My grandfather brought this to my attention when he was in his nineties. He had just read an article in a magazine (most likely waiting for a doctor) in which physicists had determined that, due to their body weight versus wing-size, it was a mystery as to why the honeybee could fly at all. It should be impossible for it to get off the ground. The article had many platitudes about this being an inspirational metaphor for humans “doing the impossible”. What my grandfather wished to impress on me was that he had lived ninety some-odd years not knowing this, “There’s a great-big world out there and something new to be found out every day of your life if you look hard enough.” in thick Alabaman.
He was right. He was born in 1908, in Alabama, to a farming family. His father died when he was 13 and he left school in 3rd grade to help out on the farm. He married in his 20’s and got a job at a mental hospital as an attendant. He quit there when one of the patients, during one gardening session (Yes, in the 1930’s mental-hospital patients grew their own food. What could go wrong?) a patient started running after him with a hoe. Just like any good horror movie, Grandpa tripped, closed his eyes, and prepared to meet his maker. Unlike every horror movie, the patient raised the hoe above his head, brought it down gently, tapped him and said, “Tag, you’re it!” Then gleefully put the hoe down and ran, giggling, presumably expecting grandpa to tag him back, which, if you knew my no-nonsense grandpa proves this man was not living in reality. My grandfather joined the military the next day.
In the military, he served in WWII then went on to become a Sargent and head of the mess hall during the Berlin Airlift. When my mother graduated high school, my grandfather had been taking night classes and graduated the same year. After my father died, my mother went back to college and got her Paralegal degree. She graduated with her class, even though, for the first year she was undergoing chemotherapy and had a mastectomy. That was no small feat in the days before online classes. Years later, Grandpa would happily boast to anyone in earshot that three of his four children graduated college. As for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren, it’s a mixed bag of college, careers, entrepreneurs, military, and parent-hood scattered across the globe; we’ve lived from Afghanistan, Germany, Puerto Rico, to Switzerland.
This is Walter B. Smith’s legacy and it’s what keeps me going forward here. When things don’t go right, I adjust and do something about it. Half the time it may be a wrong move, but at least I’m moving and learning from my mistakes. If grandpa just stayed put at the mental hospital, shook off the feeling that there’s a better life elsewhere, I might be an Alabaman facing the lack of opportunities that Grandpa faced.
