There are children next door that my kids love to play with just about every day. They know when the neighbors will usually be home and wait in anticipation for them.
I had a neighbor friend, too. I'd constantly look over to see if he was out. It would make my day when he was sitting on his carport. I would cross the street, sit in a plastic chair and chat. When Loyd would see me coming, he was such a gentleman. He would always stand up to make sure I had the most comfortable seat. Our talks could last anywhere from 5 minutes to over an hour.
Loyd was in his eighties, lonely after the death of his wife and uncertain of what his purpose was for still being here. I'd often tell him that he was supposed to still be here, for those that were still in his life, including me-a new friend that wanted him here as long as possible.
I tend to like talking with older individuals. They are usually pretty honest, without pretension or hidden motive, reflective, and just...who they are. Loyd was all of these things, and I loved it. And it didn't matter to me that he never remembered my name. He would often ask, saying he knew he had asked before, and we would make a joke about how my name reminded him the drink, gin and tonic. He would ask the same questions and repeat a story several times during a visit. I didn't mind this at all, because I knew he asked again, not because he wasn't paying attention or disinterested in the conversation, but because he truly couldn't remember that he had just heard the answer. I also knew that he could remember some things, but they were fuzzy, and asking again helped clear up the picture.
Our chats were often about his early life. I absolutely love hearing about someone's life, and Loyd was at the point where he was evaluating it all. Thinking back over his younger years, he would get a spark in his eye, laugh telling old stories, and often say he knew he had probably told me before or apologize for talking so much. I always told him to keep telling me. I truly enjoyed the stories. I liked to see him happy, and he would always include some new detail he hadn't shared previously.
Since Loyd lived right across the street, he became a fixture of how I view my home. Now, after his passing, everywhere I look, I am hearing his voice. He would often compliment our yard, talk about a tree that needs to be cut down near our house, remember his wife planting the ginormous crepe myrtle in their front yard and the pretty blue snowball bush he sat next to every day. He loved fresh tomatoes, so I'd bring him some every few days. I'd often turn around after I left to see him standing in the yard eating one like an apple.
I will keep hearing his voice in the years to come, and that makes me smile. Every Summer when our large red hibiscus bush blooms, I will hear him talk about how pretty it is. Every time I pet our cat in the driveway, I will hear him say how he sees our white cat and how he never sees her near the road. When we go to the pool in the summers, I will hear his voice as he says he saw us get in the truck to go and how he used to be a lifeguard all around our area and several beaches. Every time we mow the yard, I will hear him give us a compliment on how we keep it up. When I go downtown, I will think of his stories of how it used to be and antics of his youth. When I look at houses around a local lake, I will think of him talking about a house he owned there that he loved.
