62 Seconds Worth of Distance Run
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My phone sent me this reminder four years ago. That’s Gene, my third Marine division sweetie, in front of the second flag raised on Iwo Jima.
I miss Gene so much. He was one of the kindest men I ever knew. So masculine and so gentle.
A lot of the vets I grew up with felt like surrogate uncles or grandfathers. Gene felt like a second dad.
I spent my 25th birthday celebrating Gene’s life with his family and friends in the heart of Montana… toasting him with a smooth bourbon and stories for days. It was really one of the best gifts he could have given me. There was so much beauty and peace. The fulfillment of a life well lived.
A life well lived might be an understatement.
A life he thrived in, an unsatiable appetite for life, a life in Technicolor.
As long as I knew him, he was taking Edgar Guest’s line - “fill the unforgiving minute with 60 seconds worth of distance run” and filling it with 62 seconds. The year before Gene died he suffered a heart attack while hunting with his son. "Don't worry about me," he said, "get your shot then we can go to the hospital." He didn't want to miss out on anything.
When he went on hospice and knew it was a short matter of time, he continued to make plans - just in case hospice didn’t work out. He had a date lined up for the Marine Corps Birthday in November and talked about going to our Iwo Jima reunion in February.
In the days leading up to his death, we texted constantly (he was an incredibly speedy texting machine). I sent photos of old times. Someone told me he was going through all the photos on his phone, trying to remember EVERYTHING. Gene has been born prematurely. In the 1920s the survival rate for a preemie baby was incredibly low. He and his twin brother were kept in a shoebox by the fire to keep warm. They both made it.
He became a marine. Survived the battle of Guam and Iwo Jima. Went into law-enforcement on the Hollywood beat. Became a park ranger at Glacier National Park. He had an illustrious life. He had an epic life. But in my mind he represented masculinity, kindness, stability, and integrity.
Gene told me once that if there was ever anything I needed, he was just a phone call away. And he meant it. But he didn’t wait for me to make that call. He called me – to make sure I was OK, to make sure I had everything I needed, that I was happy, content. Just to check in.
I miss those check-in calls a lot. I’d like to tell them about my life, my love, my work. I know he would’ve been so invested.
I visited a friend on hospice this week. I work with a lady with severe dementia. I am constantly surrounded by vivid reminders of the mortality and shortness of life. And there have been several days of late where it all just felt like a lot.
Then a little memories like this pop-up. And I’m flooded with recollections of people like Gene– who shaped my perspective on kindness, how to be treated like a lady and a woman, what integrity looks like… unconditional love. These little moments make everything worthwhile.
They make my own life technicolor.
On the day that we actually have an extra 24 hours, February 29, I want to be like Gene: filling the most unforgiving minute with every second worth of distance run and saying, “You can take me to the hospital after you get that shot.”
Operation Meatball
Honoring Veterans & Connecting Them With the Youth of Today
