One long stem rose rests in a pilsner glass on my table. My husband brought it home last Wednesday. He said Otto would have wanted me to have one. He added that Otto would have wanted every woman he knew to have one. A rose from his funeral. I met him only two weeks ago. He was ninety years old and ready to die. He said as much. His body was so frail, I was certain he would die that night. As cliché as it is, I guess it just wasn’t yet his time to go. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough.
The Otto I knew – barely, all of an hour - was a man of few words. Maybe it was his weakened condition, but he didn’t seem to have much patience for small talk. Perhaps, it was that he didn’t want to waste what breathe he had left talking about things that didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it was clear to me, his hours on Earth were numbered, and God most likely had a motive for bringing us together. Given this, I decided to not squander the moment, but to sit awhile with this man, and listen carefully to his few words.
He said he married rather late in life, and talked about his wife of more than three decades, who died twenty years ago. “God knows she was a better wife than I was a husband,” he said. Wistfully, he reminisced about another love affair that didn’t end the way he hoped. He summed it up with, “God, I fell hard.” He wondered aloud whether or not a close friend will marry the woman who loves him. Obviously perplexed, he shrugged and added that the friend said he “just wasn’t ready.”
Otto, who didn’t have children of his own, then turned his attention to my three sons, 14, 12 and ten, who had quietly wandered into the room. He invited the boys to sit down, and then made sure he was square on their names and ages. He asked them about school, what sports they played and their other activities. His interest was sincere. He had met them a few weeks earlier when they were recruited to help clear out his belongings from his beloved and recently sold lake home.
The boys had been impressed by his generosity, sharing with each of them, an item from his home – a couple of decaled drinking glasses from his Catholic alma mater for the oldest, old twine for the middle one, and a container of cocktail sword picks, the kind used for olives, onions and the occasional cherry, for the youngest. To most, just junk for the dumpster, but the boys were genuinely thrilled when they brought home their treasures. It was obvious to me, though I had not yet met him, that Otto paid attention to what other people valued.
The oldest wears his parochial school education on his sleeve like a badge of honor; the middle one is a Boy Scout knot head who spends hours fine tuning his skill; and, the youngest never leaves home without his electronic game system, but constantly loses his stylus. Now, he carries a nail file and a few swords in the game case.
From what I hear, Otto was a larger-than-life legend in the small town he called home. He was the type of guy who drank gin, and wore a lime green jacket, plaid pants and white shoes to the local country club. He enjoyed playing Pinochle and loved to throw parties at the lake. If it happened to be your birthday, oh boy, he was sure to make it special.
As we left that afternoon, my husband told Otto he would be back within the month to have lunch with him at his favorite restaurant. I shook his hand good-bye, and felt the presence of a friend who understood what matters in this world: the importance of reflecting on love and relationships; paying attention to the needs of others; and, enjoying the simple things in life. Two weeks later, with my husband in attendance, a memorial luncheon was held in Otto’s honor at that favorite restaurant.
Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.
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