Howard's Doorbell Button: everyone is alone
By Jeannine Patané • 1 December 2004

    It was mid-morning when I called Alan from a highway rest stop, just outside of Raleigh, North Carolina. I realized how close his home was in Emerald Isle as I traveled south, and thought I’d stop in and visit. Alan had no idea I would call with such short-notice, but he went out of his way to accommodate his road-weary relative for an overnight stay.
    Alan already made dinner plans and he invited me along. He told me we’d be having dinner with Howard, an 80-year-old widower who led an amazing life. Alan knew Howard for many years; they were neighbors in Valhalla, New York, and then both men retired to North Carolina. Howard and his wife, Marge, came to North Carolina in 1986, and within the first month of their arrival, he was elected Commissioner of Cape Carteret. Howard had a lifetime of credentials and valued work ethics to easily fill the position.
    We walked up to Howard’s front door. Alan reached out to push the doorbell button and chuckled, “Look at this.”
    There was a hole in the center of the button like a worn out, old shoe sole. I had never seen a doorbell wear out in that way. Many visitors rubbed a hole through the plastic button over many years. I chuckled with Alan and commented on the need for maintenance. Yet, the condition of the button only intrigued me to learn more about Howard. During dinner, I told Howard I wanted to replace his doorbell button and paint his front door. We set up a date to work on his front entry, and then we would eat the leftovers from tonight’s dinner.
    Changing the doorbell button was simple; it’s just two wires to swap over. Howard’s front door needed some caulk around the panels before I gave it a new coat of white paint. The work was quickly finished so I could sit with Howard, eat leftovers and hear more about him.
    His story was not told in a lineal way; I arranged it that way so I could grasp an understanding of his life, and I knew what he was telling me was only a fraction of his story. Howard began with the draft for World War II while he attended Valhalla High School in New York. There was only one other boy in school when Howard got called into the draft. All the other male students were already drafted. As soon as he arrived into boot camp, the Marines asked who wanted to volunteer to fly planes.
    “I was told to never volunteer myself for anything, but I couldn’t pass up flying a plane,” smiled Howard. He jumped at the chance, and with expedited training, he was flying military aircraft at the age of 17. He piloted a SBD Dauntless Dive-bomber to destroy defenseless supply ships and submarines that were bringing the Japanese supplies for the war. Howard informed me, “It was a minimal risk assignment.”
    When his flying assignment was complete, he was called to California where he scheduled to get on a ship and head out in the Pacific to continue to fight the war. “But then they dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima and all orders were cancelled,” Howard said. We talked about how the entire war suddenly ceased and how that impacted the nation.
    When Howard returned back home to New York, the atmosphere had changed, especially between him and his high school friend, Marge. There was magic between them, a spark, that wasn’t there before. They got married in 1946.

The Snowstorm That Changed His Life
    Howard and Marge were taking the train north to Poughkeepsie, NY, so Howard could re-enlist in the Marine Reserves. It was winter, and there was such a heavy snowstorm, it stopped the train. They were stuck in the train all night through the following morning until the track was cleared enough to continue north. But the train didn’t stop in Poughkeepsie. In fact, it missed all stops and went straight north to Albany.
     On their way back south, Marge said to him, “You got your jollies flying planes during the war, and that’s enough. I don’t want you to fly anymore.” Flying was the one thing that upset Marge and Howard obeyed her request by not re-enlisting.
    Howard found another line of work with the railroad as a ticket teller. 15 years later, after being promoted as a ticket agent with and office that overlooked St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, He was laid off by the railroad’s headquarter office in California.
      “As soon as the 707 came out, it hurt the railroad. No one traveled by railroad anymore,” Howard said. That was 1959. The railroad wasn’t the only form of transportation he was involved with. Howard also owned his own taxi company. “That was just a side business,” he said.
    Hospital administration was another business that Howard got involved with for the next 20 years. He started out as a department head in Grasslands Hospital in New York, on the fringe of an era where college degrees weren’t necessary, but he took a one-year course for his credentials. By the time he left Grasslands, he oversaw all of the department heads.
    “I had over 500 people to look after, and I got to know everyone’s names, even the patients.” The leadership that Howard demonstrated showed that he had people skills. “I knew how to talk to people.” He made the time and effort to get to know each person’s name.
    Marge believed everything Howard worked at always put him in the top position. She once quipped, “You have to be at the top of everything you do, don’t you?” But Howard knew Marge was great at golf and Bridge. She also had the ability to make many friends. Howard didn’t feel the same about himself when it came to making friends.
    “You didn’t get close to others at the top. I always worked in the upper echelon and it was always about business,” Howard stated. It was his way of saying that it’s lonely at the top. That certainly does not reflect Howard’s personality. I was honored to spend time with this thoughtful, soft-spoken man. At the age of 80, Howard has seen many of his friends and co-workers pass away or move away after retirement. But nothing has had such a strong impact to his life as Marge’s death two years ago.
    He explained they were watching TV one evening as they usually do, and Marge said she felt tired and was ready for bed. Howard helped her into her wheelchair and took her into the bedroom. She had passed away during her trip to the bedside.
    “Just the way she wanted to go, in her sleep,” Howard recalled, “She never complained about a thing.” Howard and Marge’s lifetime relationship sounded as an ideal that most couples wish to have.
    “We never argued, we never had a fight,” Howard said. “Then again, I never argued with anyone.”
    Now Marge’s urn resides next to Howard’s bed on the nightstand. Placed next to the urn is a picture of the family plot in Valhalla. The stone has Marge’s name and dates of birth and death, as well as Howard’s name and birth date in 1924. When Howard passes on, his ashes are to be buried with Marge’s at the Valhalla plot, so they may rest in peace together. I told Howard that it’s OK to take his time to get there, but Howard admits his loneliness. Marge has been his lifetime partner and they raised a family together. As Howard bides his time to be with Marge, we reflect on his life. Howard isn’t as alone as he led his heart to believe. It takes a lot of pressing fingers to wear a hole through a doorbell button.
    The condition of Howard’s doorbell represented his and Marge’s close tie to family, friends and the community. We go through life alone but with many others surrounding us. We are responsible of making our own enriching life stories. The more people we can include in our experiences, helps us better understand and enjoy our own journey. Howard makes me want to go back for the stories in history, and to replace his doorbell button again for the same reason. I was fortunate to listen to a man who always speaks so well of all the people in his life.

“I was told to never volunteer myself for anything, but I couldn’t pass up flying a plane,” smiled Howard.