the day I hugged the man in the parking lot

The white van pulled into my shop, dripping with gear, looking like someone was living in it. There were bikes strapped on the back, but the right-wing bumper stickers and giant NRA emblem were clearly visible. No big deal, it happens all the time at the shop. I can’t agree with everyone, and wouldn’t want to.

A white-haired gentleman with a grey mop of hair and a between three and ten days of beard emerged and walked to the door. I greeted him as I always greet customers.

“I wanna buy a kayak. I’ve been waiting for three years and I’m going to get one.”

So I did what I always do, I took him through the same Q&A to get things narrowed down and give options. He asked a lot of questions about what boat would be best for different rivers and lakes, including ones out west. “I’m traveling for a year, I want to see everything.”  I looked for a wedding ring and saw one, but I didn’t see his wife anywhere. I asked him what his wife thought about his walkabout.

He chuckled. “She’s totally cool with this. She told me to do this right before she died.” I asked how long ago it was. He said told me it had been about three months, and he finally felt like he was ready to go.

I looked him in the eye and said “I’m so sorry.” Then I just reached out and hugged him. He patted my back and whispered “Thank you.”

We continued going through the whole process; assessing his rack needs (turns out he wanted two boats, one for flatwater and one for whitewater), and getting him all geared up. As he opened his car door, I saw a huge revolver (later identified as a Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum) and I just smiled and said “I see you’re a Clint Eastwood fan.” He laughed, pulled it out right there in the parking lot, cracked open the cylinder and dumped the shells into his hand and handed it to me. Three pounds, not a light pistol.

I have no particular hatred for guns, really, except I think they’re too readily available and need to be more closely regulated, and as much as is possible, keeping them away from children, with trigger locks. I feel much like author and humorist Michael Perry, who said that a gun is a like a pitchfork; just a tool to gather venison in the fall. But go into his house in the middle of the night, you can guess which tool he would grab.

It felt weird standing in the parking lot with a Make My Day sidearm. I admired it for its craftsmanship and handed it back.

He wrying hiked up his trouser leg to reveal a Glock 26 (the baby one) strapped to his ankle. This guy was ready for the Zombie Apocalypse. He didn’t take it out.

As we finished up, I just looked at this sweet old widower, left alone and ready to do a trip of a lifetime, after three years of caring for his wife of over 40 years. He was tired, and looked it. He was ready for some rest.

I shook his hand again, smiled, and embraced him a second time. “Save travels, she’ll be with you.” He said “I know, and thanks again.” I watched him drive away with his new toys, heading for somewhere in the Northwest.

This man and I probably have significant differences in our political ideologies. I own a firearm and again, have no issues owning one, but I can’t stand the NRA and their rhetoric of fear. Most gun owners I know feel the same way. I lean leftish, he leads rightish.

But when I embraced him, none of that political b.s. mattered. It was just two men, one comforting the other. I can’t imagine nor do I ever want to imagine losing my wife; it would probably destroy me. But I saw hope in a man who could lose his wife and hit the road, finding himself again, grieving, biking, and now, paddling, guns and all.

Put aside your petty differences, please. Love each other, because we’re all we got.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover