01/24/2026
‘The Handshake’
It gets me every time. The jarring reality of the vibrant human spirit that lives, teeming, and as young as ever, in the now-stooped but once-proud frame of a man of dignity. Such was the man that I was privileged to meet.
I am blessed to be in the frequent company of what has been called 'the greatest generation' . . .those precious people who knew life as a daily hardship, character as something that was expected in every person, and dignity as part of the moral fiber of a good man. I am often wistful, worried for the world when all of them have passed to their reward.
I didn't notice him at first, the man in the recliner. I entered the room, and there were several aging seniors seated there, enjoying an afternoon news show on television. It was early afternoon, and the late summer sun made soft shadows on the carpet at their feet. I stopped and greeted the lady nearest me, patting her hand, adjusting her hat, appreciating her shy smile and cool fingers clinging to mine. As I neared the far side of the room, without announcement or hesitation, a scrubs-clad caregiver came strolling over to the man in the recliner, slid a strong young arm under the older, weaker one, and helped the elderly gentleman to his feet.
"Good afternoon."
The voice was warm and deep, softer than it had been in his younger days . . .a little raspy, and little hesitant, but full and mellow and laced with warmth.
"And good afternoon to you, sir" I said, and shook his large pale hand.
His hand tightened around mine, firm and strong, and lingered just a little longer than a ususal one. He looked at me and nodded, ever so slightly, and I really do think a smile was tugging at his lips. At the nod, the assistant stepped forward once more, and the hand that had just embraced mine now clasped hers tightly, and slowly, and with care, the aging gentleman settled back into his chair. A sigh escaped his lips.
I was moved at the exchange, the gracious gentleman whose time of power and authority had passed, but still possessed such grace. The owner of the home stood in the doorway, a tender expression on her face.
"He was a judge", she said softly, letting her gaze rest tenderly on the white wisps of hair seen over the back of the recliner. "It was always his custom to stand when a woman entered the room. We like to help him keep that custom."
I blinked a little bit, I think . . .but the tears came anyway.
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