Art & Artillery

“A guy needs somebody―to be near him. A guy goes nuts if he ain’t got nobody. Don’t make no difference who the guy is, long’s he’s with you. I tell ya, I tell ya a guy gets too lonely an’ he gets sick.”

John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men

Feb 10th, 2024

I’m often asked, ” How is Jeff doing?” by the kind of gruff, caring men that build an age of industry and knowledge. The women too, compassion brimming in their eyes, aware that the news might be hard, but they’ve lived hard things and are still here and willing to listen. My father has the kinds of friends who check in, who ask, who notice when his loud voice softens and quakes a bit more than usual.

A couple weeks ago, I received a call from one of those friends. Doug L, was surprised at lunch to see Jeff moving slower, and speaking softly. For any who know Jeff, he exudes an energy and fire that is unquenchable and smokey. It bursts out in puffs of stories and opinions, and often wind from his behind as well. He is unashamed and often laughs at the tricks his body plays. This lunch was different, quiet, and Doug was worried. He called me and I’m glad I answered.

“Your father isn’t himself. There’s something wrong.”

“I know Doug. He’s gotten thin, I’ll be there next week.”

“Good. I don’t like seeing him this way. it isn’t right. It isn’t Jeff,”

So true.

I knew that things had been going downhill. The Christmas visit was joyful, but also punctuated with moments that foretold a deeper problem than the rigors of aging alone. A fall in a parking lot, a slip in the living room, and an incident of my mother wandering off that necessitated a stern talking to from the Care Center Director and the local constabulary. These moment created a constellation in the red and green din of Christmas and New Years that was worth noticing. A pattern needing further exploration, and so my February trip was planned up to the snowy city of my youth and the foothills I called home so many years ago. To help Jeff, my father, my progenitor and benefactor of so many years.

The call I received a few days later was different, more urgent.

“Sue, have you talked to your Dad today or yesterday?” Ian A rapped out his terse question. Full of concern with no time for pleasantries.

I thought about our talk on Tuesday, but no, nothing as recent as he asked.

“He’s not answering his phone and I haven’t gotten a text. Neither has Doug.”

Jeff is the Great Communicator. Of the many awards and titles he’s held, few so aptly describe his joie de vivre. It was odd, and worrying, and necessitated swift action.

I asked Ian to go over and knock on the door. As a long time friend and trusted neighbor, he had a key to the door. He also knew the dangers of surprising Jeff who is often well armed and willing to take action to protect heart and home. He knocked and walked around the house, but no sound was heard. He wondered if he should try entering the house, but I cautioned him about facing unnecessary peril. And should the worst have happened, this good friend did not need to be there alone. He called the SLC PD for a welfare check at my behest. They responded quickly, arriving with multiple squad cars and an EMT fire truck within 20 minutes. Ian was able to let them in the honey oak wooden door, after they wrestled the locked screen door from it’s hinges.

The two young officers went in and quickly located Jeff, laying quietly on the floor near his bed. They wondered if the EMT’s skills would be for naught, until they noticed the slight rise of his chest and the watering of his eyes indicating that the spirit had not yet departed this mortal form before them.