Old Man

An old man died yesterday morning. Or maybe it was in the preceding night; he was found unresponsive in his bed around breakfast time. 

It wasn't really a shock. He'd abused his body as a tradesman for years, had diabetes and lung problems, and was connected to a breathing machine for the last few years. He was eighty-something. Because at that age, who really gives a shit any more? My own age seems like a bit of whimsical trivia I'm not really attached to outside of the initial 'Huh!' of discovery. And his age was just a figure to be plowed down and overrun by sheer, grizzled determination.

It'd been a rough few years to be his friend as he slowly started divesting himself of his valued possessions. First I got his camera at a steal of a price. Then it was an old wireless drill set with missing batteries. Then a handsaw that's about 100 years old and his grandfather brought over from England. Then a collection of WW2 ammunition that his father brought back from the war. Apparently he returned from that experience as a proper bastard to his wife and kids. I have those rounds, including a decommissioned 40lb mortar shell, on display. It's a reminder to me that war destroys lives at both ends of the the barrel, no matter the size.

Then it was a large format printer - he was getting too old and too stationary to go out and take photos to print. Then he had to move and gave me his treasured record player and vinyls. He was moving into a single bedroom and didn't have the space to bring the last vestige of his career as an audio engineer with him. Besides, his hearing wasn't what it used to be. He might wince to know that I have it hooked up to a Bluetooth transmitter received by a crappy TV sound bar. But all the pops and crackles come through okay. It adds warmth, as he once told me.

For the length of time that I knew him, he was always an old codgy son of a bitch that only grew older. He didn't have patience for kids or dogs, but he'd take all the time in the world to show you how to use a lathe even if you were slow and inept. He collected people somehow, and spoke glowingly of all of them. You got the feeling that he was a scraggly tom cat and you were just living in his neighbourhood. And with that he had seen some things, had the scars to show for it, and pushed each of his seven lives to the max.

He had a... damn. I can't remember. Austin Healey? Triumph Spitfire? He was working as an electrician on a big job and blew it all on some old British sports car. He also rode motorbikes. He tried to give me his old jacket and helmet, both painted the kind of yellow used to highlight the most exciting parts of a health and safety document. I was glad they were to big, it gave me a good excuse to turn down the offer, allowing me to buy something in both my own style and risk tolerance.

I always got email forwards from him, the kind you'd expect from old people. The kind that included mp4 attachments that you'd diligently scan before opening. A lot of them weren't really my taste, but it was kind of nice to see them pop up every week or so. He called me a week and a half ago, but I was at work and didn't pick up. I'll call him back, I told myself. I didn't, and now I'll just have to put up with telling myself that again and again in regret. The last time we spoke it was short and little more than a perfunctory check in. He was there, and I was here, and we marched on. Why would he ever not be there?

He was married once, and never had kids. He told me once that the most important things in a relationship are, in order, communication, money, sex, and communication. I've tried to remember that. I was dating someone he knew at the time. When we broke up, he said that he was hoping we'd be able to make it, but if they're not the right person, there's nothing more that could be done. 

He loved trains, especially old steam ones. He photographed them, scanned them, built miniatures, and restored the life-size kinds. Apparently he completed the restoration of an old passenger car in a nearby heritage park. He was proud of that one. He told me how he'd travel out to the coast by rail as a kid, and you could see his eye light up at the memory. The rhythm of the rail was enough to put you asleep for hours. The best sleep he ever had was on those trips. 

When he was found, his housemate had the paramedics come over. They lifted open an eyelid and proclaimed him dead. The housemate told them to try again; they had just shone a light in his glass eye. We're pretty sure he would've laughed his ass off at that one. I never found out the story behind that eye though.

Now he's gone. There won't be a funeral, as per his wishes. Maybe we'll have a BBQ in his memory once the summer rolls around. He always loved a good beef roast. He'd organize dinner parties at other people's house. He'd bring the meat and somehow escape the responsibilities of cooking and hosting. But he sure loved having a bunch of his favourite people in one place.

I knew him as a force to be reckoned with that meant what he said and acted accordingly. Big heart in a grizzled exterior. Makes me wonder what kind of a character he was as a fully-animated young man. I may never know, and his force is no longer here. His concentric ripples are still moving outwards, though. Perhaps more muted the farther out they travel from the source, but enough to distort the glass-like finish of life's surface.

-Cril

We'll meet again
Don't know where, don't know when
But I know we'll meet again
Some sunny day

Vera Lynn - We'll Meet Again