Grampy Lash

I smiled and waved to an old friend today – probably for the last time. Leo has been our across-the-street neighbor and friend for about twenty years. He has been sick for several months now, and most likely will die within the next few days. I was hesitant about going to visit him at the hospital. I was afraid to see him in the emaciated state that I had envisioned. I was even more afraid of what to say, how to talk, to a man who knows he is dying. There was nothing I could say to make him feel better. My best friend insisted that we go in spite of my reluctance.

We had to wait in the hallway for a while before finally entering his room, long enough for the scaredy-cat lurking within me to nearly convince me to abandon this effort and retreat to the elevator. When we finally did enter the room, there lay a man who looked nothing like the man I had known, beyond my worst expectations.

Claudia is so sweet, and bold. I had failed to consider how she must be feeling. As her sorrowful courage glistened in her eyes, and her tremulous voice sought to stir some conversation, I found myself trying to hide behind her like a troublesome child hiding behind his mother who has been summoned before the school principal to discuss some misdemeanor: And as I hid there, I began to think about this man during better times.

Leo is a good fellow. He has lived alone and has pretty much kept to himself, but his house has always been open to friends, neighbors, and the race fans who parked in his yard during the month of May. He has never locked his door. He has made thousands of candles and given most of them away. The fragrances that he added to the melting wax often drifted across the street and wisped through our open windows. Every December we have received the gift of a Christmas tree candle; sometimes he has made extras for our kids. He kept an eye on our house whenever we went out of town, and held our mail and newspapers until we returned.

Several years ago; I looked out my window and saw Leo lying prone on his driveway. Thinking there might be something wrong, I hustled across the street and discovered that he was using a screwdriver to clean some weeds out of the cracks in his driveway. It seemed a bit odd to me, but I squelched my sarcastic wonder with some ho-hum conversation. A few days later Leo was once again lying on the hard concrete of his driveway. This time he was using a narrow paint brush to apply a coat of protective sealant on the freshly filled cracks, and the entire driveway as well. I couldn’t let this pass without comment.

“Leo,” I said somewhat sardonically, “I think you need a bigger brush!”

“I know,” he replied, “but Coach Hinkle taught me that sometimes it’s better to take your time and think things through to avoid making mistakes and doing a poor job.”

That’s right. Leo played basketball at Butler University under the coaching tutelage of one of the greatest basketball coaching legends of all time, Tony Hinkle. Leo played in the old Butler Fieldhouse; known since 1966 as the Hinkle Fieldhouse, featured in one of the best movies of all times – Hoosiers (makes me want to watch that movie one more time). Furthermore, Leo has used his natural basketball skills and playing experience to coach boys in amateur leagues, some from low income families, some who earned college scholarships, some who went on to play professionally. I wiped the silly smirk off my face and went back across the street where I belonged.

“You know what Leo means?” he asked me one time.

“It means Love Each Other!” he replied to my shrug…

And then I realized the room was silent. I was still hiding behind my wife. It was time for me to overcome my cowardice and say something. “You’re a good man Leo, and you’ve done a lot of good things for a lot of people!” I managed to croak out.

“Yeah,” says Leo, “and I helped you cut your finger off too!”

It was Leo’s driveway I was clearing the snow from the day I stuck my hand in the snow blower. I think he was joking. It certainly had not been his fault. He hadn’t known what happened until several days after that memorable event. Maybe he was just getting even for my questioning his use of a two inch paintbrush to paint his driveway.

Silence again, a signal that it was time to leave. I didn’t want to say “good-bye”, couldn’t say “see you later” or “see you around”. During that awkward silence I thought of all the times we had done what most friends and neighbors often do when offering a hasty silent salutation when coming or going.

I smiled and waved.

August 21, 2013