Charles van Heck's Woodhull Journal

Fred and Louise Haisch invited us over to dinner.

Terri and I decided to walk. The late afternoon sun wove through the overhanging tree branches, weaving an intricate quilt pattern of shadows and light across the dirt road. There was a slight hint of autumn in the air following the long days of oppressive heat and humidity. Queen Anne’s lace curled in the tall grasses speckled with smooth blue asters, and black-eyed Susans. We paused to watch a monarch butterfly flutter among the common milkweed growing at the edge of the field stone wall.

There are moments when words are unnecessary.

Sometimes you just have to breathe.

Twenty-one years have slipped away in the flick of time. Bill, Ron, Bert, George, and Dennis are gone. The six of us would meet on Thursdays for breakfast. Our conversations meandered from topic to topic, strung together by laughter. Politics would come up, but was mainly avoided. There were other things to discuss. Nothing too serious. They would talk about their vintage cars. Ron purchased a vintage corvette more out of keeping up with Bill, who owned a small museum worth of cars he showcased in his company’s lobby. Ron seldom took the corvette out of his garage. George drove a British taxi and a 1970 Mercedes Benz 280 Roadster. He and I would go bopping around in one or the other on warm afternoons. Dennis had a 1963 Studebaker Avanti R2 289C. The guys ribbed Dennis for his passion for Studebakers. Bert and I drove what we could afford.

There were lazy summer days when we didn’t feel like going our separate ways. Bill would invite us to go out on his boat. Hours would pass sailing around the lakes. On other days, Ron and I would disappear for hours driving along winding roads, stopping at some off-the-beaten-track restaurant for lunch. We once found ourselves in a biker bar. Other times we went to his family’s lake front cottage, which was more like a manor, to watch the news and stock reports, converse on various topics, then have dinner at the golf club before heading home. There were days when we would go grocery shopping. His wife Carol referred to us as the bargain hunters. She wished someone would bargin hunt his corvette. Bill came by to assist me in doing some work on the house. I went to his home to see and discuss his art. There were days when George and I would return to his house to putter in his gardens and then go to lunch. George always ordered chili dogs. Afterwards, we would sit on his back porch drinking good Scotch, and just shoot the breeze. We conversed about jazz, photography, his time living in Europe, our families, and the book I was writing. He had been a drummer in a group, then went into engineering.

Dennis would pick-up Bert on Thursdays when dementia began to swallow him. Bill, a talented artist, passed during the night on the day he completed work on a car he was refurbishing. Ron reminisced more about his life. He and Bill had known one another since high school. Both had served in the Army during the Korean War. Ron was awarded the Purple Heart for taking shrapnel in the arse. Bill had dated Carol until she met Ron on a double date. Then Bill met Rita. The four of them remained life-long friends. Ron, always robust, began to decline. Bert, a Navy man, died. George and I continued to see one another. The last time I saw Dennis was at the wake for George. We feasted on George’s favorite foods, including chili dogs. During our conversation, Dennis told me he had stage four prostate cancer. As Terri and I were leaving, Dennis was in his Studebaker. Arms raised, we gestured one another like old soldiers. A final salute.

The restaurant we breakfasted at closed shortly after George’s funeral.

That was three years ago.

“What are you thinking about?” Terri asked, as the monarch butterfly rose above the stonewall, disappearing among the meadow grasses on its long migrating journey.

“It’s strange to be the last man standing,” I replied. There was no reason to explain. She understood.

We arrived at the Haisch’s. Louise served fall off the bone beef ribs, sweet corn on the cob, and a spinach strawberry salad with pecans. We talked about the upcoming Cover Crop and Soil Health Field Day in Andover, the Evoraburg Heritage Days, and the restoration of the Babcock Theater in Wellsville. “That reminds me of the 1954 movie Them,” Fred remarked. “Common ants mutate into giant man-eating monsters near the New Mexico atomic test site. Did you hear about the four radioactive wasp hives found in the old Savannah River nuclear facility near Aiken, South Carolina?” Louise frowned. “I suppose we can expect a movie about monster wasps.” Terri said, “Probably more than one. They’ll make prequels and sequels.”  Louise rose from the table. “They may toss in a superhero or two into the plot.” Spiderman vs. The Atomic Wasp, I thought. She went into the kitchen, returning with a chocolate zucchini cake.

After our meal, we watched the surreal, drama/fantasy indie film The Life of Chuck based on the Stephen King short story. Fred didn’t much care for it. Terri and Louise found it thought provoking and entertaining. A precious jewel of cinematic art. I nodded in agreement, but my thoughts lingered on old friends.

“You looked preoccupied most of the time,” Terri said as we walked home. “Are you feeling alright?” I knew from her question she was concerned about my health, the long six years of illness.

“The film reminded me of George, Ron, Bill, Bert, and Dennis,” I replied.

“You’ve known the Haisch’s along time.”

I nodded. “George always said, ‘Have a good life.’”

Terri took my hand.

Above us, the sky danced to the rhythm of the Perseid meteor shower.

Sometimes you just have to breathe.… and be grateful.

Image: In this 30 second exposure, a meteor streaks across the sky during the annual Perseid meteor shower, Wednesday, Aug. 11, 2021, in Spruce Knob, West Virginia.

Source:  Image Credit: NASA/Bill Ingalls