It was Sunday, August 5, 2012, when I walked through the streets of downtown Traverse City, Michigan with my wife and kids. The skies were clear, a bright sun overhead, but cool for a late summer afternoon. A local film festival had the town packed and bustling. Artists, hippies, film aficionados and common folks walked the sidewalks en masse. There was life all around.
As we walked the sidewalks ourselves, I noticed across the street a customized motorcycle with a hearse trailer behind it. Two men standing stoic next to it. I shot this photo of them, more from the uniqueness of the situation than anything else. After lunch we walked back by, this time on the sidewalk next to it. From behind the hearse, I snapped another shot when one of them turned, looked at me and said, "you were the one taking photos from across the street a little while ago, weren't you?"
I told him I was, not sure if there was concern, when he said, "you can put your kids on the bike and take some pictures of them if you'd like." I was not expecting this.
So we did.
When through with taking the photos, I spoke to the man without the top hat and asked him if the hearse had ever actually been used, thinking this was part of the film festival due to it being just outside the State Theater.
He said it had been, in fact, 52 times, the last time being the day prior for Sargent Justin Hansen, 26, of Kingsley, who had been recently killed in Afghanistan by an IED. The $80,000 Harley Davidson motorcycle hearse customized in Pennsylvania, had just carried Hansen, a motorcycle enthusiast himself, to his grave. A true hometown hero who's casket was followed by several hundred motorcycles and several hundred cars.
Though I thoughtlessly did not ask their names, I later learned through several searches they were A. Jay Howard and David Censke of Battle Creek, Michigan. I believe it was Censke, the man without the top hat, whom I spoke with. These two men volunteer their services for men like Hansen. Censke, a military man himself, had lost seven men in Afghanistan. They were his family, he was closer to them than his own blood. His face showed the pain as he described the loss, and it was something I could never comprehend. Whether or not you support or despise the military action there, or anywhere, you have to honor the courage and sacrifice many of us will never know or understand.
In my younger days I feared being in the military, now I regret not serving. I told him this, not expecting any response in return, and taking advantage of his silence to thank him for what he had done for our country. It's humbling to thank a military man in person who has lost his own men. A hand shake and simple words do not seem to be enough.
Then the unexpected came. He looked me straight in the eyes and said in a firm voice, "It doesn't matter if you didn't serve. If you serve your community in some way, then you have done something that matters," which is a pretty gracious statement for a man who has seen more death than I'll ever know. However, this is the best I can do at this point in my life.
He then changed the discussion.
"You have a beautiful daughter," he said. I thanked him with pride. We laughed about the dating years that lie ahead of me.
I asked if he had kids. He replied, "No." After a brief pause he went on to say, "My first child died and then my ex moved on."
His face told the tale from a perspective of sadness again. But, he went on to tell me he did raise two Vietnamese children. He was doing what he could to give them something better.
He finished the conversation by saying, "I gave them the best life I could, they were not my own, but I know how you feel."
Our parting handshake was the best I had ever known. It was from a man I will only know from this instance, and yet is from one who shared with me pride and honor, and a sense of realizing just how precious time and living truly are in this life.
When I met up with my wife she asked, "Did you make a new best friend?"
"I just met a man with an inspiring story."
EjG
