I see him almost every day walking his dog. He goes to the gas station across the street, buys himself a coffee and his dog gets a hotdog. She isn’t on a leash. I’m not sure if she is so well trained, or just somehow understands that her human needs her by his side constantly.
He stops to talk to me often. He makes sure I am settling into my new apartment, telling me it is his neighborly duty to ensure I’m doing well. His pockets seem to have an endless supply of milk bones, which has endeared my dog to him. It’s almost as if he cherishes the love from four-legged beasts more than a humans. He crouches down and greets my pup first, hugging her with strength that surprises me, considering his old age.
We let our dogs play together while we sit on a picnic bench in our joined backyard. At first we talked about menial things like the bi-polar Ohio weather, where we adopted our dogs, and our shared military service. We compared our jobs while in service. I seceded, giving him the win on the worst military job imaginable. But then one day he uttered her name. Ruthanne. She was his dead wife. He says her name with reverence; I imagine how Mary must have uttered Jesus’ name while he was dying on the cross. Anguish, love, amazement.
I’m afraid to speak and break the silence as he tells me about her.
Ruthanne.
She had red hair. He chuckles mostly to himself from some inside joke, and tries to explain it was because she was ‘flaming hot.’ His laugh turns to tears.
His wrinkly hand, cracked with overuse, knuckles swelled with arthritis, pats his thigh for his dog to come over so he could pet her. She was there within seconds—always in tune with her master; such a source of comfort for him. I could tell he was trying to suppress his tears in front of me. I take a drag off my cigarette and look across the lawn, watching my dog herd squirrels around the large yard, giving him time to gain composure. It’s a pride thing, I guess. I struggle to withhold my own insecurities. I hate dealing with weepy people. It makes me feel uncomfortable.
Ruthanne.
She was an Army nurse and he was a LRRP, Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol for the Army. They met in Vietnam, and apparently recognized each other as soul mates.
She soothed his demons, he said.
He calls me honey. I hate it, but withhold a grimace. I hate endearments, but I don’t say anything. It seems almost as if he needs that connection to another human being. Not to mention I don’t remember his name. He’s told me a few times, but at the time, it never seemed important.
I don’t want to feel pity for him, but sometimes I do. Every day since he was married he woke up and lived his life for his wife. Now she’s gone. It has been two years, I think. She’s buried six-feet under and he’s lost. No sense in his world, nothing to live for but his dog. It was hard not to feel pity when I realized he had no other family.
His tears finally dry up and he continues to talk.
Ruthanne.
What a firecracker. She wanted to go skydiving for her 65th birthday. He laughs again, but this time withholds the tears. I’m grateful.
Love shines in his eyes whenever he says her name. Every time we cross paths I get a new story from him. How she punched her kindergarten teacher in the gonads when she was a little girl, how she somehow managed to have dinner on the table every day, never forgot a birthday and enjoyed role reversal and would frequently buy him flowers just to say I love you.
Ruthanne.
I wish I could have met her.
I crushed the cigarette under my boot and he pulls me into a hug before I could go home. I almost shrug it off, but once again I allow it. He needs this human contact. I may not like it, but I endure it because I feel like it is my duty to take care of this old man.
When I look back at these interactions I wonder how many other elders of our society are ignored and forgotten. I think of the older generation that comes into the video store where I work, and I feel a little bit of shame when I realize I don’t really give them the time of day. Sometimes they stay and want to talk, and I rush them out the door. This neighbor is making me change how I view and interact with people from the previous generations. Now I stop to chat with them and some of the stories and life experiences they have to offer are beyond amazing. This is a problem that people from my era need to recognize and fix. It’s uncomfortable, it’s awkward, but it needs to be done. These old-timers need to be recognized and cared for.
Sometimes I view them as a nuisance, especially my neighbor, but pity, guilt and a maybe a little curiosity will ensure I am on that bench tomorrow, smoking another cigarette, listening to him talk about his dead wife.
Ruthanne.
This one is for you.
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