But even before I saw that news, I was thinking about death closer to home: in my own cul-de-sac, in fact.
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| Our house is at the corner on the left |
Our neighbor Hal, who lives kitty-corner (house #6, if we're #1) and has lived here since before we moved in in 1990 (and shares David's birthday), stopped by today to tell us that on Saturday he discovered another neighbor who has lived here forever, Orren (#4), dead in his living room. Orren was in his seventies, I'd guess, and not in good health.
Similar can be said for Hal, so on Saturday when the fire truck and ambulance pulled up in front of his house, and we saw his wife, Ferah, standing with a worried look in her driveway, we got worried ourselves.
As the day progressed, I tried to judge the changing number of cars parked on the street, but couldn't determine anything. I started imagining Ferah holding vigil in the ICU.
But then I saw that the car situation stabilized. I saw a mobile pharmacy car drive up (okay, I thought—it wasn't anything major: all he needed was some medicine). And then I saw Hal! In the usual dark blue BMW wagon that he drives for a local car dealer, ferrying people around. Whew! Everything's okay!
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| Yes, we have a big pine tree, which currently is vexing a neighbor not on our cul-de-sac. My feeling? He knew the tree was there when he bought the place. But we've also called a tree guy in to look at the situation. |
As you can perhaps tell, we're not especially neighborly. Hal and Ferah are always happy to pick up our mail and newspaper if needed, and we'll stop and exchange pleasantries when we're both in the street, but that's the extent of our relationship. Even less so with Orren.
And the rest of our neighbors, now? I don't even know their names. Though I should know the names of the family across from us (#7), a quiet young couple with two small kids. I'm sure I've been told what his is, at least. Mike? Dave? Something generic like that. He manages a Hunter's Supply store nearby. We always wave when we see each other in our driveways.
Though back to death: three other people in this street have died since we've lived here. Two in fairly short order, some eight or ten years after we moved in: our next-door neighbor, Paul (#2), and his next-door neighbor, Shirley (#3). They were both hovering around seventy, I'd guess. She might have been closer to eighty.
Paul used to stay up most of the night watching westerns on TV: we'd see the flickering light through his windows, and sometimes hear the gunfire. He also loved to mow his lawn—and I'd often see him sitting at the edge of the grass, where it spilled down a bank, using scissors to get at hard-to-deal-with spots. We'd chat. He told us about being an alcoholic, with an alcoholic wife, and finally having to leave her to save his life. I think that was when he moved into our cul-de-sac. He had thick white hair and a rather gaunt face, but a pleasant smile. I was always happy to see him with his scissors, because it provided a quiet chance to check in.
And Shirley: she had long white hair wrapped up on top of her head and drove around in a big blue station wagon distributing food to the feral cats in the area. If we happened to be out working in the yard, she'd always stop and give some sharp piece of advice. One was: "You should stop feeding that cat so much, and then she'd get around to catching more gophers!" And our yard was never tidy enough for her. (It wasn't tidy enough for us, either, but we were busy.)
I believe Paul died of a heart attack in his yard while we were away on a trip: again, Hal found him. Shirley must have passed away in a hospital. I heard she left her house to a religious organization. It long since has been remodeled to something twice the original size, which is now rented out on VRBO. Though sometimes the owner occupies it. I'm not sure what its status is at the moment. Paul's house has been variously rented out. Fortunately, the tenants have always been quiet and keep to themselves. My favorite kind of neighbor.
The last death was of someone whose history on the cul-de-sac I don't even know. It's house #5, up at the end. His name was Jerry, I'm pretty sure. We only ever had occasion to speak with him once, when he came down to our house to . . . ask something? I don't even remember why he came down. He told us he'd been a competitive surfer in his youth, and even in his older age, you could see it: a nice tall lanky body, but with residual strength. He died a few months after our short but pleasant conversation, of cancer. I guess his wife now drives his late-model VW bug; I still see it parked in the drive.
I could ask Hal about all of these people, and would no doubt get a lot more stories (not to mention names). Maybe one of these days I will. Starting, maybe, with Orren. And going back. Neighbors all these years.
So: that's four houses that have seen death since we've lived here. Three to go? I hope not.
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