Three weeks ago I pulled into my driveway unusually early from work, not my typical 14-hour workday, rather arriving before dark, still second-guessing career choices and decisions made, feeling sorry for myself, down about a host of issues, only to learn that the day before, our next door neighbor Pete went to be with the Lord.
I hadn’t seen Pete in a while. He had been in and out of the hospital, then rehab, a nursing home, back home, then an ambulance would show up at their house, so the routine would repeat itself, back to the hospital, etc.
It was a messy and unfair final six months for good old Pete. He not only had gotten rather weak, falling quite often, but he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease as well, the proverbial cherry on top.
We didn’t get real close, not anything like a Dad and son might, or should. Still, I hoped to spend more time with him, “someday,” “coming up,” “just as soon as my schedule would allow.” That someday never came.
My real desire though, was for my son to have the chance to be around Pete.
Today is my son’s 17th birthday. He never met my father while dad was on this side of the clouds. My pops took flight a number of years before my bouncing baby boy arrived.
I got a sense, or maybe a hope from my short time with Pete, that he might fill that surly, curmudgeonly, loving grandfather void for my son. I would never have mentioned anything to either of them, but I conjured up in my imagination the nights we might sit in their backyard, around a fire, sipping hot chocolate, cider, or a Dew, debating such important topics like football, Ginger or Mary Ann, and…football.
My son, at this age and by nature’s law, incapable of respecting or appreciating his own father’s words, wit, or wisdom just might absorb something from Pete. A parent can hope, right?
Pete had a sharp wit, a sense of humor that rivaled much of what I dished out. His timing and subject matter were impressive, and it’s rare for me to experience another person’s material and delivery that makes me say to myself, “Dang, I wish I had thought of that.”
Compared to an Olympic sport, Pete and I could perform the same floor routine, but he could always nail the landing. And now I’m picturing Pete in a sparkly leotard, which is unfortunate.
Though we didn’t speak often, when we did, it was deep. We discussed thought-provoking subjects, like why his grass was much greener than mine, whether men should drive red cars, and why his dog Gracie would bark for one of my dogs (Clare), to come over to visit, but when Clare did why Gracie would scurry back into her house.
There were nights when I’d pull in from work, very late, and I mean very late, and Pete would be there on the sidewalk with Gracie, walking for her late night piddles opportunity and all that, before tucking her in for the night. Looking back now I wonder if he timed it to “accidentally” run into me.
He’d ask how things were going at work, and though I assume he was just offering mild pleasantries, I’d tell him anyway, and he’d follow up with something usually profound; the sort of comment you took to bed with you, and woke up next to in the morning. He’d ask if what I was doing for work was what I envisioned my life to be, and why am I doing it, if not. Maybe he was talking more about himself. I never asked.
Even though Pete was older and wiser, he never seemed to be offering advice. It was never that, “My philosophy…” bull. At the end of most of our late night chats, I’d find myself saying the same thing to him, “I gotta find balance, Pete. Balance.” He’d assure me that I will, when it’s time. And sometimes he’d offer just a word, “Priorities,” and end our session with something like, “Gracie left you a present in your back yard, and I didn’t have a chance to wrap it yet.”
When I told my son Pete passed away, he seemed affected by it. I think it mattered to him. Maybe a dent was made after all?
Pete didn’t want a funeral. He didn’t want a service, or even an obit in the paper, so I figured this was the least I could do for him. And Pete would thank me for doing my very least. He was cremated and I don’t even know what his sweet widow has done with his ashes, if anything.
Sleep well friend. You are missed. You were the best neighbor we’ve ever had, and we’ve had a lot of neighbors. It was great to get to know you these past two years, not long enough that’s for certain, you left too early, but I appreciate what the Lord put next to us for the short time we had you. If I’m lucky we’ll get to be neighbors again, and then I’ll re-gift Gracie’s present right back to you.
I should have made the effort to visit with you more when I had the chance. But I think I see the bigger lesson you taught me now, with my son. Balance.
