Throwback Thursday: Dear, Mr. Carnett ...
I pondered a thought last week that I hadn't considered in half a century.
The faintest of notions, it concerned an elderly gentleman who, for a decade or so, wrote me a letter every year. His letter always came in August. I was first introduced to him in 1972, a year after I was hired as OCC's sports information director.
His final letter arrived in August of 1978 or '79.
Last week, quite by accident, my mind turned back to him, though I hadn't thought of him in 40-plus years. It was totally random. Last week the feeble echo of a remembrance jumped the synapses of my brain and -- voila! -- there he was.
With furrowed brow I tried to summon him forth. Had I been suppressing thoughts of him all these years? I don't believe so. The fact remains: I didn't have a single thought of him after 1979. Not one.
Until now.
I was largely unprepared for last week's disclosure. The memory itself feels, to me, purposed and intended … and like a nudge rather than a shove. But a nudge from whom, and for what purpose?
I feel sadness as I report to you that I don't recall having a thought about the old gent after 1980. He must have died in the 1980's, an event that escaped my radar. But, why did it not occur to me that a sudden vacuum of correspondence from a gentleman of his age might indicate a major life change? No follow-up on my part.
Last week, I was spurred to remember. Unbidden, my friend wafted through my memory banks as a silent sunrise. A memory of him emerged as I flipped through the pages of a book. The memory came from nowhere or, perhaps, everywhere.
I gave my elderly friend an identity last week so that I don't lose his memory again. I'm calling him Chester.
What first came to me last week wasn't a memory, but a picture. I envisioned in my mind's eye a letter written on ruled ring-binder paper in a shaky script. It looked as if Chester labored over his work and suffered from a deficit of motor skills.
Coincidentally, I'm at such a crossroads today.
I remember showing his dispatch to a colleague in 1972 and saying something flip, like, "This guy needs a typewriter." Haw Haw. Hilarious stuff, Jim!
As I considered my friend the other day, I became introspective. I felt a catch in my throat. "Am I about to cry?" I wondered. "I tear up anymore at the slightest provocation." I felt guilty – albeit too late for redemption. In my ignorance, I had once disrespected this admirable man.
Chester's age at the time of his letters was late 70's or early 80's, a neighborhood that I now occupy. That thought sobered me. I realized that Chester's tortured penmanship of the late 1970s may well have been caused by Parkinson's disease, something I've lived with for 15 years now.
Maybe Chester and I are soulmates, clasping hands across an abyss of time and understanding.
How I miss him! The compassion that I felt last week at the "unveiling" threatened to overwhelm me. For the moment, I felt an involuntary shiver. I hadn't acknowledged him in 42 years.
The six or eight letters that I received from him over the years went something like this: "Dear Mr. Carnett: I am retired, and my hobby is sports. I particularly enjoy JC football. Could you please send me a Pirate schedule for the upcoming season, and any other materials you might have? I follow the Pirates in the newspaper because I'm unable to leave my house. If you need me to pay for the schedule, just let me know.
"Good luck this season.
"Sincerely, (Chester)."
The first year of our relationship I did more than send him a pocket schedule. I mailed my pride-and-joy, produced during the summer of '72. It was the inaugural edition of OCC's "Grid Guide," a 96-page football yearbook and media guide. I was proud of it, and Chester received one of the first copies off the press.
It won a national award.
A week after sending Chester's Grid Guide, I received in the mail an envelope containing a dollar bill.
In August of 1973, I received a second letter. This time Chester requested the "Grid Guide" by name and enclosed a dollar. This continued until 1978 or so. After that, I received no further correspondence. By 1979 or 1980, I'd totally forgotten him. Most especially his name. Then came last week's discovery.
Who set this up?
I don't know, but a life circle of mine has been closed.
