The Day Mr. Billie Reminded Me to Slow Down
Yesterday, during a quick trip to my usual Walmart, I noticed something different. The familiar face who normally greeted customers at the front, Mr. Billie, was now sitting on a small stool in the back of the electronics section. I was standing in line, half distracted by my phone, when he caught my eye and motioned me over.
He handed me a sticker, hummed a little tune, and began talking. At first, I worried about losing my place in line, but something in his gentle smile made me tuck my phone away and settle into the moment.
In the next half hour, I learned more about this 85-year-old man than I ever expected. He has been married for decades, and both he and his wife still work, not because they have to but because he does not want her to carry the load alone. He served in the Air Force for more than eight years, down to the exact number of months and days. He grew up as one of fifteen children and was the only one to graduate high school. Not smart, he insisted with a laugh. Just lucky.
He proudly told me his second cousin was Brigadier General Chuck Yeager. He described being in Alaska the day it became a state and watching the first flag rise at the fort. Every time a veteran walked by, he slowly stood to salute them. Respect was woven into his bones.
We talked about lost traditions, how families used to share stories around a fireplace. We do not do that anymore, he said quietly. He told me about the dance lessons he was too shy to take in California, about his two children, and about the son he lost years ago. His voice softened, but he did not look away.
Before I left, he told me, You are the prettiest girl in the store. Do not ever stop smiling. You light up the room. It was kind, sincere, and it stayed with me long after I walked away.
That unexpected conversation became the best thirty minutes I have spent in a long time. Mr. Billie, an Air Force veteran, a husband, a father, a man full of stories, reminded me to slow down, put my phone away, and invest in the people right in front of me.
Sometimes the smallest encounters end up teaching us the biggest lessons.
Credit: Randi Roper Perkins
