It was in that sweet spot of a summer day, in the three hours after dinner when the sun is settling down for the night and its hot rays are longer and shining on me from the western horizon.
We're of an age when it begins to happen and a little piece of you is gone forever. I sometimes think people decide to die because they done want another one of those messages. They have nothing left to absorb them with.
Thank you for this. I tend to agree. My dad’s mom, Cora was hell bent to get to 100 and she did. She does at 100 years and three months. I have the same little voice in my head. I think what we decide, tired, worn out, sick or scared plays a huge role in when we die. A good friend, better than friend, family died of cancer in 2017. It was not pretty. She swore she was going to have one more Thanksgiving with her geandbabies. She did. Thanksgiving was the 23rd and she passed the following week. Will is a factor we can’t ignore.
My mother decided she was tired of dealing with her pain and other problems. It was during Covid. No one could talk her out of it… what can you say? To me it’s selfish, but it’s also their own choice, a sad choice, but still the person’s own final choice not the families’ or anyone else!
It was in that sweet spot of a summer day, in the three hours after dinner when the sun is settling down for the night and its hot rays are longer and shining on me from the western horizon. The heat of the day has dropped off a good ten degrees. I was in my tool shed, my happy place, in the best moment of a summer’s day, in my favorite time of the year, when my phone made that text message noise.
Usually, at this time of day that sound means something from Mark or Bobby or Carlos or Chris, that will make me laugh or think or start a discussion that eventually makes me learn something. More of them than not are about a car, and old car, and that will make me wax nostalgic. Most times I enjoy these moments looking back, sometimes I find myself annoyed at how I tend to forget the bad of days past and only remember the sweet spots. The pieces we carry with us on this long march.
This text was different, somebody died. My first thought is the herd is thinning. Then I ponder the palpable energy that was the force of childhood is slowly dissipating back to the universe. Perhaps to be used again in another form.
Childhood was a collage of black and white and red, when a little blood was let. Angst and dreams and aspirations and baseball and the looming disappointment of adulthood. Friendships formed and fell, battles waged and lost. Sometime between that time and this time, we scattered to the games we chose and lost ourselves.
I heard Archie died from a cousin of his I’d never met before. The cousin, at least a generation younger than me and Archie, said he’d been gone awhile, and I was left to paint my own conclusions and fill in my own blanks. That day was the saddest I’d been for a good long time.
Part of me always imagined Archie and me would find each other again and ride off into the sunset, still boys telling dirty jokes and laughing and running away from whatever needed running from.
I guess it wasn’t fair to expect that, or at all how it was meant to be. I saw the world through a pie-eyed white boy reality, while Archie’s reality had a darker and harder and sharper edge.
He wasn’t my first friend, but he was an elemental part of the fabric of boyhood. A time all too brief in its passing blur. He was a staple and essential character in my story.
With Archie I’d sit in the principal’s office, a united front while some man in a tie decided we were bad and what punishment fit our crime. It didn’t sit too well with either of us. Some man with no sense of humor could somehow claim dominion over us.
The day the cousin told me Archie had been gone a while, it felt like someone had taken a blade and cut out a big chunk of me. The reality of life as a young black man in an unforgiving, dirty city proved harder and uglier than the reality of life for a young white boy like me.
Then today, I read about a girl from away and of that same place and time, who has just died. Just a nice and kind little girl who brought her lunch in a metal box with dolls painted on its sides and a matching thermos. And some days when we didn’t have any lunch, the girl would share hers with Archie and me. When I heard she was dead, the same sadness I felt for Archie came back to haunt me once again.
We’re old now and our best days are lost to the wind behind us, but part of me stayed in that school on the hill where we heard the President had been shot and we watched John Glenn go into space, and some days I wonder if I could go back to that place and time, and if it’s still there, would I find them again.
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Went back to visit the old NYC haunts Dub EL. Most of the old Harlem Hospital/Columbia University folks are gone. The sojourn included a stop over at the stoop on W 135th St where I drank my last 6 pk and snorted my last hit. It seemed so much smaller than I remembered - that stoop - and the people in the neighborhood have changed. Whites and Asians and East Indians - all mingling together in a neighborhood that was for generations an enclave solely of the Black aspirational intelligentsia of NYC - now it's like a New World - discovered without ships or sea to cross. That stoop was my whole universe on that day 38 years ago. Now it's just the place where I took the first step...
You have reminded me of my young elementary days in North Carolina. My best friend was the neighbor’s youngest, Joe. We did a lot of stuff together. When we moved two states away, we grew out of touch. I found his wife on FB. He’s had an economically successful life, but his personal life has been tragic. I asked his wife if I could visit. I only live one state away now, but, silence on the other end. Memories will be all I have of that boy.
Thank you for this. The paths we take are often hard and lead to ends we didn’t foresee. I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Sometimes I suppose it’s easier to hear they are gone instead of not wanting to see you.
Bill, once again the great story teller of recent days and how people and experiences of years ago are fondly remembered and make a mark on our own lives too!
I can relate to the belated information of who died or who has gotten a disease, who has had an another child get married, or a a new grandchild… which I am jealous of because my husband and I bloomed later with having kids… in our early 30’s, and our last child in my very early 40’s . So needless to say only one of our kids is married, and so far all we have is a grand puppy! Whom we greatly love!
We're of an age when it begins to happen and a little piece of you is gone forever. I sometimes think people decide to die because they done want another one of those messages. They have nothing left to absorb them with.
Thank you for this. I tend to agree. My dad’s mom, Cora was hell bent to get to 100 and she did. She does at 100 years and three months. I have the same little voice in my head. I think what we decide, tired, worn out, sick or scared plays a huge role in when we die. A good friend, better than friend, family died of cancer in 2017. It was not pretty. She swore she was going to have one more Thanksgiving with her geandbabies. She did. Thanksgiving was the 23rd and she passed the following week. Will is a factor we can’t ignore.
My mother decided she was tired of dealing with her pain and other problems. It was during Covid. No one could talk her out of it… what can you say? To me it’s selfish, but it’s also their own choice, a sad choice, but still the person’s own final choice not the families’ or anyone else!
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Archie And Beth
WILLIAM LOBB
JUN 29
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It was in that sweet spot of a summer day, in the three hours after dinner when the sun is settling down for the night and its hot rays are longer and shining on me from the western horizon. The heat of the day has dropped off a good ten degrees. I was in my tool shed, my happy place, in the best moment of a summer’s day, in my favorite time of the year, when my phone made that text message noise.
Usually, at this time of day that sound means something from Mark or Bobby or Carlos or Chris, that will make me laugh or think or start a discussion that eventually makes me learn something. More of them than not are about a car, and old car, and that will make me wax nostalgic. Most times I enjoy these moments looking back, sometimes I find myself annoyed at how I tend to forget the bad of days past and only remember the sweet spots. The pieces we carry with us on this long march.
This text was different, somebody died. My first thought is the herd is thinning. Then I ponder the palpable energy that was the force of childhood is slowly dissipating back to the universe. Perhaps to be used again in another form.
Childhood was a collage of black and white and red, when a little blood was let. Angst and dreams and aspirations and baseball and the looming disappointment of adulthood. Friendships formed and fell, battles waged and lost. Sometime between that time and this time, we scattered to the games we chose and lost ourselves.
I heard Archie died from a cousin of his I’d never met before. The cousin, at least a generation younger than me and Archie, said he’d been gone awhile, and I was left to paint my own conclusions and fill in my own blanks. That day was the saddest I’d been for a good long time.
Part of me always imagined Archie and me would find each other again and ride off into the sunset, still boys telling dirty jokes and laughing and running away from whatever needed running from.
I guess it wasn’t fair to expect that, or at all how it was meant to be. I saw the world through a pie-eyed white boy reality, while Archie’s reality had a darker and harder and sharper edge.
He wasn’t my first friend, but he was an elemental part of the fabric of boyhood. A time all too brief in its passing blur. He was a staple and essential character in my story.
With Archie I’d sit in the principal’s office, a united front while some man in a tie decided we were bad and what punishment fit our crime. It didn’t sit too well with either of us. Some man with no sense of humor could somehow claim dominion over us.
The day the cousin told me Archie had been gone a while, it felt like someone had taken a blade and cut out a big chunk of me. The reality of life as a young black man in an unforgiving, dirty city proved harder and uglier than the reality of life for a young white boy like me.
Then today, I read about a girl from away and of that same place and time, who has just died. Just a nice and kind little girl who brought her lunch in a metal box with dolls painted on its sides and a matching thermos. And some days when we didn’t have any lunch, the girl would share hers with Archie and me. When I heard she was dead, the same sadness I felt for Archie came back to haunt me once again.
We’re old now and our best days are lost to the wind behind us, but part of me stayed in that school on the hill where we heard the President had been shot and we watched John Glenn go into space, and some days I wonder if I could go back to that place and time, and if it’s still there, would I find them again.
Share
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If you enjoy William Lobb's Blog, Newsletter and General Tomfoolery, share it with your friends and earn rewards when they subscribe.
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Went back to visit the old NYC haunts Dub EL. Most of the old Harlem Hospital/Columbia University folks are gone. The sojourn included a stop over at the stoop on W 135th St where I drank my last 6 pk and snorted my last hit. It seemed so much smaller than I remembered - that stoop - and the people in the neighborhood have changed. Whites and Asians and East Indians - all mingling together in a neighborhood that was for generations an enclave solely of the Black aspirational intelligentsia of NYC - now it's like a New World - discovered without ships or sea to cross. That stoop was my whole universe on that day 38 years ago. Now it's just the place where I took the first step...
🙏🏾😌
Those place, make us who we are.. they define us. The places, the stoops, the people. Thank you for the comment.
You have reminded me of my young elementary days in North Carolina. My best friend was the neighbor’s youngest, Joe. We did a lot of stuff together. When we moved two states away, we grew out of touch. I found his wife on FB. He’s had an economically successful life, but his personal life has been tragic. I asked his wife if I could visit. I only live one state away now, but, silence on the other end. Memories will be all I have of that boy.
Thank you for this. The paths we take are often hard and lead to ends we didn’t foresee. I’m sorry to hear about your friend. Sometimes I suppose it’s easier to hear they are gone instead of not wanting to see you.
Bill, once again the great story teller of recent days and how people and experiences of years ago are fondly remembered and make a mark on our own lives too!
I can relate to the belated information of who died or who has gotten a disease, who has had an another child get married, or a a new grandchild… which I am jealous of because my husband and I bloomed later with having kids… in our early 30’s, and our last child in my very early 40’s . So needless to say only one of our kids is married, and so far all we have is a grand puppy! Whom we greatly love!
Thank you the kind words. I love it when I make a real connection to a reader. I have a four grandpuppies too! Grand kids are with the wait!