Life & Other Problems: Gifts

Recently, at the MSU clinic, as I walked out of the doctor’s office through the waiting room, I glanced at an older man putting on his jacket, ready to leave. Out in the hall, I made a U-turn back into the room.

“Mel?” I asked, “Mel Buschman?”

“Yes,” he said, and we smiled at each other.

“I’m Clarice.”

“Yes, I know.” He was as tall and splendid as ever.

A very long time ago WWII had just ended. I was in high school. Mr. Buschman, fresh from the war, had arrived to teach us American History.

Oh, he was cute! Dreamy!

Mr. Buschman was calm and patient, teaching us the ABCs of the subject. But even we self-centered, insecure teenagers could tell that his heart really was in athletics. But our girlish hearts remained in the room, beating much faster during his class. “Is he married?” we asked each other. We didn’t know, and to ask was unthinkable. I graduated without ever finding out.

I’d seen him occasionally over the last sixteen years, when I came to live here after a 45-year absence. He had been in a video presentation that our historical society made, five veterans talking of their wartime experiences.

In the video he discusses several incidents, some scary, some not. Once in Livorno, Italy (called “liver and onions” by the troops) he found himself alone on the third floor of a bombed-out building. A massive tank appeared, rotating its huge gun toward the building.

He knew he had to get out, but there were no stairs. He leapt from a window and ran, literally for dear life, on a broken leg. Before that, one day an officer had pointed to an empty building. “Go and see if anyone is up in there,” he said. Mel checked out the building, determined that it was clear. On the video he says, “Good thing, or that leaning tower of Pisa would be long gone.”

During the making of the video, I learned that Mr. Buschman was indeed married, had been married forever. He had become a coach at the high school, then moved on to MSU for a career in athletics and administration.

As we talked that day at the clinic, I asked, “How are you?”

“Oh, all right.” He paused. “My wife died a month ago and it’s really hard.”

We talked a bit about pain and emptiness. “This [clinic] is my home away from home,” he eventually joked. We reassured each other that we looked just fine.

He was called back to the desk and after a quick hug, I left. I realized that in all these years, I had never touched him. But older lonely people need touching. Older lonely people know this.

Walking to the car, I felt a kind of elation. Another of life’s little gifts had just dropped into my lap. At age 81, I was speaking with, even hugging, my high school teacher! How often can that happen?

Many things had happened to us – more wars, marriage, careers, births and deaths.

Yet affection and love had endured.