My next door neighbor died last weekend. He was a successful general contractor who had built over 50 homes and remodeled countless others, including the house across the street. His lawn is smoother than the 18th fairway at Augusta National. He had every power tool known to man and knew how to use them. He owned a boat that might be worth more than my house. He had friends and companionship. He was muscular and looked the picture of health. And yet, his heart gave out, apparently after a period of despair following some business and personal reversals that weren't immediately evident. And he was young. He died at the age of 44.
There’s no sense in any of it. I didn’t know my neighbor well; we would chat from time to time, but mostly he went his way and I went mine. One of his coworkers knocked on my door earlier this week and asked me what happened. And I really couldn’t tell him much more than what we saw out our window; the police cars, the ambulance that left empty, the hearse that left with his body. His co-worker was distraught. I knew what happened, but I could not tell him why, so I wasn't much help.
It’s been a weird time on my street. Beyond the imposed social distancing from the pandemic, our street has been under construction for months. Only in the past month have we been free to move about without dodging bulldozers and steamrollers. Lately, in this period of weirdness, some of my other neighbors have been putting on impromptu concerts in the cul-de-sac on the end of my street. The family at the end of the block has a number of talented musicians and one of their adult sons has a college roommate who has moved to Minnesota; the roommate is a talented guitarist and can play pretty much anything. Beyond that, we have several other guitarists in the neighborhood. It’s turned into a bit of a jam session with a socially distanced audience of neighbors, putting out their lawn chairs and sipping a few beers. I’ve taken the microphone a few times to sing along. It’s been a nice thing, a source of joy. We always intended to invite my next door neighbor, but it never happened.
We seek a tidy summation, a suitable framework for what we experience. Generally, such things aren't available. I pray for many reasons, but most often for understanding. In a year riddled with conundrums, my neighbor's demise tops the list. I continue to pray for his soul, for his family, and for understanding.
1 comment:
Reminds me of something I wrote 6 years ago.
Sticks, stones
I saw my neighbor
after the long winter,
walking slowly with his wife,
a long walking stick in his hand and
a broad-brimmed hat on his head.
I stopped to talk, what’s with the stick?
I have leukemia, he said.
A long winter indeed.
I mention “Uncle Lou”,
we talk about all our trips to the Mayo
the landmarks on a road we
weren’t expecting, where
they tell you to bring a stick.
Mine arrived by air, the
sensation perhaps reminding it
of a distant life as a sassafras branch
on my great-great-grandfather’s farm.
Though they were both twisted,
it had held him up,
because they were both hard.
It stood in corners for decades,
No rot, no decay,
awaiting the calling
and the arriving,
and the coming to my hand
where it fit perfectly, smoothly, as if
It had never done anything else.
A stone was dropped, what –
100 years ago? – into the pond,
the water rolled outward, outward,
to splash on the ground at my feet
where I tap, testing, with my stick.
(Note: my neighbor and I are both still kicking.)
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