I was four when we moved into the house my parents still live in, and very shy. As I explored the new backyard, never straying far from the sidewalk, I noticed a tall man walking on the other side of the grape vine, from the neighbor’s garage up to that green house.
“What do you know, Flanagan*?” he asked as he noticed me watching him. That was enough to get me running back inside.
As time went on, I grew braver, moved behind the Tulip tree, advancing to right behind the tall evergreen trees that completed the property line. He was sitting in his garage doorway, lawnmower tipped side-up, cleaning away the trapped clippings.
“What do you know, Flanagan?”
Through the years, he taught me how to use that lawnmower, how to rebuild the engine, and how to rebuild an old mower my parents had in our garage; and helped me start mowing for others when I was ten, becoming the grandfather figure I didn’t have in my life.
Throughout the last 45 years, that agate has been in my pocket, a reminder of the man and of a friendship and its many lessons that helped me to grow.
As I became busier in the neighborhood and moved into my teen years, he took my sister under his wings, then my younger brothers. We have all exchanged good memories of our time with Donald—the only adult we were allowed to call by their first name because he wouldn’t have it any other way.
I took over the local paper route, collected weekly, each time greeted by Donald with the same “What do you know,” followed by a visit. For Christmas, there was always a non-holiday card—he respected that we didn’t celebrate the holiday—and a huge bag of fresh chocolate Y&S licorice sticks, made in their downtown factory where his wife worked.
Donald Hagberg died in the late ’90s, yet I still think of the man—each time I look at that agate, each time I rub my finger over its polished surface. I only hope I can be half the man he was.
Perhaps there is a way to pass on a part of what he shared.
What do you know, Flanagan?
_______________
* June 23, 2021 reference to Flanagan in “Highways and Byways: Flanagan Writes Again.”
| Copyright © 2022 by Maik Strosahl Michael E. Strosahl has focused on poetry for over twenty years, during which time he served a term as President of the Poetry Society of Indiana. He relocated to Jefferson City, Missouri, in 2018 and currently co-hosts a writers group there. |
Many years ago now; it was before we moved to Costa Rica and long before I retired. It was a Sat. morning and a knock came on my door. I opened the door and looked down into the sad eyes of a very young boy. He looked up and asked, "You have any work I can do, mister?"
ReplyDeleteI said, "No son I don't, but by God I'll find some."
This began a three year friendship. He would come over each Sat. that it wasn't raining and we would work in the yard together. It was in fact more yard work than I wanted to do as I also had to teach him what to do as we went. One Sat. he didn't show up but he was getting older so I didn't think anything about it. The next Sat. he wasn't there so I walked to the end of the street where his single mother, sister and him lived. They had moved, no one knew where.
Yard work was never the same after that and I still remember that sad little face asking, "You have any work I can do mister?" Thank you for the story it reminded me of what a blessing it was to have met my little friend.
Sounds like you too would have been a great neighbor to have. As a kid, the decision may not have been shared with him given enough time to tell you. Wonder if he will ever try to reach out in this social media world.
ReplyDeleteThis project has me looking up many of the people who have influenced me. I just found my 1st&2nd grade teacher who had an impact on me too. Looking forward to talking with her soon.
Glad you enjoyed the piece! Hope you will enjoy, as the late Paul Harvey used to say, “the rest of the story.”
I've always hoped our relationship may have helped him later in life. He had a lot of strikes against him being poor and black in Mississippi. But he worked hard; so maybe.
ReplyDeleteGreat story, and heartfelt as always. When we were young there were 2 boys down the street named Brian and Davey, both older than our toddler. We woke up one morning to the older, Davey, maybe 8, sitting on the curb drinking a beer. It was the only thing in the fridge, he said. We fed those kids for almost 2 years, and little Bri-Bri would sit in Cindy's lap, head full of lice, and say "I lub you Cindy." Were weren't exactly flush but you can make beans, rice, pancakes and so on go a long way on a little money! They were ecstatic to get meat, a hamburger or chicken. Their meat was hot dogs. Their mom and "stepdude" were drug-addicted human debris and finally Grandma came along and took them away, along with a sister we rarely saw, Ilona. Still tugs at my heart to this day.
ReplyDeleteI was telling Moris that parts of this series have been hard to write because I am trying to keep it real. Part 3 was extremely difficult and had me feeling like I was naked in public. But each piece is necessary, I think, to reach the conclusion.
DeleteWriting about Donald was not hard though. He was a great man. And from the sounds of both Ed’s story and yours, there are kids out there who grew up better having encountered great people who exist in this very community. I thank you both for taking it upon yourself to have an influence on those who really needed it. I am sure they will never forget and I hope they too will share their stories within their families of that neighbor they once knew.
Thanks for your stones stories!
ReplyDeleteYour stones project is something Ray Bradbury would have loved. In his Illustrated Man the narrator spends the night reading tattoos on a man's back.
ReplyDeleteEach stone turned in his hand and as it turned it sang its song.
Another thing I find refreshing about your stones is the change of focus from the macro to the micro. This focus I find must have been the obsession of nomads and hunter/gatherers who carried tiny bronze altars packed with other portables from place to place. Why must we always judge importance by size?