He loved her.
Maybe more than any man has ever loved any woman. I witnessed it with my own
eyes. His movements, his thoughts, his wishes, all for her to return to him.
They reunited briefly only to have chance separate them again. His love soldiered
on. It was all he knew how to do: love her with all of him.
In
the summer of 2011, my newly expectant (with twins) wife, my two sons and I
moved into our new home. With the new additions on the way we needed more space
and while small by most people’s standards, our new home provided us just that.
The decision to move had not been an easy one. We had been given little notice
that our former home was being sold and we scrambled to find a suitable
environment in which to raise our family, which was even more important as our
eldest son was about to embark on his formative middle school years. We needed
a safe neighborhood, a family neighborhood, a place with good schools, and an
area in our price range. (I’m pretty sure Beyoncé requires less maintenance
than we apparently did!) Indeed we were blessed to find a home that met our requirements
and so we loaded up a moving truck and onward we went.
As
I unloaded some of the last boxes from the moving truck, a little old man and
his wife pulled up in their tan mercury sedan behind us. She, in front, and he
behind, they marched up the stairs into their home. I gave an obligatory “Hello”,
to which he gruffly responded “Hey, how ya doin’” without so much as looking up
at me. It was less than a ceremonious welcome. I pressed on with my duties, not
thinking much of the encounter other than the thought that our neighbors might
not be too “neighborly” in the future.
That
Saturday morning I yanked the pull cord squeezed the handle and began my
bi-weekly ritual of mowing the lawn. Back and Forth, climbing the side hill of
the house, rolling over flowerbeds, leaving patches everywhere; my first
attempt at lawn maintenance was less than stellar but gratifying nonetheless. I
came in, sweaty, proud of my feeble efforts at being handy and plopped on the
couch next to my wife, who thanked me for cutting the grass and proceeded to
laugh at the pitiful job I had done. As we laughed and talked, we heard a knock
at the door. I opened it, expecting to find my in-laws, instead I was greeted by
that little old man,who had barely acknowledged me the previous day. He
introduced himself, “Hey, how ya doin? I’m George, George Keys from next door. Just
wanted to say thank ya for cuttin' that grass. Ya know the people who lived
there before you never cut that damn grass! They’d leave cigarette butts all
over the front porch and on the lawn. They’d even toss ‘em on my porch. Good to
see someone there to take care of that house”. I thanked him for coming over
and introduced my wife and myself and exchanged pleasantries. Turns out the
little old gruff man wasn't so gruff after all.
Mr.
and Mrs. Keys, 85 and 84 years old respectively, have been our neighbors now
for close to four years. And since that day I cut the grass and he introduced
himself he’s been the best neighbor I’ve ever had. A World War II veteran, Mr.
Keys worked for 30-plus years at BGE. He and his wife of 50 years raised 4
children in a 3-bedroom townhouse (sound familiar) all of whom are married with
children of their own. Without him knowing it, Mr. Keys has taught me many
lessons about being a man and about being a good husband. A man of integrity is
how I’d describe him. When the men of the neighborhood realized that the kids
of the neighborhood needed a place to play, Mr. Keys organized a petition in
the neighborhood to have a park built. The park still stands on the corner of
our neighborhood today. When our twins
were born, we arrived home from the hospital to a box of diapers and a card
from he and his wife. When my wife’s car wouldn't start, 85-year-old Mr. keys
popped his shirt off (wait a minute, I just vomited a little bit remembering
that image), grabbed his tools and was under the hood with me, getting her
cranked. When I ran over my own lawnmower cable (don’t ask) Mr. Keys lent me
his mower to cut the grass. And when I ran over his lawnmower cable (seriously,
I’m awful at manual labor) he fixed his cord and got me cutting again. When my
dad died, he offered his condolences and I did the same, when his sister passed.
Indeed, Mr. Keys taught me how to be a good neighbor.
But
the best lesson old man Keys taught me, was how to love unconditionally. You
see, he loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman before. Her name
is Doris. And Doris Keys is the love of George Key’s life. She’d stand on the
porch, yammering while he cut the grass, yelling out directions about spots
he’d missed. He’d bicker back and then go back and get the spots she said he’d
missed. When he’d sneak sweets and cakes into the house, she’d knock on our
door with those sweets and cakes in hand because she knew he wasn't allowed to
have that stuff. When that long tan mercury sedan pulled in front of the door.
He’d get out, walk around and open the door for her. He adored her and truth be told, she adored
him too.
About
two years ago in the middle of the night, we awoke to the flashing red lights
of an ambulance. I assumed Mr. Keys, who hadn’t been feeling so well at the
time, was being taken to the hospital, instead it was Doris. She had fallen and
broken her leg. But a break at 82 is not simply a break. The leg eventually
became infected. Doris became sicker. George, who’d always been stoic in
nature, became a mess. Everyday, he got up as soon as he could and drive across
town to the hospital to visit his wife. Things went from bad to worse. She
became sicker, at one point losing the ability to even eat on her own. A break
at 82 is not simply a break. Her body was having trouble taking all the
procedures. We feared the worst. George did not. He simply got up every
morning, drove across town and stayed with his wife. He loved her more than any
other man had ever loved any other woman.
Doris pulled
through and got better but not without a major side effect. The infection had
become so bad that her leg had to be amputated. She would have get a prosthetic,
learn to walk again, spend 6-8 months in physical therapy and a nursing home
before even the possibility of her returning home arrived. The cost threatened
to rob George of his home for 50 years. But it didn't matter to him. Because
all he wanted was her. Her back at home. Her back on that porch. Her by his
side. And so he waited. And he visited everyday. And he drove her to therapy.
And he considered moving temporarily into the nursing home with her (she talked
him out of it). So he visited and stayed with her everyday. Everyday. Everyday
for 2 years. Why? Because he loved for to infinity and back again. And so when
we got a knock on the door 2 months ago, I was surprised to see George’s daughter
on the porch. She was there to announce, that they, her parents, were around
the corner, in that long tan mercury sedan. He was bringing her home. He had
waited two years but he would have waited a hundred more, just to bring her
home. And he did. And his smile and hers told me all I ever needed to know
about love. And that is, Love is real, love is patient, love is pure, love is
kind, love endures. For he loved her more than any man has ever loved any woman
…ever.
I wrote this blog upon hearing the
news tonight that Doris Keys fell again last night and broke her ankle meaning
another long and tenuous hospital journey for her. I pray for her speedy
recovery, and for George’s as he is devastated to have to go through this
ordeal again. I’m not certain how much more her 84-year-old body can handle,
but I know that he will be by her side for however long it takes.
