My neighbor Chuck passed away on New Year’s Day. He was 67 years old, 10 years older than me. When my family and I moved in next door 24 years ago, he was a youthful 43-year old—albeit living with his parents—but still a man with dreams. A week after our arrival, his dad had a heart attack and died on the kitchen floor. Oddly, all these years later, the EMS squad found Chuck in almost the exact same place. Chuck and his dad were plumbers but never really had a formal business, but they always had work simply by word of mouth. He bailed my family out of several plumbing problems over the years, and I could see how he and his dad always were in demand. They were skilled, very capable. Chuck had a brother as well, but he didn’t exhibit the same prowess with a wrench. Shortly after hearing of his dad’s passing, he died too. We never knew the circumstances of his death, but I recall how the doubling effect of losing two family members in such short order certainly put Chuck’s head down for a few months; it’s an interesting situation since the man we came to know was so carefree.
Recently, Chuck’s mother was in a nursing home, so he stayed alone. The house clearly did not have the shine it once did. It was especially noticeable because it had been meticulously groomed when his parents tended to it, like his mother’s prize-winning roses, etc. Those things didn’t matter to Chuck though. A lot of things didn’t matter to Chuck. Many times, he made me wonder whether I worried about things too much.
At Odds With Himself He was essentially a “hippie” of the 1960s and ‘70s. He was a large, Sasquatch-looking man. He had played football at the University of Toledo but didn’t stay with it and eventually dropped out. He always spoke as if it didn’t bother him, but we all knew better. He had a habit of starting projects but never really finishing them. Carcasses of half-rebuilt lawn mowers, weed-eaters, and chainsaws littered the backyard near the half- painted fence; many of them were rusted and aging from neglect.