Mr. Echols, my friend

Years ago,  I knew an old man- a very nice old man. 

The first time I saw him at church, he sat by himself.  His body was thin.  His face was lined.  His eyes were mattered.  I knew nothing about him, but I had heard the rumors.  He didn’t say anything to me at that meeting that I can recall.  He probably didn’t say anything at all.  Yet, somewhere along the way, he decided I needed fresh fruit and vegetables. 

He grew them in his garden behind a run down shack at the edge of town and every week he walked across town to my house toting some offering.  I was a young mom with four children and sometimes funds were tight, so I really did appreciate the fresh strawberries, tomatoes, a head of cabbage, squash, new potatoes, apples, whatever was in season.  He obviously had a pact with the earth for what he brought me was fresh, flawless and abundant.   In the early visits, I'd accept his oblation to life and we'd stand and talk a bit on the front porch.  After a short visit, as my nervous nature began to fidget, he would excuse himself and amble off in a long stride back down the road toward his home.

He had a mucus problem with his eyes and a lot of people thought he was just gross.  They had no reluctance to say so.  But what I began to see was a sad, sweet old man who desperately wanted anyone to care about him.   He'd lived a rough thoughtless life in his younger years.  His family was estranged, the community shunned him and the church tolerated but gossiped about him.  The shanty of a house and a garden were all that were left of his 80 plus years of doing and being. 

Somewhere in those gradually lengthening visits on the porch, I learned to love him.  I relished his short, honest stories full of humility and respect for what he had only recently learned to value.  I began to have a large printed kerchief and a glass of lemonade ready for his visits.  Often I would bring out a small dish of goodies to share in exchange for the fresh produce and we would sit on the big covered porch, one on the small bench and one on the swing to visit.  I made time.  He was grateful and gracious about not staying too long, though it was obvious that he was hungry for conversation.  A few times, I invited him in but he always seemed concerned for my reputation.  He didn’t want to give people a reason to ‘talk’.

He hadn't been a good man.  He was an alcoholic who, when he drank, hated life and people and became mean.  He had lost everything to the alcohol and violence it brought on.  The bulk of his family hated him, the rest avoided him.  His wife -who he still loved- divorced him and went on with her life.  He didn’t fault her for that.  Eventually, he made a change.  Sadly it was too late to salvage anything but the small sparsely furnish shack with its garden plot and a couple of fruit trees. 

Knowing his past, people in the small town, and even in the church we both attended, avoided him.  They whispered to each other, glancing his way quickly, and seeing his recognition of their glance, looked away as quickly.  All this and more I became aware of during those weekly visits.  Years of substance abuse and neglect had not been kind to his thought processes and his stories would be riddled with long pauses as he collected his memories again to continue.  Like most aging people, he often repeated his stories.  He talked about his children with mist in his troubled eyes and then owned the separation as his fault.  In all the time I knew him, he did not speak an unkind word about anyone except himself.  In time, I relished the stories.  I assured him that he was worth loving and knowing and told him it was a shame his family could not drop their anger and fear to know the man he had finally become. 

One week, he showed up at my door with an unusually large offering.  I took his gift and invited him to come inside.  He said, “I believe I’ll just sit here if you don’t mind.” 

He was a bit late, and, with a bit of concern, I had put the lemonade back into the refrigerator, supposing he was not coming that day.  I carried away my bounty and returned from the kitchen with the cold pitcher, pouring us each a friendly, refreshing glass.  His large thin frame was spilling awkwardly off the small bench across from the swing.  He sipped quietly, slowly, as though he had something he wanted to say.  We made small talk with no stories for an unusually long time.

I can still hear his cracked, anguished voice as he mustered the courage to say, "They say I'm a danger to myself and they're going to take me to a 'home'."  We sat quietly for a long time, as if to communicate without words all the things we both were feeling.  Somehow I knew there was no reasoning that would give his soul peace about the eventuality before him.  

That was the last time I would visit with my friend.  He went home, boxed his belongings and labeled them with the names of children who would never care and shot himself in the head.

I heard the whispers.  I saw the indignant looks and wagging heads.  I cried for my friend.