Sending the Old Man Home

Sending the Old Man Home

My father died last week. But I don’t really grieve for him.

He was diagnosed five years ago as potentially developing colon cancer and the surgeon wanted to remove it but dad wouldn’t let him. Said he’d seen a close friend go through it along with chemotherapy and radiation, living just barely, sick all the time, and made it for eighteen months. He decided that whatever time he had left, he was going to live it in his own way and go for quality over quantity.

It’s probably a judgement call on the part of the official but I’d say he got both.

He died at 90 and was in pretty good health, and damn good spirits, until about a week before he passed. He was married to the same woman, my mom, for over sixty-seven years and while they had their spats they were incredibly cute together; always holding hands when walking together and professing their love for each other constantly. (It looked like they weren’t happy because they’d both become considerably deaf and when you’re shouting at someone, it’s tough to sound endearing.)

He spent much of his working life, over 35 years, as a bricklayer. Some folks would call him a mason but he always called himself a bricklayer. If you’ve never seen one work, it’s worth watching up close. Bricklayers move heavy objects, brick and block and mortar, and place them with amazing precision to create walls, basements, buildings, homes, pathways, streets, patios – all of which will last for hundreds of years. When a master bricklayer is at work, there is no wasted motion, no extra effort is expended, and they create something amazing in an almost lyrical fashion. In my youth, I could watch him for hours and it was incredible. For about 8 years, he laid 1,500 bricks a day for 5 days a week; that’s nearly a half million bricks a year at about 4.5 pounds each – 2,250,000 pounds of brick and block and another half million pounds of mortar! And that was just in the 8 years – he did the job for almost 40.

He did it because he found the work fulfilling and he could get paid for it. He bought a house in Arlington VA, raised three sons, put food on the table, owned a truck and a car. Made a life. He didn’t make a lot of money (I was earning more at 20 years old than he was at 45) but he made enough. And when it was time to “knock off” for the day, he could go home and watch TV, read the evening newspaper, read a book from the library, or just sit and talk.

I admire that. A lot.

At fifty years of age, he went into business with my uncle buying into some restaurant franchises called Po Folks and moved to Columbia SC. Probably the boldest thing I ever saw him do. They ran them for about 5 years until my uncle ran off with a hostess from one store, absconded with the company funds (although it was never proven) and they had to get out of the business. He went right back to laying brick for another eight or so years before retiring.

After he retired, mom got him a job so she wouldn’t have to put out a contract on him.

He became a courier for a chain of optical stores in Columbia, working part time five days a week. The employees all got to know him as “Mr. Earl” and he became the unofficial mayor of the company. His job evolved into the official hugger; he would roll up to a store with the mail and all the young women would come out and hug him and talk to him for a few minutes before getting back to work. May have been the greatest retirement job I’ve ever heard of and, we’re convinced it kept him alive for years more than he should have been.

He knew everyone in the organization and everyone knew him. He kidded the founder of the company that he expected a gold watch when he made it to twenty-five years. When that man passed away from ALS, one of the last things he told his son before he left was to “be sure Earl gets his watch.” The company held a special event to celebrate his 25^th anniversary and present him with an engraved gold watch. He wore it proudly until the day he passed.

Five weeks ago, we convinced him to retire. We were concerned about his driving and that he might do harm to someone else and put the company in a bad spot. He retired on December 31^st. The send off they gave him was nothing short of amazing; each store took the time to shower him with gifts, pictures, and, of course, many hugs. He talked about it for weeks!

Three weeks later, he took a turn for the worse and wound up in the hospital where he refused treatment they were proposing, opting to go home and enter hospice. For the next few days, he entertained guests at the house who came to hug on Mr. Earl and tell him how much they loved him and how much of a difference he made in their work and, more importantly, their lives. He told me, over and over again, that he couldn’t believe how much love he was getting from all these people. He kept saying, “I was just being me. What was the big deal?”

You were the big deal, Pop. The real deal.

Dad appreciated a good joke, a wise crack, a sharp needling comment, the newspaper and its accompanying crossword puzzle, a good meal, and a glass of iced tea on a hot summer day.  He was a veteran of the Korean War in the Army and supported our veterans at every opportunity. He was a real Christian and believed he’d see us in the afterlife. The night before he died, I mentioned that if he got to the other side and it was a bit hotter than he was expecting that he should mention he was related to me and at least he’d get a good seat.

And maybe a glass of iced tea.

Rest well, Pop. You earned it.

The Happy Couple on their 65th Anniversary
Earl Keller 1932-2023