***Aging: The Silent Generation

written by Patrick Roden The years teach much which the days never knew. -Ralph Waldo Emerson Stanley Sime passed away at the age of 90, his obituary noted he loved growing flowers and vegetables and sharing them with others. He was also involved in Habitat for Humanity and enjoyed spending time in his woodworking shop. I first knew Stanley as the man who drove the BIG yellow school bus past my home each night after delivering the children safely to their mothers. He never failed to greet me with a smile and wave as the empty bus rattled by. I recall thinking at the time how special it was that this man with such a responsible job (driving the BIG yellow bus) would make the effort to wave to me—a small kid playing on the sidewalk…I looked forward to his gesture each afte oon, and even anticipated it; as if somehow this made me more important. Kris’s Fatherr Years later I would get to know Stanley as the father of Kris; a close friend and teammate. Mr. Sime was among the faithful in the stands and on the sideline—rain or shine, he’d be there to cheer us on. His presence would always inspire me to play more intently and give an extra effort. As time passed and we reached the age of driving, Mr. Sime’s cherry red Jeep Cherokee became an object of desire—and occasionally, our passport to a night of freedom. The vehicle, like the small modest home he built and the manicured yard, was impeccably tidy. My conversations with Kris’s father were limited and narrowly focused around athletics. He was not a gregarious man as I recall, preferring to stand back, observe, and to listen. Over time as I matured into a young man, I witnessed his Friar Tuck hair go from brown to silver-gray; seemingly ove ight. Mr. Sime, the Soliderr Never once did Mr. Sime, a native of South Dakota, mention he was in the U.S. Army and in 1942 served in Tunisia, Sicily, Normandy, Northern France, Rhineland, Ardennes, Central Europe—and while fighting in the Mediterranean theater in 1943, was wounded and awarded the Purple Heart. Perhaps this is why his generation is called the “Silent Generation,” he never shared a story, an experience, or boasted about foreign travel…I found out only recently from his son Kris, that his dad seldom shared his military experiences with family; wishing to spare them the horrors of war. It’s too late to thank Stanley for his service, or for showing up to our games, or for letting us borrow his Jeep Cherokee—or for making me feel important as a child. His obituary informed me that he was a war hero before he was a bus driver, and reminded me how fortunate I was to know him.