Charlton Heston died Saturday at his Beverly Hills home at the age of 84. His wife of 64 years was at his side.

Mr. Heston was born John Charles Carter and claimed to be part Miniconjou Sioux. He grew up in an affluent northern suburb of Chicago and, following his mothers' divorce and remarriage, he adopted the surname Heston. He joined the U.S. Army Air Force in 1944 and served for two years as a B-25 radio operator/gunner stationed in the Aleutian Islands with the Eleventh Air Force, rising to the rank of staff sergeant. From high school onward, Heston pursued a theatrical career and succeeded beyond his or anyone's expectations.

As the Chicago Tribune said in its Sunday obit, Heston was "born for the screen." His remarkable good looks and powerful acting resulted in countless millions of us imagining his visage when we read about Moses or Michelangelo. His last-scene agony in Planet of the Apes still haunts many, as does his reaction in the final scene of the cult classic "Soylent Green."

Mr. Heston served five years as president of the Screen Actors Guild and was active in many causes, including civil rights and gun rights. The tone of the media's coverage of those activities depended upon with which they agreed.

Heston starred in the 1959 film "Ben-Hur," which features a spectacular chariot race, staged under the supervision of legendary Hollywood stuntman Yakima Canutt, that took five months to shoot. Cash-strapped MGM re-released "Ben-Hur" in 1969 and had much-ballyhooed "opening nights" in several cities, including Miami Beach.

I was a college senior and my ROTC drill team was hired to usher the red-carpet event at a fading film palace on Collins Avenue. As klieg lights streaked the sky and autograph seekers queued nearby, we college kids stood by in awe as limo after limo disgorged their celebrity passengers. Over the years, most had become film has-beens, except for co-star Stephen Boyd and, of course, Charlton Heston.

Despite the warm South Florida night, I felt some chills as Heston effortlessly walked past me, his 6-foot, 3-inch muscular frame easily wearing his tailored tux, his graceful wife at his side.

Two years earlier I had seen his signature in the concrete forecourt of Grauman's Chinese Theater in Tinsel Town. Seeing a film legend close-to, as they say in Britain, did not disappoint. He was, as they say, bigger than life.

Bill Gronvold

Ridgeway