The white, small, and crumpled envelope held a message to Danny, one that he had cherished, carried, and held close for years. Danny shared his beloved memento with us.
Some years ago, the high school wrestling team I was part of wanted to honor our coach, Bob Mauldin. With the help of his wife Donna and our spouses, we planned a surprise tribute for him, and about 80 of his former wrestlers and their spouses attended. It was a success, and our beloved Coach was surprised at being the main guest and by the admirable words spoken about him after supper.
The spoken tributes for Coach Mauldin varied–some serious, others full of humor–but they all centered on our coach and how he had influenced our lives as boys and, later, as men. But one talk stands out. I received word yesterday that the person making that tribute, Danny, had died after battling cancer. I thought of him and what he said and did that night.
Mementos are usually privately kept, stored away for reasons known only to the person who places the small item away in a secret place. Even if the memento is a flower or clover leaf placed between the pages of a book, it serves a role in someone’s life. As J. L. Carr observed in his novel memory and lost love, A Month in the Country, someone in years hence may purchase a book at a sale and then later find a dried Sara van Fleet rose carefully placed between two pages.
Getty Images
But no wonder. Most folks put seemingly insignificant things in private places as reminders of someone, a time, or both, which was special, but now past–the memory of the importance signified by the memento lives as long as they memorize.
As I recall, Danny was the last speaker at Coach’s tribute. Watching him walk to the microphone, I noticed that he was still rather small, like the wiry wrestler he was those years ago. He then shared how he was a soldier serving in Vietnam and received a letter from the Coach. Danny did not share the contents of his letter, but he did explain the importance of Coach’s words to him, a young man far away fighting in a brutal war.
Coach’s words were a salve to his soul Danny said, and with that, Danny reached into his hip pocket, pulled out the letter, and then thanked Coach for writing him and said something like, “It’s your letter, Coach, and now I give it back to you.”
Most mementos are private, but at Coach’s dinner, we all were witnesses to a memento of one of us, shared publicly, who is now dead as is the writer of the letter. While we do not know the contents of the letter, we were given the privilege of acknowledging a gift to one of us from our Coach Mauldin.
The white, small, and crumpled envelope held a message to Danny, one that he had cherished, carried, and held close for years. His public sharing of it told much. But most of all, it was a witness of what we all do—hold seemingly insignificant things like clover leaves or flowers dear to ourselves. Danny shared his beloved memento of Coach with us.
I think Danny saw his talk as a thank you to Coach, which it was, but it also spoke of holding close to what is dear–no matter from whom or from what circumstance–even if only a Sara van Fleet rose between the pages of a book.
Coach Bob Mauldin (photo courtesy Citizen-Times)
