A Mighty Oak

Thousands if not millions of people lost power last week. It’s amazing what ice can do. Topple trees. Down power lines. Cut off heat and water and internet.

Evidently our power went out last Friday night. Kenny and I snuggled under thick blankets and watched the unfolding ice show out of our bedroom window. Suddenly, the telephone cables that line our street danced wildly up and down. We watched as our neighbor hauled orange cones down the street. Cars were evidently making U-turns because they passed by our window once headed north on Talbot, then a second time headed  south.

Kenny’s curiosity compelled him to investigate. A mighty oak had fallen blocking our road. He soon joined a band of brothers running their chain saws through the huge branches like knives through butter.

Without electricity, I could not perform my usual Saturday morning chores. Instead, I sat in front of the wood stove ablaze with the lovely fire my husband stoked. I sipped one more cup of coffee made with water boiled on the gas stove top. I was even able to whisk my favorite grass-fed butter in it with the battery powered hand blender I gave to Kenny as a gift.

No, I wasn’t suffering. I was curled up with a book, drifting in and out of sleep, the dogs at my feet. Without the buzz of electricity flowing through the house and running the dishwasher, refrigerator, and washing machine, the house was eerily quiet.

The phone rang and jostled me out of a sound sleep.

“Julie, this is Julie,” the voice on the other end of the line was saying. “Larry just died.”

In my stupor I did not quite understand what the voice was saying. I was still trying to figure out who Julie was. Well, my name is Julie, I know that much, I thought. That’s not the Julie she’s talking about. My mind trudged, as if through cement, trying to break away from the sleep. Julie from church? from the office? From…?

“This is Julie, Linda’s daughter-in- law. Larry just died,” the voice said again.

Now fully conscious I took in the weight of her words.

“Oh, Julie, I am so sorry,” I gasped. “May I come over?”

Kenny and I walked through our adjoining back yards and went in through the side door.  That’s what we were. Backyard neighbors.

For these last twenty years, Linda and Larry Geck’s door has always been open to us. For barbecues and birthday parties. For canning and cooking lessons. For sewing projects and crafts. For planting and gardening. To borrow a cup of sugar or can of beans.

One year they hosted our oldest son’s wedding around the gazebo in their front yard. Larry pruned the yard to perfection and Linda bedazzled it with her flowers. They both had the greenest of green thumbs. And then they enjoyed the festivities from their front porch. It was beautiful.

But most of all, I’d run over for a Saturday or Sunday afternoon chat to catch up on the happenings of the week. A little less often with Covid, I hate to say. Most recently two weeks prior. Kenny popped in too and Linda suggested we enjoy a glass of wine together. Larry served us, as usual. Yes, the older served the younger. His unassuming nature moved me. We celebrated nothing in particular and yet everything that matters. The simple joys of friendship and of keeping on keeping on even in a crazy, mixed up Covid world.

This time Kenny and I arrived in the stillness and solemnity that death brings. David met us at the door. We all hugged and cried. Through tears, Linda recounted the events of the morning.  How she helped him dress. He walked slowly to the living room, pausing to look out the window at the branches that succumbed to the weight of the ice. He commented that he’d get outside soon to clean them up. He fell once in front of his easy chair. His son, Paul, helped him up. He was restless and walked back to the bathroom with Paul following. He fell again. This time for the last time.

911 was called while Paul administered CPR. A band of first responders filed through the house. And then the hushed words from one of them. “He’s gone, Mrs. Geck.” She knew. He had been alluding to this moment for several weeks, as if he knew too.

I knelt by his side. His spirit was absent from his body. I held his hand. How many handshakes and high fives had he given my husband and sons and grandson? How many hugs had he given my daughters and me. How many hellos had preceded this final goodbye? I kissed his forehead.

Larry led a life of hard work and dedication. Having grown up on a farm, he raised his own food and fed many others. He served his community and his country, deserving of military funeral honors. He was a devoted father to three sons, Paul, Douglas, who preceded him in death, and David, to several grandchildren and to his darling, great grandchild, Ava who called him Pompa. He was a loyal employee, a respected manager. Among many skills and talents, he mastered the arts of gardening, woodworking, and music. He was a faithful friend and trusted neighbor.

He was all those things and more. But what stood out most to me was how he cherished his lovely wife of sixty-seven years. Linda and Larry were always together.

And after ninety-two years of living his life, he died the way he wanted to. As Linda says, with his boots on.

A mighty oak has fallen. The fruits of Larry Geck’s life remain forever in those who loved him.