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Building a Life
short story by Chip Kussmaul-The Radical Individualist
The old man looked at me as if he knew me. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. He smiled at me knowingly, and I couldn’t fathom what it was that he might know. I gave a sort of half smile back and turned my head away from him. I felt it might be better to avoid him since I didn’t know what he was about.
I was in the checkout line at the big box store. It was Saturday morning, and on occasional Saturdays I help my next door neighbor with projects that need to be done to keep his house up.
He’s up in years and can’t really handle things like he used to. He lost his wife two years ago and his kids are out of town, and they don’t see too much of each other, although they video call often enough. I asked him if wanted to move closer to his children. He said this was his and Carrie’s home. He would stay.
It was early spring, that one time of the year when mundane chores seem desirable, offering the opportunity to do things outside during the first decent days of the year. My neighbor’s deck needs some attention, some new PT lumber, and some caulk and weather stripping around the back door.
My own house is in great shape even though it’s over 100 years old. Renovating old houses is what I do, and my house stands as a testament to my abilities. Things are different now though. I started out 25 years ago doing it all myself, being a one man show. Now I have three crews and spend most of my time in the office running things. I do miss those days when it was just me and a customer shooting the breeze as I worked.
That’s part of why I like working on my neighbor’s house. It takes me back to a time that I have to admit I miss. Maybe a person can have too much ambition. I’ve never missed a chance to move farther ahead, and now I look back with fondness on a time I have willingly given up. Things are a whole lot more complex now and I do appreciate, even thrive, on the challenges. But it occurred to me a while back that striving and stress are two sides of the same coin. You can’t have one without the other.
So, I guess I have various motives for working on my neighbor’s house. I get to relive my life from 25 years ago, doing relatively minor work and having the owner stand there and hand me tools as we carry on conversations about the state of the world or whatever we feel like discussing. Back then it was more like a relationship, less like a job. Not only does working next door take me back, it sort of shows me my future. Perhaps 25 years from now I’ll be my neighbor’s age. I will see that my end is not far off. Ambition and perseverance does not earn you more years. I’ve gained insights from my neighbor, how he’s delt with the deaths of loved ones and with the imminence of his own death. He is not maudlin about it. You cannot truly love life, he says, while denying death. This sounds so dark as I discuss it, but our conversations are rich. I’ve learned a lot from him.
Sometimes I question my motives. Do I want to position myself to purchase his house when…? I would love to have his house. On the one hand I could make relatively inexpensive repairs and flip it and make a sizeable profit. But I might prefer to keep it. Perhaps I could convince my daughter and her family to live there. The contractor in me has to think those thoughts. But really, I enjoy these times at my neighbor’s house, channeling my past and glimpsing my future, all at the same time. And I’m meeting a need for its own sake, not for profit.
Anyway, I had scanned all my items at the checkout and processed my credit card. I began rolling my cart out into the parking lot to load my items into my van. The old man joined me, walking quietly beside me. It seemed odd, but comfortable. We said nothing for a few steps, but then I asked, “Do I know you?”
We kept walking as he answered. “I believe you do. Certainly, I know you.”
“How do you know me? When have we met?”
He smiled that enigmatic smile. “I was at your wedding.”
That was not possible. Jan and I were married in a wooded area in a park, with only immediate family and a minster. I told him that.
Again, the smile. “Do you remember how you felt? Unsure even of who you were, much less of marriage? You could not explain to yourself what you expected in a marriage with Jan. Yet you knew it was right, ordained even. As you said your vows, you felt something within yourself that you had never felt before, a sense of fulfilment that transcended daily experience. You knew that your marriage involved something greater than just the two of you” He paused a moment even as we continued to walk. “I was at your wedding.”
This guy was intriguing. But maybe he had made a few lucky guesses. Maybe he knew me from the past and was teasing me.
“Do you remember when your daughter was three years old and had surgery? She was still partly under the anesthetic when you saw her. She barely recognized you and could not speak. Entirely helpless, even for a three year old. You cried. You felt more helpless than her. You would have done anything for her… And she came out fine.”
Tears came again to my eyes. He smiled knowingly, “I was there.”
Was this my imagination? A hallucination? Could it really be? How could it be?
“I was there when your mother died. You all knew that it was her time. She knew. You saw her lying in bed, barley responsive, and at peace. There was nothing more to do but to let her go. And you knew that her love continued to live, in you, and in all whom she had touched. She is in you now, as am I.”
What was I supposed to think? We had reached the back of the van. I quietly loaded my things into the van as he stood and observed. Then I closed the door. These are the things I know to do, physical things, automatic, done a thousand times before, and will do a thousand times more. Then I looked at him. He looked at me. I laugh at myself now, but I didn’t know what else to do. So I reached for my wallet and pulled out the only cash I had, a twenty dollar bill I keep in case there is a time or place where a credit card won’t work.
I offered it to him. “The things that I desire cannot be purchased,” he said. “Give that to someone who can use it.”
I put my wallet away, and put the twenty in my shirt pocket. I resolved to find someone who could use it before I reached home. “What do I do now?” I asked.
“You’ve been doing it,” he said. “Perhaps you could do just a little more of it.” And that smile.
I smiled back.
I hope you enjoyed Building a Life.
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Absolutely another good story from the Radical Individualist. A must read!!