse told me not to “get all up in his face”—no worries there, although I might have done just that when I hugged him goodbye the day they moved him. Perfect.
I was dressed to repel.
“Well, this is new,” I told Mike.
The good news is, Mike is facing the window and can watch birds and freeway traffic all at once.
And that’s kind of it for the good news.
After we’d talked for about 10 minutes, Mike told me, “I’d better let you run along so I can try to get some rest.”
Mike has never asked me to leave.
So that was new, too. I am not a fan of this newness, either.
I had a 10:30 interview scheduled with Bill Crowell today, but I hadn’t seen him in a while, so I wasn’t sure he’d remember. But of course he did. When I got to his room, he had just showered and dressed (nicely, as always), and a note with my name and “10:30 a.m. Friday” was stuck right there on his big wall calendar.
Turns out, Bill has an excellent memory—not just for interview dates, but also for specifics from more than 60 years ago: like Doris, in Texas, who carved her phone number into a key so Bill would always have it (until he lost the key); the obelisk that greeted him at the Oklahoma Navy ammunitions depot, listing all the men killed there in explosions; and the heartbreaking childhood abuse he says he endured at the hands of his widowed mother.
Bill’s life has not been easy, but he sure is an amazing conversationalist, and he tells his story with emotion and great detail.
I went straight from the Soldiers Home to the hospital, where I learned the “private room” Mike was moved into actually is an “isolation room,” meaning I had to slip into something decidedly more uncomfortable before visiting him: the required gown and gloves, plus the optional face mask. (I am not a fan of germs.) The nurse told me not to “get all up in his face”—no worries there, although I might have done just that when I hugged him goodbye the day they moved him. Perfect.
I was dressed to repel.
“Well, this is new,” I told Mike.
The good news is, Mike is facing the window and can watch birds and freeway traffic all at once.
And that’s kind of it for the good news.
After we’d talked for about 10 minutes, Mike told me, “I’d better let you run along so I can try to get some rest.”
Mike has never asked me to leave.
So that was new, too. I am not a fan of this newness, either.
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