Defying the odds

 He lived in a small apartment with poor heat and drafty windows. The carpet was stained beyond help, but he didn't seem to mind. His easy chair was threadbare and tilted to one side, but he didn't care. The small kitchen had a stove with just one working burner and a fridge that barely kept things cold, but he didn't care. A black iron skillet was where he cooked every meal, fried eggs and bacon for breakfast, and a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. Supper was either a cheap steak or a couple of pork chops cooked in the skillet with grease from previous meals, which he said gave them flavor.

There was just one bedroom that he did his best to keep in military fashion. Crisp and sharp corners on the sheets and a blanket folded at the foot of the bed in case he got cold in the night. A bedside stand next to where he slept was an alarm clock he bought at the drugstore years ago, a glass of water that held his dentures, and, of course, a pack of hand-rolled cigarettes that he would wake in the night to light up and watch the orange glow until snuffing it out and going back to sleep.

The tiny bathroom was just big enough to do his business and look in a cracked mirror when he shaved. It was only showers as a tub would never fit in such a small space, but he didn't care. He spent his days reading the newspaper from cover to cover, always interested in what was happening outside his weathered door. He owned two pairs of pants and two shirts, all of which he purchased at the Goodwill store just a short walk from home. His grown kids often tried to give him new clothes, but he always said no, so eventually they gave up and let him do as he pleased.

Decades had passed since his military life as a highly decorated officer that was cut short when he had a stroke, and doctors said he'd never speak again or be able to communicate easily. He worked every day on his speech and movements, writing his thoughts on endless sheets of paper and putting notes in his pockets that had his recipe for a perfect martini or how he wanted his steak.

He rarely had company, and that's how he liked it. But when one of his kids showed up to check on him, he seemed to have a glow that welcomed them. Against all odds, he eventually began to speak again and could walk with a cane, kissing the wheelchair goodbye. He loved to walk and could often be seen in the summer, winter, fall, and spring making his way to his favorite bar and grill, where he met other veterans and became good friends.

He left this world; he chose to live on his terms with a greasy skillet on the stove and hundreds of hand-rolled cigarettes stashed away in empty coffee cans. His son had kept his father's military dress uniform, and he was buried in that, along with full military honors. The flag was presented to his son and, to this day, is proudly displayed on the mantel of his fireplace.

He may have lived in a cold, drafty apartment with little to show for the bravery he displayed throughout his life, but he died a hero to us and an example of defying the odds, walking the path he had chosen even when it was said he'd never be the same man again.

Mike 2026