This week we pause to consider the passing of a man I did not know. We never actually met, except to exchange a wave in passing. Neighbors are few and far between in our valley and most of us have a nodding acquaintance even if we rarely speak.
I do not know the family, or the history of the man, and while everyone has a right to an opinion, I am not entitled to speak of one beyond offering condolences to those he leaves behind.
I do know that the man and his wife had only recently finished building their home on the mountain. We put so much of ourselves into such an undertaking. We invest our dreams; we plan and anticipate and wait, sometimes for a lifetime, to make the dream a reality. It seems cruel that dreams, even memories, can be like pottery, beautifully painted, cherished, and in a moment broken beyond hope of repair.
I do not know the pain of losing a mate, but I have lost a father, and to the son who traveled here that day to spend time with his dad, unaware of his passing, I can tell you that your father was well thought of in the community. I’ve heard it said more than once that he was a gentle man, a gentle soul.
My understanding is that your dad was taken ill when he was on his tractor, and I can tell you from long acquaintance with tractor owners living and dead, there is seldom a moment in a man’s life when he is happier and more content than when he is on his tractor.
When Tracey and I were newlyweds, my dad was in his late 70’s. He was still very active well into his 80’s and loved to come here and wander the woods or do chores around the farm. One day I came home from work to find Tracey upset. “I don’t know where your dad is. He’s been gone for over an hour.”
I noticed that our German Shepherd was also absent. “Is Jenga with him?” “Yes,” she replied, “But they should be back by now. He shouldn’t be going out in the woods by himself at his age.”
“He’s not by himself,” I told her. “Jenga is with him, and he’s doing exactly what he loves to do and we can’t take that from him.”
I told her then about my agreement with my father. That agreement developed over many years as we lost grandparents and other family members through attrition, and some through long suffering and debilitating disease.
On a beautiful autumn day after a rain, as the sun warmed the ground and released that aroma of vitality which sleeps beneath the leaves during the cold months, Dad and I walked the steep slopes of the mountain while he showed me the property lines and spoke of the history of the land.
He was about 76 at the time, and spry as a mountain goat. We stopped to rest on top of a ridge with our backs against a big oak tree. We had a bite to eat and he sat carving himself a walking stick with his pocketknife.
“It’s good to get out like this,” he said. “Makes a man feel like a man. If your grandmother was alive she’d be walking the floor and wringing her hands if we were gone this long. Even your mother tells me to take it easy sometimes, but if it’s my time to go I’d rather go doing something I love than laying in a hospital bed.”
He inspected his walking stick, stood up and stretched, and we continued on without another word on the subject. I still have that walking stick, and the precious memory.
The loss of one among us diminishes us all. When a loved one departs prematurely, when a dream is ripped from our grasp and broken, there are no words that can put the pieces back together. Time alone offers solace, and the ache endures even after sorrow fades. It is a pain that is pure and just, a tender place for a gentle soul.
Outside The Box 