Page 58 - Senior Link Magazine Spring 2018 - Online Magazine

HONORING SENIORS
2 2
Senior Senior
rank Davis was a constant in
my life. Every morning, he
Fdrove to the coffee shop at
five a.m. to talk weather and sports.
Every weekend he mowed his lawn,
whether it needed it or not. Every
year on my birthday, he would put
an envelope in a crack in the fence
for me to pick up. I would receive
a dollar for each year I had been
alive. He never asked my age, but
he always gave the right amount.
He was infallible. As far as I was
concerned, he had always lived in
the house next door. He had always
had white hair and glasses. He had
always been a little hunched over
and a little deaf. Yes, I was worried
when he got sick, but I knew he
would get better. He had promised
to take me fishing, and if he didn’t
live next to us, who would? Mrs.
Davis couldn’t live alone. That
would be ridiculous. Mr. Davis
always had been, and he always
would be. But then, one day, he
wasn’t.
In my assurance that he was an
eternal fixture of the universe, I had
never thought to learn much about
his life before my family moved in
58 Lubbock Senior Link
next door. I knew he had been in
the Navy because he gave me his
old instruction manual. I knew he
rest of his life was a mystery to me. Gifts
had children, but they were grown
and had children of their own. They
were far away, unseen, so in my
child’s mind, they weren’t really
real. They were just pictures on a
wall. I knew some things, but the
Later, I would learn more. I would
hear from others he had known. I
would learn he had been a deacon. I
would learn he always greeted other by Brandt Von Atzigen
people his age with “Hello, friend.”
I would learn how close his family
really was and how much they loved big as I was, the lessons crept in.
him. This lesson on mortality and a “This is what it means to work hard.
world outside my own was just one
lesson I learned from him, though. This is what means to push yourself.
I learned a great deal more than This is what it means to labor for
that. He had always been a teacher, something.”
without really knowing or even Some things were only clear looking
trying. back, lessons he didn’t mean to
teach, and I didn’t know I learned.
He taught me something new every
time I saw him. Sometimes, it was “This is how a man acts.”
obvious. On the long Labor Day
spent in his shop, the lessons were “This is how a man loves his wife.”
very clear.
“This is how a man carries himself.”
“This is how a drill works; go ahead And some lessons he could only
and stick a bunch of screws in this teach when he died, his last gift - a
block of wood.” legacy, an instruction manual on
grief.
“Here is how to stamp leather; why
don’t you go try it with these scrap “This is how to comfort others.”
pieces?”
“Here is how to use a chisel; be “This is how to leave a legacy.”
careful not to hit your hand.”
“This is how to be brave. “
But, then some lessons were subtle, “This is what hope looks like.”
where he merely gave me the chance
to learn for myself. He liked to give gifts - his books
from his Navy days, a functioning
“Could you dig up that stump in my catapult he built in his shop that
yard? It’s big and the roots run deep, could send a GI Joe flying across the
but I think you can do it.” room, a pocket knife, a flashlight,
a lock for the gate my little brother
And with every bite of the shovel kept escaping through (installed one
into the cold earth and with every
swing of the hatchet into a root as afternoon without notice). All given