1944

As one of many classmates and friends who shared the privilege of visiting with Fritz Hier in recent months, I drove him to the Norris Cotton Cancer Center for one of his last radiation treatments. Leaving the clinic, we went to a large and very busy restaurant for a seafood lunch. Fritz noticed that Dave Eckels and CliffJordan '45 were seated a few tables away so we asked our waitress to deliver a mildly insulting note to them, and we soon received an appropriate reply. We all finished at about the same time. Fritz summoned his waning strengdi to stand beside the table, and we watched as Dave maneuvered his wheelchair into the aisle and waited to be sure that Cliff, who is blind, had a grip on the chair's handles. All eyes were on them as Dave rolled his chair along. It was clear why these two valiant men are well known as "The halt leading the blind." Fritz's eyes were glistening as they moved past us. "Look at those two heroes," he whispered. The little procession had to stop at a busy intersection of aisles. With traffic from the kitchen, the restrooms and the entry, gridlock quickly set in. At once, a white-haired gen deman of our vintage rose from his chair to direct traffic like a Boston policeman, and made way for Dave and Cliff.

Teetering on his unfamiliar cane, Fritz fell in line behind them, tears on his cheeks. On the road back to Cornish Flat we traveled in silence. I thought Fritz might be dozing, but soon he asked, "Got any Mozart?" I slipped in a CD and we drifted along beside a meandering brook, stopping once for a flock of wild turkeys poking across the road. "Must be 20 of 'em," I said. "Twenty-eight," said Fritz.

Back home at the farm on Lovejoy Hill, Fritz's beloved Anne was there...Always there...to take his arm. Fritz turned, gave me a thumbs up, and a smile that will last forever.

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