He was a familiar sight at just about every event in our small city. He would be in his usual attire; brown overalls, green checkered shirt, well used work boots and a cap on his head that had surely seen better days.
He drove a small, four-cylinder Nissan truck that had more than three hundred thousand miles, according to the men who worked at one of the auto repair stores. Though the truck had started out a light blue, it was now a collage of colors, all of them neatly painted on perfectly cut tin patches that were riveted on the side panels and the hood. The tailgate had long ago dived into the ocean of flawed auto parts; replaced by a red one that had been rescued from a junk yard just past the city line.
His name was Ross, and he was a fixture in our community. He was present at almost every parade, craft show, flea market and public gathering. He would sit in the back of his truck, smiling and saying hello to every passerby. Some would stop and talk and others would go around him, laughing no doubt at the colorful little truck and the unique man who owned it.
There was nothing spectacular or mysterious about Ross. He was simply always there and many, including me, believed his only contribution to the community was his oddity. We were mistaken.
Each July 4th, our little city would celebrate in a big way. On this particular 4th of July, there seemed to be more celebrants than usual. Some were decked out in red, white and blue. Some were dressed like Uncle Sam, George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and other historical figures. Children proudly waved their little flags, looking up at their parents for their approval and those sweet words of encouragement. Teenagers stood in small groups, trying quite unsuccessfully to look bored, while sneaking looks at some of the colorful people in their midst.
The weather was perfect and the sky had that summer shade of blue; that true blue with a splash of white clouds that slowly pushed each other along.
Ross was in his usual spot, right beside the spruced-up back of an old farm truck that magically and without flaw had transformed into a grandstand. Community leaders and special guests were on the grandstand, sitting on folding aluminum chairs and smiling stiffly at the crowd that had gathered for the opening ceremony.
The current mayor walked up to the microphone and reached out to turn it on. Immediately, the microphone began to squeal loudly and the mayor jumped back. After a few attempts to solve the unexpected microphone snafu, it was announced (actually shouted) that there would be no formal program due to technical difficulties.
People began to disperse into the crowd when suddenly Ross walked up to the nearly empty grandstand and began talking with the mayor. Ross hoisted himself up on the grandstand, straightened his clothes and gave the mayor a nod. He stood straight and tall as he removed his hat. He placed his right arm over his heart and began to sing the national anthem — a cappella, of course.
I saw Ross many times after that memorable 4th of July. The city council purchased a new sound system and rumor had it that Ross was working part time for the city doing maintenance.
If you are wondering just how Ross sounded singing the national anthem a cappella, I will tell you it was surreal; it was superb; it was magnificent; for me, it was life changing.
His voice was clear and strong, needed no accompaniment or backup singers and brought tears to my eyes and hope to my heart. We never know what precious talents some may harbor deep within their soul. Ross was so much more than his funny little circus truck and his limited wardrobe.
I often thought about striking up a conversation with him. For instance, where are you from? Were you in the military? Did you ever perform in a school or church choir? Did you train professionally? Were you ever married and do you have children?
I attempted to walk up to him several times as he sat in the back of his little truck, but I never did. I prefer to remember him standing on that bandstand, beneath that summer sky, his hand on his heart. That one event tells me all I need to know.
Belinda Wilcox Hersey lives in Caribou with her husband, Kent. You may email her at belindahersy@gmail.com.
