On Sunday, May 8, I received a text message, “Happy Mothers Day hunni!”. It was from Dusty, my erstwhile neighbor, the guy who spent his days on cars, helping those of us who wanted a great job done on something that was wrong or could not afford the vast majority of the garages in the city.
Beard hiding a wide smile, a happy gait, he was a pleasure to pass by as I walked Puga. He would give Puga a rub, ask how I was. Who does that when you are over seventy and single, for whatever reason. Heh, he was the only one who wished me, who has never been a biological mother, a happy mothers day! Yes, he brought tears to my eyes, as I thought of children I have been among in Africa and Asia, two-year-olds with the bloated bellies of kwashiorkor, six-years-olds who have lost ‘permanent’ teeth, eight-year- olds writing with sticks in the ground because those are the only implements they have.
You know, I finally turned to him for my old jalopy, a 2002 VW ‘New Beetle’. My manual gear had stopped working, and Dusty gave me the site to order the proper part from and put it in for I am sure less than a quarter of what I would have paid had I gone to my normal place. He also advised on new tires, and I got not two but a whole set for less than half the price I would have normally been subject to.
Dusty and his wife Stacie were the new proud parents of a little girl. I was looking forward to seeing her run on the little porch of the tiny half house they rented on my side street, but that was not to be. That house, along with four others of the same type, were sold and razed. What I remember so well is just two or three months before they left, Stacie and he helped clean up the yard in front of the place that would soon no longer be.
He was so happy to move to the new place, a full house for the three of them, as he assured me that I could call at any time for help, and I thought back to the good people I have been blessed with knowing throughout my life, those who make up for the hurts that we incur from those who do not care. Those special fellow humans are the ones who enrich our daily lives, from a sweeper in an office in Cameroon who showers you with smiles and small talk as you try to get through another challenging day, an academic dean who — without a request -provides a little room for a tough exam, to the friend who calls when she does not hear from you.
Yes, Dusty was that kind of person, that kind of ‘guy’! Do you know how I found out he had been killed in a hit and run as he was riding his motorcycle on the highway? He had told me to get two bulbs to replace the one light that was not working in my car, to make sure that both lights were of exactly the same brightness. The store, he had told me, might install them but, if not, he would do it. That is what happened, and I asked that he do it, ending my text message with, “By the way, how are you and the girls in you now well-worn house?”
And the answer came back from Stacie that he was no longer with us. I cried all evening, as I remembered my father, who was a bit like Dusty, my father who took me out with him on a motorcycle as a five or six-year-old when we were in Belgium. Tears flowed as I relived the passing of my Pierre, taken out too early at the age of fifty. But Dusty was even younger and he would no longer be there for Stacie or their baby daughter.
And then, I looked up, and I thought of those who would greet him, the many whom he had touched, and I could see my father and Pierre among the throng, all angels on our shoulders, helping us carry through our days, paving our way, if we learn from them.
