Many of you will already know of Scott F. Guinn, possibly through his excellent online-vision articles, or perhaps even becuase you remember some of his posts here at Talk Magic.
I discovered an old article of his the other day, which to say I found very moving is a complete understatement. With his kind permission I have re-posted it here.
A Reminder by Scott Guinn
The call had caught me a bit off-guard. It started off sweetly enough—turns out one of my readers all the way down in Sunny Florida had recommended me for a show in the Boise area to a family member. The lady on the phone told me how much my reader (her step-brother) had appreciated my columns and said that I would do an excellent job for her son’s 10th birthday party. Then she hit me with a shot out of left field: “We really want to make this special for him, because it looks like this birthday will be his last.”
Ouch.
“How much will you charge us to do this? My brother said you’re the guy to have, so we aren’t interested in talking with anyone else.”
I had the day free, and I couldn’t see putting this family through any more financial hardship, so I told her I’d be happy to donate the show. You would have thought I had just given her a million dollars—she was unbelievably excited and appreciative. She explained that it probably wouldn’t be a very big party, just a few friends and their parents. It would be at the clubhouse of their subdivision.
I arrived at the venue, and I have to tell you, it was heart wrenching. It’s even difficult for me to write about it now. At the center of the room was a cute little boy. His name was Ian. He was in a wheelchair and had a couple of tubes running into him. He had no hair. He was pale as a ghost. He was obviously very ill, and yet he had a life and a joy in his eyes and a smile that lit up the room. Surrounding him were 40-50 people, ranging in age from babies to octogenarians.
Everyone there knew Ian, but many of them did not know each other. They were taking turns telling everyone how they had met Ian and what their favorite memory of him was. Many of them started crying as they related their anecdotes. I noticed a common thread: In spite of his pain and illness, every person mentioned how much joy and caring and love Ian had brought into their lives. Nurses from the Mountain States Tumor Institute, members of a Harley Davison Motorcycle Club (which had made Ian an honorary member), schoolmates, relatives, friends, church members—all were inspired by this little guy’s courage and spirit. It was truly moving.
When the sharing was over, mum told Ian that he had a special guest there. Ian said, “I know!” And he pointed to everyone in the room. I just about lost it. Mum got a little misty (grandma broke down), and she said, “Yes, honey, they are ALL special. But there is someone else here that you haven’t met yet. He’s a friend of your uncle Rick and he is a magician. His name is Great Scott, and he’s standing over there in the corner.”
Ian’s eyes went wide and he turned to look at me, his face the very image of joy and excitement. He asked me if I was REALLY a magician and if I could do part of my magic just for him. I said I’d be happy to, and went into my show.
I’ve been entertaining for most of my life, since I was a little kid myself. This was by far the most difficult show I’ve ever done, while at the same time being the best. I wanted to drop to my knees and just take that little boy in my arms and cry with him and pray for him. But I had a job to do—I was there to bring some joy and magic into his life on his last birthday party on this earth. So for the next 40 minutes, I fought my impulse to cry and I laughed and “magished,” putting every ounce of energy I had into making that little fellow amazed and astonished and happy. When he laughed, he laughed with everything he had, and it was contagious. The whole room was soon filled with laughter and applause. And when I finished my last trick, Ian looked up at me, his eyes shining and a smile spread all the way across his face, and he said, “Thank you, Great Scott! That was the best birthday party I ever had!”
In that moment, every big-paying show I’d ever had faded into meaninglessness. For a dying little boy, I had, for however brief a time, become the best magician he’d ever seen. I was his hero—and he was mine. I thanked him for having me and told him I hoped to see him again and I’d do some more magic for him then. He said that would be awesome.
As I left, mum, dad and grandma all offered to pay me. I told them I couldn’t take their money. It wouldn’t be right, because Ian had already given me more than any amount of money ever could.
A couple of weeks later, I got an email from Paul Preston (Rick), Ian’s uncle who had referred me for the show. He told me that he had picked up his mum (Ian’s grandma) at the airport, and she had told him that I had done a great job. He also informed me that, after battling leukemia for eight long years, Ian had passed away peacefully at home. He died exactly two weeks after his birthday party.
I’m not ashamed to tell you that I broke down and cried. I had known him only very briefly, but he had made a great impact on my life, and I will never forget him. Ian reminded me why I got into magic in the first place. And that is worth far more to me than any amount of money ever could be.
Warm regards, Scott F. Guinn
"This article copyright 2003, Scott F. Guinn. All rights reserved. Used with permission."
And if that didin't move you - well you must be very unmovable...
