Skinny old man, he was. Always out working in the yard in a light cotton shirt, his child-sized jeans secured in place by suspenders and those heavy boots. Puttering in the yard, there was never a time he did not wave to a neighbor walking or driving by. Sometimes we arrived at my grandparents house in the late afternoon and he was the first to greet me, giving a wave across the yard. If we arrived during the night, he was easily heard the very next day pushing a mower, or seen raking leaves, tending flower beds. When he saw me, he shared that wave he must have been saving just for me. I remember once going outside just to wave at Mr. Douglas.
One day we drove up and Mr. Douglas was not in the yard. He was not there the next day, either. The picture was all wrong. He was always there, but not today. The yard was still. "He's passed on," my grandmother said. I didn't know what that meant and the adults exchanged glances and prepared themselves for a cautionary explanation as to what that meant.
I was a small, young boy and it was so long ago that I can't remember if we ever spoke. I just remember that there was something about seeing that man in his yard. Like a fixture. Like clockwork. Then he was not there and everything looked wrong. Who would cut the grass? Who would tend the flowers? Who would wave when we drove up? He was gone and for the first time in my life I learned that the world changes. Mr. Douglas taught me that people come and go, never to return.
I cried that day because Mr. Douglas showed me something I'd never known before and it scared me. He showed me that the world changes. No person is exempt. I don't remember how he died or if I ever knew. He was just gone and the grass slowly grew over his boot-prints.
In my mind, I still see him puttering in the yard under his straw-blond fedora. I remember Mr. Douglas, even if nobody else does. Thank you, Mr. Douglas for teaching me to be friendly, to make others feel welcome, to be industrious and not waste any time. You know, I just realized that Mr. Douglas showed me so many years ago how to live as if each day was the last . . .
"Death . . . should be looked in the face by young and old alike. We are not summoned according to our rating on the censor's list. Moreover, no one is so old that it would be improper for him to hope for another day of existence. And one day, mind you, is a stage on life's journey." (Seneca, Moral Letter 11, "On Old Age"
