The gloomy fall clouds have tempered the sun as I drive to Ottawa Park Cemetery on Maybee Road eager to meet Bill Walker of White Lake, a 79-year-old man who in the past 17 months has missed visiting his deceased wife’s grave only once.
As I drive up to the cemetery, I see Bill right away sitting comfortably in a chair on the corner.
Getting out of the car, I brace myself for the worst: someone paralyzed with grief who sits in the rain, snow and sleet, sadness numbing him to the palpable weather that’d send most folks home.
Bill rises from his chair quickly and shakes my hand. Before we finish our hello’s, he’s walking to his car, fishing in the trunk for the foot ladder with foam on top that he used to sit on. I settle on the foam and we begin talk.
Wearing a blue hat with ‘ARMY? written in bright white letters, a coat covering a flannel that meets lightly faded jeans; Bill looks at me through his glasses smiling. I can see clips on the chair behind him holding pictures of family including his wife Peg. Each cup holder holds a pack of opened tissues.
‘The reason why I sit here, is I want to and it’s the closest I can be to her. Four feet. For two hours a day we have a date everyday,? said Bill, whose jovial nature fades when he mentions his wife Peg’s death and all the people he’d like to thank for stopping by.
Margaret ‘Peg? M. Walker, passed away on May 4, 2004 after succumbing to a lengthy battle with cancer, which took her from Bill after 60 years of marriage.
‘When Peg first got sick, she called her brother in New York State who had recently lost his wife. When they were through, she told me what they talked about. She asked him if he went to the cemetery and he said ‘Everyday.? She asked me if I’d do that for her. I said ‘Yes,?? said Bill.
‘I told her I would and I’m here? Even if I get tired or illness stops me, I’m going to spend the two hours with her,? said Bill.
‘In 60 years of marriage, we must have had some disagreements, but I can’t remember them. That might happen when you lose someone,? he added.
After a few moments of slightly-teary reflection, Bill’s voice picks up and he starts telling story after story about the experiences he’s had watching the people and cars drive by over the past 17 months.
He recalls a helpful worker at Home Depot who purchased a hose for him while he was shopping for a way to keep the grass covering Peg’s grave green.
‘When Peg first died, they laid the sod. It wasn’t going to take hold, so I made up the hose (he adapted the one given to him by the employee)? Peg was four feet eleven inches tall, I keep the grass growing out taller than that because she always wanted to be taller and that’s the best I can do,? chuckles Bill.
Throughout the interview, several people drive by and all receive a quick, hardy wave. He waves right away because he feels if people take the time to wave to him, he owes them a wave back. His wave is a quick jerking motion that’s hard to miss.
While I’m sitting there, a car rolls up with the window down. Bill excuses himself and talks to his friend. After greeting Carl, he gives me a polite introduction. Carl is also visiting his deceased wife.
‘Carl gets all dressed up in a suit on Sunday and comes down,? said Bill after he razzes Carl in a playful manner you expect between a pair of high school football teammates, not two widowers. Bill asks Carl whether he knows the way out of the cemetery or not, as we sit on the drive 15 feet from the entrance. They both laugh. In between a few more playful jokes, Bill hollers ‘You’re a major hunk of my staying alive.? The window crawls up and Carl drives off grinning.
‘Lot’s of people are here now and then, but Carl’s always here,? says Bill laughing.
The stories come one after another. There’s Tui, who lost her husband, stopping by in her bright yellow car to chat when she can. Bill still has no idea how she waves, drives and honks at the same time.
There’s the lady across the street who brings coffee on the colder days.
There’s the three brothers who stopped by and gave him a green canvas chair, complete with cup holders, after Bill sat with no back support for over a year on the stool I sit on. (He calls it the ‘Stool Year.?)
There’s the woman whose name he can’t recall, who stops quickly, pulls any weeds from among the flowers at Peg’s grave, says ‘hi? and then drives off.
He enjoys talking with the people from the funeral homes who stop in a hearse to say hi.
Bill tells me about one rainy day when he was curled up in the chair with his head tucked down trying to stay warm, when suddenly the rain stopped. Looking up, he saw a woman holding an umbrella over him, kneeling in the wet grass. The umbrella is still in his car.
‘I felt honored when Peg married me. I’m honored when the people stop and visit. I want them to know I’m thankful. Never in my life would I expect them to help a stranger, which is me,? Bill said.
Rain starts to fall lightly during the interview. Bill shows no signs of moving.
‘We can’t go in my car because I have so much stuff in there,? Bill said, explaining how he packs three different styles of coats, a scarf, gloves, boots and other layers of clothing because he’s not always sure what type of weather to expect while he’s with Peg.
As the rain starts to smear my ink, a slight twinge of concern creeps into Bill’s eyes. I can tell he’s worried about my paper getting wet. Fortunately heavy rain holds off.
Bill sets the time from two to four everyday because people stop by, sometimes wishing to introduce him to others, or visit. Now everyone knows when Bill sits in his chair and the cemetery received several calls the one day he did not visit Peg.
In over 500 days since Peg’s death, Bill has missed only one day’after suffering a stroke. He remembers telling the doctors they’d have to hurry up because he had a date at 2 p.m.
While keeping the same devotion he offered on his wedding day, Bill tears up when referring to Peg and those that have helped him. Yet he’s nowhere near the upset, old man lost without his wife that I expected when receiving the phone call suggesting I go out and meet Bill.
‘I’m not lonely. I’m missing Peg, but there are a lot of people doing the best they can to lessen the pain,? said Bill.
Bill still talks to Peg. He looks to the right from habit because they went everywhere together and he is used to looking at her in the car as she rode along. He tells her the date and updates her on what is happening. He introduces her to friends at the grave site.
‘It’s better for me to talk to her, even though she can’t hear it or talk back? I’m helping me (by talking to her). I know I can’t bring her back no matter what,? said Bill.
Bill starts to tell me how he and Peg met. Tears are ushered aside by a nostalgic boyish confidence and nervousness, as if he’s seeing the 19-year-old woman he married and proclaimed as ‘absolute perfection? again in his mind.
Peg and Bill met after his dad interviewed Peg for a job in his office. Bill’s dad worked for the Selective Service. Bill still wonders ‘how a skinny 18-year-old got such a beautiful woman.?
‘She’s a lovely lady? nothing else ever looked good to me,? laughs Bill, leaning back in his chair with the look of a boy in love on the face of man who’s lost his wife of 60 years.
Besides the strangers and friends made while sitting at Peg’s side, Bill recognizes the support he’s received from his family. He and Peg shared one son and four daughters. Son, Bob Walker is married to Sandy. His daughters are Cheryl, married to Jim Mouchet; Carol O’Rourke; Barb, married to Kevin Alee; and Jennifer Fabean, married to Ron. Bill and Peg have seven grandchildren, five step-grandkids and six great-grandkids.
‘I’m amazed at how nice the world is,? said Bill as we begin to get ready for pictures. He reiterates he wants to thank the 200 or 300 people he’s met or who have helped him.
‘I’m getting along just fine,? said Bill, waving at a car that honks from the road.
After the pictures, I get up and Bill walks me to my car offering a confident handshake. As I drive away, I can see him putting away his chair and stool from the ‘Stool Year.?
Peg’s three remaining siblings can rest assured the man who promised their sister he’d be there through it all is doing just that’in rain or shine, in January and July, in a green canvas chair with her pictures clipped to the back and tissues in the cup holders.
My view of Bill has transformed. He’s not an old guy getting rained on, soaking his shirt in tears. He’s not paralyzed by grief. He’s motivated by love of the purist kind. He misses Peg and always will, but he still laughs and meets his friends for Chinese food for lunch. He hollers at Carl and Tui when they drive by. He wants everyone to know he is appreciative for everything, even if he can not recall their names.
He’s living the best way he knows how; with Peg, just four feet away.