A Time For Neighbors

The little house in the photo strikes me as looking isolated. Since that is the lesson here, I chose not to crop the image. 

Ray lived across the street from me, in this little house, for over 10 years. At 91, he actually was in his house for much longer; I was the “new” neighbor and part of the reason for his observation, the street has changed, which he said almost in a whisper, with a touch of sadness.
The story starts with the end: Ray moving away. And then, the story backs up to two weeks ago. It was one of the rare nights I cooked, making a much greater quantity of stuffed shells than I knew Al and I would eat. It was a deliberate act. As I said, it’s rare that I cook and this batch of pasta would cover at least two meals.
Then I looked out my window and across the street to Ray’s house. As always, the light from his sitting room glowed through the front window. At least once each evening, I would look over for the light and the dark dot of his head, which I could see when he sat in his chair. This is how I “checked on” Ray. This night, I could not see the dark dot.
I cajoled myself into taking a dish of shells over to Ray (thinking to myself, c’mon Susan, suck it up). The day before, I brought home a cake that I would cut a slice from to add to the meal. Balancing the containers of food, I crossed the street, and stepped up onto his porch. Looking through the door window, I still could not see Ray. (Because he had bad legs, I would open the door a bit – if I saw him - and call to him as I let myself in. That was the system.) This night, not wanting to startle him, and considering that he might be in the bathroom, which might not be a speedy prospect, I returned home.
The next day, I tried delivering the food again. Still no Ray that I could see. This time, though, I stepped inside and walked through the house until I found him sitting in his kitchen. “I don’t sit in that chair anymore,” he said, referring to his usual TV chair that allowed me to perform my nightly Peeping Tom check. “I sit in this chair now,” he explained, pointing to a chair about two feet from the TV. “I can see from there.”
Not only did Ray have bad legs, he had bad eyes and bad hearing. When I first knew Ray, at 80 he already was long-retired but could be seen most nice days on his porch reading a western romance novel, books he finished at an impressive rate. He’d spot me or Al out front and would wobble over to visit. Conversation always required some shouting, but Ray got around, and visited, and read. These days, he hadn’t been able to enjoy even that level of activity. In fact, not long before, a whole year passed that I hadn’t seen him at all.
Joining him at his small table, I set down the food and told him what it was I brought. “I can’t eat chocolate,” he said in response to the dessert. I told him, that’s okay, he could flip it over and eat just the yellow cake off of the offending frosting. As we chatted, I realized he thought I was his visiting audiologist and had to give him a couple of nudges as to the fact it was me, Sue, from across the street, you know, Sue and Al. He could see my facial features in only the crudest form, and couldn’t hear my voice well enough to recognize it. Plus, truthfully, he just didn’t see me that often.

And that is the point: the isolated little house with the isolated little man, living across the street from the woman who isolated herself from someone because he required some effort to communicate with. Frankly, with my attempts to make my voice loud enough and deep enough, it was work.

That night, Ray told me he was moving. In two weeks. Having mentioned before the wisdom of getting out of his house, I hoped that this was another sketchy plan. But, this time, his plans seemed more concrete. I said goodnight, and left feeling pangs of loss. 

A few days later, a familiar white SUV was in Ray’s driveway. Tom was Ray’s devoted nephew who made the hour-plus trip every week to check in on his uncle, taking him to appointments, shopping, and to dinner. Tom was loading parts of a bed into his vehicle and verified that they were moving Ray to an apartment. It would be close to Tom and his family. He invited me to go in and say hello. Tom’s wife and son were inside with Ray. Closets and belongings were being sorted through. Ray, depleted, was leaning against a wall “supervising”. As always, he took the time to point out one of the many family photographs on the wall. (This time, it was one of him and his son after a hunting trip.) Diane and Jeremy were obviously kind and solicitous of their uncle. It was clear that the time had come for Ray to go.
Finally the day came; I was startled at the sight of several vehicles parked across the street. This was it, I knew. Thinking of some gesture to make, I grabbed the one baking mix I had out of the cupboard. Taking a plate of banana bread over, I promised I’d be back later to say goodbye. Al and I went over together later that evening and, on that last night, after over 10 years, listened to Ray tell his stories. The next day, Ray was gone.
This is all I know about Ray:
Ray Field was a gunner on a naval destroyer during WWII. He was one of a detail that was in charge of positioning the big guns on the ship. (He was responsible for the up-and-down movement.) At one point, he had to wait on the island of New Guinea to be picked up by another ship. The delay was due to the fact the ship had to be stripped because it could not get through the Panama Canal. Ray loved to hunt. He worked for both Colt and Kotex during his career as a machinist. He had seven kids, which included some foster children. Ray was fastidious about the care of his yard. He was our de facto neighborhood watch marshal. And he favored western romance novels.

I will always grieve the lost opportunity to get to know this man. I will always feel self-recrimination for my reason: that visits with him took some extra effort. But, I’m thinking visits with me take a little effort, too. 
copyright © 2012