Mr. Henderson
I had 7 voice mail messages waiting on me when I got home yesterday. Generally speaking, this is sort of surprising, but not really. I usually get two or three canned messages from Condi Rice (or someone calling on her behalf), two or three wrong calls, and occasionally a work-related message.
But yesterday was different.
The sixth message was from Jan, my boss. She called to tell me that her dad had died yesterday. And to please call her.
Truly
Truly
Shocking.
Mr. Henderson. In his mid-80s, I believe. Worked for American Greetings for most of his adult life. Served in the military for the other part of it. As a typist. Could type an absurd number of words per minute. Passionate about gardening, dahlias especially.
I fell in love with Mr. Henderson after knowing him for just a short time. I was still unpacking boxes from my move to Ohio when the doorbell rang. He was standing at the front door with the biggest bunch of prize-winning dahlias, fresh from his garden, that I have ever seen. Just standing there with a goofy grin on his face like he was coming to call on me.
He was battling with dementia in his later years. It was so hard to know and understand him this way.
He had an uncanny ability to love the unlovely. His (and Jan's) collection of worms. His tyrannical cat, Christina (who terrorized me on more than one occasion, I assure you). All people.
He was raking up oak pollen strands in his back yard when he died. Jan had given him a stop watch to wear. He was only allowed to work for short spurts so he wouldn't overexert himself (he had a weak heart). He'd set it for 30 minutes, then work in his yard. Nearing his 30-minute allotment, he collapsed.
Not too long ago my nephew, Charlie, was in an airplane and wanted to look for Mandy and Dutch (recently deceased family members--one human, one canine) while they were flying around in heaven (the clouds). It is so simple and comforting, his perspective.
Because my work requires me to spend so much time in the air, I like to use that time to reflect on friends and family that I love and miss. Sometimes, I daydream as we float through the clouds. So many soft pretty pictures emerge. Princesses, the shape of an elephant, memories of my childhood, a sihouette of a big cat....
Maybe, just maybe, if I look hard enough, I can find Mr. Henderson there just above the stratus ones and between the two fat cumulus ones, leaning on his hoe in the most beautiful dahlia garden you've ever imagined.
But yesterday was different.
The sixth message was from Jan, my boss. She called to tell me that her dad had died yesterday. And to please call her.
Truly
Truly
Shocking.
Mr. Henderson. In his mid-80s, I believe. Worked for American Greetings for most of his adult life. Served in the military for the other part of it. As a typist. Could type an absurd number of words per minute. Passionate about gardening, dahlias especially.
I fell in love with Mr. Henderson after knowing him for just a short time. I was still unpacking boxes from my move to Ohio when the doorbell rang. He was standing at the front door with the biggest bunch of prize-winning dahlias, fresh from his garden, that I have ever seen. Just standing there with a goofy grin on his face like he was coming to call on me.
He was battling with dementia in his later years. It was so hard to know and understand him this way.
He had an uncanny ability to love the unlovely. His (and Jan's) collection of worms. His tyrannical cat, Christina (who terrorized me on more than one occasion, I assure you). All people.
He was raking up oak pollen strands in his back yard when he died. Jan had given him a stop watch to wear. He was only allowed to work for short spurts so he wouldn't overexert himself (he had a weak heart). He'd set it for 30 minutes, then work in his yard. Nearing his 30-minute allotment, he collapsed.
Not too long ago my nephew, Charlie, was in an airplane and wanted to look for Mandy and Dutch (recently deceased family members--one human, one canine) while they were flying around in heaven (the clouds). It is so simple and comforting, his perspective.
Because my work requires me to spend so much time in the air, I like to use that time to reflect on friends and family that I love and miss. Sometimes, I daydream as we float through the clouds. So many soft pretty pictures emerge. Princesses, the shape of an elephant, memories of my childhood, a sihouette of a big cat....
Maybe, just maybe, if I look hard enough, I can find Mr. Henderson there just above the stratus ones and between the two fat cumulus ones, leaning on his hoe in the most beautiful dahlia garden you've ever imagined.
posted by juliebelle | 9:43 AM
6 Comments:
i am deeply sorry for you and your boss. what a beautiful man.
without a doubt, i know that i will never look at clouds the same way again. even though i do not know what he looks like, i will be looking for him in his garden, too.
Your writing always moves me. My thoughts and prayers will be with you and your boss.
Kt
What a touching tribute to Mr. Henderson. You capsulized his personna beautifully. I remember that first day in Cleveland - the warmth and generosity of the Hendersons. They allowed you to store your things in their garage while you looked for an apt. His dahlias were unbelievable! The Cleveland Indians lost one of their most ardent fans. Rest in peace, Mr. Henderson. cmmjr
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Julie: Someone has said, "Every time and old man dies, a library burns." I'm sure Mr. Henderson took a lot of information with him that was not passed on. We're all guilty of that, consequently, we have to reinvent the wheel over and over. cmmjr
Julie, Should be "Every time AN old man dies ... Sorry cmmjr
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