Hiram worked as an accountant for forty years. The early years were lean, but for most of those years, his firm thrived. By today’s standards, Hiram and his family lived in a modest but comfortable house. It was close to schools and temple and was just a short bus ride into New York City. It was a wonderful place for daughters Eileen, Rachel, and son Benyamin to grow up. It was a place for him and his beloved wife, Ruth – to grow old.
Hiram was a man faithful to routine. Five days a week, he arrived at the office at 7:30. He worked until 5:30 except on Fridays when he closed the office early. He carried a tattered briefcase and wore a London Fog overcoat.
To Hiram, the coat was both a suit of armor and a badge of honor rolled into one. His children made fun of it. Over the years, they had even replaced it with new ones, but when they deviated from the style and color, the new garment sat in a box in a closet unused. In forty years, he had only ever replaced the coat twice for you see there was something magical about his overcoat.
Every day there is a kind of drama lived out between men and women. Some parts of Hiram knew about drama. At the end of each day, he would walk into the house, place his briefcase beside his favorite chair, and sit for a few moments with his coat on.
Each day his beloved Ruth would sit beside him and present her daily list of woes. Hiram had never read Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. How did he know then that Ruth was only venting? He sat in his chair not saying a word still in his coat and let it come. Gently. Lovingly, he let Ruth get out of the grist of her day. When he was sure that she was done, he would stand, hug her, and assure her that all would be all right. Only then would he take off his coat.
Over their growing years, his children watched this drama unfold each day. Never did they hear Hiram get upset or try to fix any problem. It was enough for Ruth to be heard; they would work things out later.
Hiram passed away at the age of 81, seven years after his beloved Ruth. At the funeral, his children talked endlessly about their father’s patience. They were sure their mother’s complaints were each tagged and accounted for, marked in Hiram’s general ledger of life. With her sibling’s approval, Eileen had gone to Hiram’s closet, took his overcoat, lovingly folded it, and placed it in the coffin at his feet. For you see, she was sure he would need it were he to meet her mother Ruth in the next world.