Thursday, July 21, 2011

My Old Friend

December 2009, the day she smiled at me

There's a Tim McGraw song that warms my heart each time I hear it because of the memories it stirs within me. Here are a few lines:
My old friend, I recall

The times we had are hanging on my wall

I wouldn't trade them for gold

Cause they laugh and they cry me and

somehow sanctify me

And they're woven in the stories I have told

And tell again

My old friend this song's for you

Cause a few simple verses was the least that I could do

To tell the world that you were here

'Cause the love and the laughter will live on long after

All of the sadness and the tears

We'll meet again my old friend

Today is a celebration of the life of one of my dearest friends.

We moved to the white house (not on Pennsylvania Avenue, but on highway 28) in 1988. It was a big, empty, and maybe creepy house that was much different from the house we'd called home for the first four years of my life. The yard was bigger, my room was bigger, and it had a long front porch. But it was different. The store was no longer beside us, meaning, in my mind, there probably wouldn't be anything for Dave and me to do for fun.

I'm not sure how much time passed between moving into the house and the fateful day that would bring us together with the two people who would have a greater impact on our lives than we would ever realize. A four-year-old girl and an eight-year-old boy with a big backyard... we had bikes, some GI Joe men, and a few things like that, but there were no kids in the neighborhood to share the summer with, but we made do.

Then there was the day we were playing in our yard and the football rolled into the neighbor's yard. He was small in stature, kinda thin, blue eyes, and we had seen him in the yard a good bit before that day, especially in the early morning when he would walk around the perimeter of his yard on a beaten path. He tossed the football back to us, and we asked if he'd like to play. He threw the ball a few rounds, and went back to what he was doing. As the days, weeks, and months passed, we began to play with him more and more.

Soon after, we met another neighbor. She lived there too, and she was really sweet. She would offer us juice or a snack under the carport and listen to our stories. One day, she brought out some jacks and marbles and taught us a few games. That was also the day I learned about hopscotch. She drew the hopscotch board in the dirt of their driveway, and we one-two-two-one-two-one'd for several hours.

As the summer days passed, we became quite comfortable with our new friends. We told stories, played games, tossed the football, and he even asked us to ride our bikes on his nice trail. We went from having no kids other than ourselves to having two of the coolest playmates in town!

As we all do, Dave and I asked a lot of questions as children. We had early interests in how things work, how to take them apart, why this, and why that, and we made it our business to tackle all these subjects. On one particularly inquisitive day, Dave and I wanted to take apart a radio/flashlight combo to see what was inside and maybe find out how it worked. Of course, we didn't have any tools, but we knew our neighbor did, and he'd probably let us use a few of them--maybe even help us. Screw-by-screw, we disassembled the device in awe of all its inner workings. Every pondering was verbalized, and he seemed to know the answer to each one. Amazed, Dave and I decided it was time to find out more about our new friend. We decided that I'd ask the questions because I was younger and probably wouldn't get in trouble if we said I didn't know any better. So I asked.

"You sure do know a lot, don't ya?"

"Why do you say that?" he laughed.

"You just know how to fix some stuff, and you know a lot about different things like holding the football and stuff," Dave explained.

"Yeah, and you know about TV and radios and bikes and things like that," I added.

"Well..." he said.

Thinking we weren't getting an answer soon enough, I blurted out my question.
"You sure are smart. How old are you?"

"I'm only 72," he smiled.

Seventy-two? There are people that are 72? And they know how to play ball and ride bikes? It seemed impossible, but we took it for what it was worth and went on with our project.

It turned out they were both about that age. These kids that we'd been playing with were a lot older than us, and we never would have known it without having been told. And it never mattered.

Dave and I grew very close to Taylor and Mary over the years. We liked that they would play with us, and I guess they enjoyed having us around sometimes. We played in the yard with them, we played cards at their kitchen table, we ate lunches with them, and generally enjoyed having two buddies next door.

The day Mr. Taylor introduced us to his billiard table in the basement is one I'll never forget. I'd never really seen one before, and I wasn't tall enough to see over this one, but he made it possible for me to play. He offered a modified cue stick to me that was about as tall as me, and boy was I proud of it! He taught us the ins and outs of bank shots, jump shots, 8-ball, 9-ball, Kelly, cut-throat, and several other pool shark necessities. He taught us maintenance of the table and equipment, and we loved the game. Some afternoons, after he'd brought us to a certain skill level, he'd let us invite Mrs. Mary and our parents down to the basement for a little show. Those, those, those were good times.

When I was 12 years old, Dave and I were in the yard one late summer morning playing baseball with Mr. Taylor. He knew about football, but baseball seemed to be his favorite. We played in the hot summer sun for a few hours then took a break for lunch. Hurrying to eat our lunch, Dave and I returned to finish the game, but Mrs. Mary told us Mr. Taylor wasn't feeling good and that we'd need to hold off on the game. That would be our last game. Mr. Taylor developed Alzheimer's Disease and died less than a year later.

Mrs. Mary continued to share her games and home with us. She and Mr. Taylor had always made us feel so smart because they'd listen to our stories for hours and hours, even though the news was on or they were trying to read the newspaper or trying to catch a nap. They made time for us, and it made all the difference in our childhood.

A few years past Mr. Taylor's death, Mrs. Mary's health began to slump. She simply wasn't able to do as much as she had done with us before, but thankfully, we had grown a little older and understood the situation. Still, it hurt to see someone that we loved so much and equated with our own childhood become ill or suffer from everyday signs of aging.

Mrs. Mary moved to the nursing home in Linden a few years ago. Although her health was still relatively good for someone her age (you have to understand the emphasis these two put on heart health, etc.), she was slowly fading. Her mind, once very strong, had become quite weak, and it seemed to change so much about her.

Our visits were often brief, as she eventually napped (or took a siesta, as Mr. Taylor would say) most of the time. But it was okay with me. She may not have even known who I was, or even who she was, but the memories I replayed over each visit brought me joy. Other residents or nurses would often ask if I was her granddaughter, and I'd always respond that she was like a grandmother to me, but that she was just a long-time friend and next-door-neighbor.

Some time last year, another visitor asked the same question, and before I could respond, Mrs. Mary muttered to her, "I knew her when she was very, very, very, very young." For someone who didn't say much at all and didn't seem to be alert much at all anymore, she had made a statement that warmed my heart more than anything she'd ever said to me. I won't question the logic behind her answer, but that day, it made me feel for just a moment that she knew me again and that she remembered the years we shared at her home next to mine.

On another instance, I pushed her wheelchair to a square table where two others were sitting, and turned to Mrs. Mary asking if she wanted to play cards like we used to. Again, I'll remind you that she didn't talk much, and it was often impossible to decipher. One of the other ladies asked if we played fun card games like "Go Fish" and "Old Maid." I told her we did. Mrs. Mary must have been listening.

"Odie Maid," she said.

"Old Maid, it's a card game, Mary," the lady said.

Actually, we played "Odie Maid." It was a set of Garfield cards, and Odie, the dog, was dressed as an old maid. What a touching moment and a precious memory to recall.

Perhaps my favorite moment shared with Mrs. Mary during her stay in Linden was around Christmas in 2009. Our conversations were usually identical, and mostly one-sided, as I updated her on happenings around Jefferson. She stared blankly at me one day, and it broke my heart to not know if she understood or not or that she might want to respond but couldn't.

"I sure am glad to see you today, Mrs. Mary!"

Tilting her head, she glared back at me.

"Why?"

"Because I like visiting with you. It makes me happy!"

The split second that followed was priceless:
"Hahaha!" she laughed as a smile wrapped around her face. Then it was gone.
It was brief, but again, it felt good to see.

My last visit with Mrs. Mary was a few days ago. She was up a little past her evening bedtime. The nurse said I could push her back to her room to visit. We slowly strolled to Wing B 102. We sat for a while, just me and the person that so influenced me every day of my childhood. Her breath was weak. Her body was tired. Her hands were feeble. And dry. I found a bottle of cocoa butter in her bathroom and rubbed it on her hands and aged arms. You see, this visit was so much like the others, yet it was so different. There was a sense of urgency mixed with a stronger sense of peace. Her soft hair was as neat as ever. She sat calmly sleeping in her chair, her ankles crossed in front of her. Twenty-three years of friendship would be coming to an end soon, and I knew it.

But I knew that upstairs there was a card game of Hand and Foot waiting for her to take her seat at the table.

One day, we'll pick up at the fifth inning of a close baseball game. And we'll deal a hand for another game of Odie Maid. And maybe, just maybe, I'll sink the 8-ball in the pocket I call before Mr. Taylor does.

Until that day, I'll look to my left each time I walk out my front door, and I'll see years of memories played out before me with the oldest kids I knew as a child. What a blessing to my brother and me to have been able to share our summers, winters, springs and falls with two of the best adopted grandparents we could hope to have.