Visit with Howard

Howard lives on a section of Liberty Road in Ann Arbor that is unpaved; about a quarter mile west of his house there is a section of the road that is often underwater. The year I saw the top of a blue Honda barely poking through the ice adjacent to that section, I pretty much decided to avoid traveling there in the winter.

These last few days when the polar vortex came for a visit were especially not the time to venture along that section of road. Until this morning, my normal route was littered with snow drifts as tall as my bumper – according to the local “super-duper mega-track radar weather center” (or whatever they call it) temperatures will soon rise above the freezing mark and much of the piled polar precipitation will soon feed the water table. Farewell.

I figured that Howard could be a bit stir crazy and I should darken his door this evening. I saw him from the driveway leaned over the counter having a bite and steam was rising from a pot on the stove. I didn’t want to interrupt his dinner, but I was there and I knocked.

His greeting was warm, enthusiastic, and confirming that visiting was the right decision. We walked arm-in-arm to his kitchen while trading good tidings for the New Year. He looked and sounded bad.

“I’m not doing very well,” he confided. “I’ve been in the hospital a couple of times since I’ve seen you and fallen 4-5 times. The goddamned idiots at the hospital can’t figure out what’s wrong with my balance and my legs.” At least he still has a bit of his fire.

We both poured a bit of whiskey and he turned the fire off under his dinner. An instrumental version of “Moon River” blared from his den and we went to our accustomed chairs for a visit.

Howard asked about mutual friends, agreed to an eventual outing at the watering hole where we met (“I stopped going there because they are so goddamned expensive.”), carped about the weather, and spoke of Herbert Hoover. I asked how his family ended up in Ann Arbor and a most painful narrative ensued. Remembering whence his father came was an effort; recalling where his father had a 47-year career was nearly impossible; distinguishing names from different generations was addled. He eventually remembered that his father moved from Flint to Ann Arbor in 1926 and that his mother was from Chelsea, Mich. His speech was slow and his usual snarls lacked teeth (there was, however, a rather heartening moment when his cat entered the room and he said, “Here comes asshole.” I asked what the cat’s name actually was – he said, “Oh, just asshole.” There are linguistic liberties granted as one approaches ninety.).

He’s lost about 55 pounds in the last year and a half and confessed to sleeping 12-15 hours a day. I suggested he talk to his pharmacist to see if any of his medications are making him that tired; he said he would. He did reaffirm that his son visits daily and shared that they were going grocery shopping on Friday. He also reported that his pastor stops by and his neighbors look in on him. He did insist that I know I’m always welcome – and I feel that.

I thanked him for his hospitality and said I’d go and let him enjoy his dinner. He was tired.  It won’t be a month between visits.