Didn’t recognize him behind the beard and the years so said my name and he looked up from his lunchtime burger and wiped his mouth and his handshake hand, smiled and said, “Dale Shields.”
Good lord. Dale Shields. (Not the same person, but in the same ballpark.)
One day we were talking about how to pass Mr. Jones’ senior physics class at West Monroe High School or what to do the night of our Class of 1977 graduation, and the next time we talked it was about Medicare and grandchildren in a grill on an overcast Monday.
“So, what have YOU been up to for the past 45 years?”
Some people you dodge or they dodge you by design or by destiny.
And some people you want to see but you just don’t because life happens that way.
We don’t always get to decide.
But life’s a funny dog, so it drops dessert on your plate now and then and serves up an old friend who, if you’re lucky, is either Dale Shields or something close.
He’d driven over from his home in West Monroe for some early morning turkey hunting around Downsville. Still had on his high-water rubber boots. Quietly eating. Available but not obvious. Which has always been 100 percent The Dale Shields Way.
Absolutely one of the best we’ve got in your whole Human Race Department.
Been since the 1987 class reunion since I’d seen him, so he caught me up on the most recent one, just a few years ago. Some classmates had died since the 2017 reunion “so we decided we weren’t going to wait for the 50th one,” he said, and told me about the one just a couple years ago, who was there and all.
Dale Shields. In high school, you could have asked anyone and they’d have trusted Dale with anything from a secret to your wallet or purse. Offensive tackle. FCA. Baseball. Y-Teen Beau. National Honor Society. The “A” in America.
Every single time I’ve thought of him over the past near-half century I’ve thought, for at least a nano-second, of the one-bathroom house he grew up in. One of six boys and two girls fathered by Mr. Hugh, who captained the morning bathroom and somehow got all those kids grown and off to school every day of the world. Funny what you remember. Some mornings before first period: “Hey Dale, how’d it go with the bathroom thing this morning?” Daybreak after daybreak must have instilled in him the patience of Job, an outlook optimistic, a colon of iron. Each morning an adventure.
Major tip of the ballcap to his whole wonderful family.
We talked of his recent retirement after 40 years of work with a local company, and he told me about signing up for Medicare; he’s had his Official Card for two weeks now. When 65 knocks, you and the guys talk not so much about turkey hunting and ball scores as you do about how to successfully sign up for Medicare, which to me seems about as difficult as carving Thomas Jefferson’s face into the side of Mount Rushmore.
I’m about to find out for my ownself, being just a few months younger than Dale…Time is the great mystery.
We traded phone numbers and grandchildren stories. We have one. He has No. 12 on the way, and the parents have decided not to find out the flavor yet since they already have one of each. I told him “Teddy” would work for a boy or girl; he smiled and promised to pass that along.
Dale Shields. Day made.
About an hour later I missed a call from him. Made my heart feel good to see his name on my phone. Probably going to say it was good to see me, talk again soon, that kind of deal. I called him back quickly as I could.
In his humble and sincere Dale Shields voice — I could see him smiling — he said, “Butt dial. Sorry. The ol’ butt dial.”
How old are we, right?
Contact Teddy at teddy@latech.edu