The message waited patiently in voicemail until we returned from dinner last night. I listened to it twice in disbelief and then checked the day’s obituaries for confirmation.
George, the handyman who had helped us repair, paint, and improve our home during the first years we lived here, had passed away. Cancer had claimed him . . . and quickly. His wake was this evening. I am forever grateful to my friend Lyn for her telephone call, as Earl and I might have missed the obits and therefore missed the opportunity to say our good-byes in person.
We arrived at the funeral home at 5:15, thinking we’d make our appearance and slip away. But already a line was forming out the door of the visitation room and almost out the door of the building. I wasn’t really surprised.
It wasn’t because George Bowers was born, raised, and lived here all his life. Nor was it because he’d worked for the local city government for decades. Or that there is now a hole in the fabric of our daily life. It was because, as one person at the wake noted, “He was a smiley, and he left a smile on all of us.” He sure did.
Ours was a business relationship first. He fixed our ailing fans, repaired our forlorn deck, painted our rooms one by one (even though he didn’t like to paint), and checked on our home if we were out of town. Later, after a fall from a roof curtailed some of his handyman activities, he became more of a friend.
That’s when George would stop by to see how we were doing, even though I secretly think it was to show us the most recent photos of his family. His daughter married and had a daughter herself. His son graduated from college and moved to a Chicago suburb. Always these photos were accompanied with my asking if he wanted a beer. He never refused, and we stood at the back door catching up and drinking down every so often.
Once or twice George and his wife and Earl and I went to dinner. It might have been the start of a cemented friendship, but it never quite took hold. I’m not sure why, but that didn’t stop George from coming by with the latest batch of photos.
Many of those photos were on display at the wake. While I enjoyed seeing them again, what I’ll remember most are those things in our home that George worked on. One summer, he and his son and I painted our living room and dining room together over the course of a couple days. We had a great time. Now whenever I walk into that room I’ll think of those days.
Currently we have a For Sale sign planted smack dab in the middle of the front yard, and I remember thinking that I should call George and let him know we might be moving. I wouldn’t want him to show up at the wrong place with the next set of pictures. But now, even if we choose to stay put, he won’t be by for his beer. It’s our loss.
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