Paul Williamson, Bugler Extraordinaire
Continued from Blood, Sweat, Tears and Taps.
One correction needs to be made from the information reported there. When Sara read my post, she said, “I didn’t find out Paul’s age until we were on the trail. I didn’t have the nerve to ask his age directly, so I asked him the year he was born.”
I’d misreported that she’d found out at Von’s, before we left Oakhurst. If she had, she might have taken us aside and redesigned our plan. As it was, we didn’t know, and we proceeded.
***
Shevy was not the fan of Yosemite that I am. In fact he’d told me that he’d been to the park more often since we’d been together than in all the years before that, put together. Still, he loved the hike to Sentinel Dome as much as any he’d done. He loved the 360 degree view from the top of the dome, and he loved the “top-of-the-world” feeling it gave those who ascended it. We’d climbed it in early morning, and we’d climbed it at sunset to watch the moonrise over the Clark Range. We’d negotiated that rocky trail by the light of headlamps, and Shevy had helped to doctor a fallen hiker in the very spot where Paul took his tumble.
That we were on this particular trail together to celebrate Shevy’s life (not his passing) was entirely fitting.
That we were there with a 92-year-old adventurer-raconteur-musician and life-of-the-party type fellow was even more so.
Shevy was no musician. He couldn’t carry a tune (although he could do a passable job of whistling the theme from “Bridge of the River Kwai” while I butchered it), but all those other things Paul is, Shevy was. As I began to realize having Paul there was almost like Shevy being with us, the tears began to flow, and they continued intermittently through the morning. Too many memories. Good ones.
Sara told me that Shevy’s non-stop talking actually was a later-in-life phenomenon. When the kids were growing up, he was mostly silent, and he engendered a certain amount of fear in them. He made up for the silence in spades as he aged. As we hiked trails all over Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada, he would talk to everyone we met along the way. Sometimes he’d engage hikers from Britain or France or Tasmania in conversations so long the listeners’ eyes would begin to glaze over. Shevy wouldn’t notice, but I would, and I’d gently try to find a way to pull him away.
Paul was much the same. He clearly loved to tell stories, and he relished the company this outing afforded him.
Once planted on the rocky seat we found for him, Paul opened his trumpet case and pulled out the well-worn instrument he loved. It dated way back and had served him well as he’d actually performed with well-known bands. Wynton Marsalis had even expressed an interest in playing it. (That’s the problem with writing from memories several weeks old. Paul regaled us with tales from his youth and his earlier adult years, but I can’t remember the details. Where was my mini-digital recorder when I needed it? Back home in my office, of course.)
Sara took out the American flag she’d brought along and draped it over the rock in front of Paul.
“My friend Betty told me Jews place stones on a grave as a mark they were there to honor the deceased,” I mentioned, as I looked about for a stone to place beside the flag. The others did the same. It was like having Betty there with me, and she’d been with me at the memorials for both my mother and father.
Stones for Remembrance
When we’d hit the trail an hour before, there weren’t that many other people on it. Now more and more folks were passing by the spot where we’d set up camp. We waited for them to pass by before Paul began to play.
As the trail cleared in both directions, Paul raised the trumpet to his lips and sounded a crystal-clear version of the melody that for centuries has signaled the closing of a life.
Taps for Shevy
Paul certainly wasn’t shy, and he wanted to give Shevy his full due. After he finished “Taps,” he played and sang “Amazing Grace,” and then went on to “Claire de Lune” in honor of his wife.
After he’d finished, some of the folks went on to summit the Dome, while Angela, Nehanda and I waited. It gave Paul the perfect opportunity to share some of his memories with us. Turns out he was an educator, too, as Shevy was. And he impacted lives, as Shevy did.
After the rest of the group returned from the Dome, John decided to scout out the road I’d remembered from previous trips. We wanted to be sure we wouldn’t have Paul walk that distance only to find out it was a road to nowhere. Although once again he’d never admit it, he’d done about as much hiking as his 92-year-old body could handle. Just getting him to where he could get into the car would be enough for him.
After no more than five or ten minutes, John came back. “The road’s right up there.”
We got the gear packed up, and I slipped a rock into my pocket. That’s a no-no. You’re not supposed to remove even a pine cone from a national park, but I needed a permanent remembrance of the day.
As you can see from the photos, Paul wore his U S Navy hat.
U S Navy all the way
The one thing missing from this gathering, besides Shevy himself, was Shevy’s Korean vet hat. He’d bought it one day when we’d stopped at the Fresno VA hospital to see about medical benefits. He wore that hat proudly whenever he felt he’d be around people who’d appreciate his military service. It would have been fitting to place it atop the flag while “Taps” was played.
After we got Paul up and going again with John, the rest of us headed back the way we’d come to get the cars.
It was a simple, unstructured ceremony out in the Yosemite wilderness.
Perfect for the simple, unstructured, unassuming fellow it honored.
Granddaughters Nehanda and Angela
- Granddaughter Angela, daughter Sara, granddaughter Anna
Granddaughter Tiana (Tinker)
Listening - Nehanda, Tinker, Sara, John
