He sat in the waiting room, skimming through a few magazines and glanced over at me now and then.  An older man, tall, tired-looking with a silk scarf wrapped around his neck, tied in a loose knot that rested on the collar of his jacket.

Eventually, he came over to the counter and handed me a piece of paper where how much longer will it be was scribbled.  I looked into the shop’s garage, checked with the guys who were installing a new antenna on his car and informed him that it would be another half-hour.  His hand reached up to his throat as he struggled to speak and I realized that he had a prosthetic voice box and handed him a notepad, asking if it was easier to communicate in that manner.  He smiled and told me that he much preferred to have a conversation because people always avoided talking with him, out of concern for his condition; at times he felt as if he were a man of stone, acknowledged by some, ignored by many.

We chatted, slowly, and I became fascinated with all that he wanted to share.  Cancer had robbed him of his ability to talk after he underwent a laryngectomy upon returning from the Amazon River;  he ran guided tours of the rainforest and did a fair amount of gold and woolen trading with the Peruvians.  He told me how he missed his work and longed to return just one more time, if only to say his good-byes to the many friends he had made during his years of travelling. 

Often, he would reach down and write things he wanted to say.  Talking seemed to tire him but he was so eager to continue, to share his stories, with someone willing to listen.  We talked about the new home my husband and I were building upstate.  I explained it was rare for me to be working, most of my days were spent chasing our builder and dealing with the endless paperwork involved in new construction.   Sadly, the antenna job finished more quickly than expected and his car was brought around.  After taking a look, he came back into the showroom to pay his bill and thanked me for our nice conversation.  I watched him pull out of the driveway and thought about what an interesting life he had lived, glad that I taken the time to speak with him.

More than an hour later, he returned to the shop, carrying a package in his hand as he walked back into the showroom.   Here, this is for the home you are building.  It was one of the nicest pieces from my last trip to Lima.  Hang it on the wall , it will bring good luck to you and your family. 

As he drove away, I unwrapped the package to find a beautiful, rustic weaving of a Tumi, a Peruvian symbol of good luck.  It  hangs in the dining room of my home to this day, a reminder of a wonderful conversation with the man who wasn’t stone.

This is a simply-written, but true, story which took place more than twenty-five years ago, on July 11th, 1986.  What I shared here are bits and pieces of a brief conversation that remains etched in my mind to this day.   I often thought of this gentle man, the kindness he extended to me and was able to contact his family to see if he managed one last trip back to the rainforest.  He passed away a short time after our meeting that day.