Sid made the pen mightier than the tombstone

It was a brief encounter, one I would normally have forgotten by the next day. But something about Sid and the story he told just won’t go away.

Maybe it was the kind but sad look in his eyes. Maybe it was the ballpoint pens he gave The Consort and I, pens that contained a haunting five line verse. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

On a recent drive back from Denver, we stopped at a gas station/convenience store outside Romeroville just south of Las Vegas, N.M. on I-25. We like to stop there because they have a doggy rest area where the pooches can do whatever they have to do – and where our new guy Radar can burn off some energy by romping through a large field.

We let the dogs run, then The Consort went inside to do whatever she had to do, and I gave the dogs some water. They finished drinking and started pulling me toward the convenience store entrance where they had seen her disappear.

As we stood outside the front door waiting, an old man walked towards us. He was casually but nondescriptly dressed, wearing khakis and a sport shirt. I think I smiled and nodded, but I’m not sure.

I don’t know if that’s what encouraged Sid to approach but approach he did.

“Can I talk to you for a few minutes,” he said.

Suspicious that I was about to be panhandled for money or some religious cause, I said OK – but I didn’t mean it.

In a voice as soft and gentle as his eyes, Sid began telling me about the poodle he had just put down. He worried that he might have hurt the little dog when he left him in his pickup while he was pumping gas a few days earlier. As he petted Shiloh and Radar, he advised me to be careful not to leave them in the car.

The admonition, coming from a complete stranger, struck me as odd, but I thanked him for the advice and looked eagerly at the convenience store door, hoping The Consort would appear and rescue me. She was nowhere to be seen.

Sid then proceeded to tell me that he had lost his wife three years ago and was only now resuming his passion – competitive trapshooting. It was a blazing hot day, near 100 degrees, and Sid explained he had stopped to let his truck cool down. If it turned out to be a problem, he said he’d just go home and wait for the next competition.

Then he reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a ballpoint pen and handed it to me. It had a message printed on it, but without my reading glasses all I could make out was the first couple lines:

SID IS MY NAME
TRAPSHOOTING IS MY GAME

As I squinted to make out the rest, I was distracted by the emergence of The Consort, hands full of drinks and snacks. It was blazing hot, and it was high time to get out of Dodge – Romeroville just doesn’t have the same ring.

By now I had come to the conclusion that Sid was harmless, so I introduced him to The Consort and explained that he was a trapshooter. He quickly reached into his pocket for another pen. Mine was green. The one he gave The Consort orange.

We chatted for just a minute or two more. He mentioned the poodle, and The Consort took the opportunity to encourage Sid to visit the animal shelter in his hometown of Alamogordo and get another dog.

We said we had to run, that it was nice meeting him, and wished him well with his truck and the competition.

As we drove off, The Consort took out her pen and read the verse aloud:

SID IS MY NAME
TRAPSHOOTING IS MY GAME
IN THE TRAPSHOOTING HALL OF FAME
MARRIED 56 YEARS THEN
DEATH TOOK BARBARA JANE

I almost stopped the car and went back. But you know how life’s imperatives lead you away from moments that deserve more attention. We had a long road ahead of us, so we kept going.

We wondered what his motive was. The Consort thought maybe he needed some money, but didn’t want to come right out and ask. I don’t think so.

I think he was just a lonely, road-weary old man looking for a sympathetic ear – a man who had lost the love of his life and now his canine traveling companion. I wish we had asked Sid if we could buy him a cup of coffee.

The problem with epitaphs on tombstones is that they’re not very portable. You have to go there to read them.

Sid had written a simple but touching epitaph for his wife and put it on a ballpoint pen so that perfect strangers could appreciate her and what she meant to him. We should all be so lucky as Sid’s wife.