One of my favorite memories of Ed, a neighbor who passed away earlier this year, doesn't have much to do with how popular he was as a minister in the region, or that he was president of our HOA several times because he seemed to be the only one in the neighborhood who knew how to get things done. No, those were important but certainly not the fondest memory I have of the big guy who lived next door.
We used to lean against the pole fence running along our property line and discuss everything under the sun on Monday, the day we both had off from our busy work lives. Religion, politics, the weather, books, insects, birds, you name it, we talked about it. But as much as I enjoyed chatting with him not even that isn't my most favorite memory.
While we were discussing the plight of the world, we would stare at each others' ratty shoes and compare them. Who was wearing the most worn out footwear? That was the main issue. It was a contest in a way - a friendly one - in which we took pride in the number of holes, scuff marks, and thread-bare spots our shoes displayed. I'm not sure if either one of us outdid the other in scruffy shoes; his were pretty bad, but he said mine were awfully disgusting as well. No matter, it wasn't who won that counted, it was the making of a memory and I didn't even know it at the time.
I miss him. And his ratty shoes.
A controversial look at life's predicaments. Our opinions, musings, rantings, and a wee bit of humor. Check out our sponsors on the left.
No comments:
Post a Comment