As Great As Ed

I can tell quickly from across the street when he is having a bad day - his shoulders are hunched over and his face is droopy and tired. But, on good days, my seventy-nine-and-a-half-year-old neighbor, Ed, throws his arms open wide on his front lawn and hollers, "What a beautiful day it is!"

He averages a few bad days, then a few good days, and then back to the bad ones. With his health in such poor decline, I am positive it is his wonderful love of life that allows him to truly see any good days at all. One night, while watching a lovely pink and lavender sunset over Lemon Valley, he looked at me and said, "I don't want to die. This world is too beautiful to leave." Of course, he always has to go and say things like that on days when I think the world is too ugly, painful and sad to want to be here. And, when he says those things, it pulls me out of the darkness. For if an ailing seventy-nine-and-a-half-year-old man can still find enough beauty and magic to get out of bed in the morning, then so can I.

She was big, blue and a complete embarrassment when I drove my new, completely paid off $1,200 1984 Buick Regal with 37,000 miles up to our house last year. "Congratulations!" hollered Ed from across the road. "Isn't it always wonderful to get a new car?!" he yelled, stretching his arms wide. It was one of his good days, I could tell.

"My heart is failing," he told me casually a few nights ago. "But, I might be around for another year or two," he added cheerfully when he noticed my eyes tearing up. His innocence is almost heartbreaking, and a constant reminder to me that simpler times existed, times that we will never know again, and that many will never know at all. Days and nights described to me by Ed of community gardens and bountiful harvests, homemade rootbeer, swimming in the river after school, having one teacher in a one-room schoolhouse, homemade canned jams and jellies stacked shelf upon shelf in the cellar, and the smell of fresh-baked bread.

"There are people coming to see me Tuesday," he told me cheerfully a few days ago. "They are with hospa? Do you know what that is?"

"Hospice?" I asked.

"Yes, that's it!" he said. "They are coming to sit and talk with me. I guess they comfort you when you are ill or something like that."

Thinking of a day when I will not look out and see Ed stretching his arms wide and loving life, makes that achey feeling form in the pit of my stomach. I hold a special place in my heart for Ed - not just for his zest for living and his endless appreciation of even the smallest things or his ability to smile through any pain he might be feeling, but this is really why:

When we bought our house three years ago, we moved here with far too many dogs than the county code would allow. One of our neighbors attacked us almost immediately, before we had even unpacked, pelting us with citations and animal control complaints. They lived right next store to Ed, who from the moment we moved in, welcomed us with friendly waves each morning. We tried to work with the nasty neighbors, pleaded with them to give us time to find good homes for some of our dogs, but to no avail.

One day, I saw the nasty neighbors walk over to Ed and to my horror, call him "Dad." It suddenly clicked that one of the nasty letters to our county commissioners was signed by "Ed." I assumed at the time it had to be another Ed on our street, not this kind and gentle joyous man who greeted us happily each day. And, then shock turned to anger, of feeling betrayed - waved to by day and stabbed in the back by night.

A year passed - a year in which Ed continued to smile and wave and I coldly ignored him with dirty looks, or no look at all. One day, at our last hearing to appeal to the commissioners to please let us keep five dogs, a young man stood up to speak. "My name is Ed, Jr.," he said. "My father, Ed, Sr., lives in the home I own across the street, and my brother and his family live next door. This bitter battle has torn apart the neighborhood to where my father asks me every day why the people across the road won't speak to him or even wave and say 'hi.' He has no idea that any battle has been going on. I wrote that letter. I was the one complaining in support of my brother, not him."

I wish I could say that moment was the worst I have ever felt, but, no I have felt worse in my life, barely, but still, worse. From that moment on, I vowed to do what I could to make it up to Ed, to be a good friend, to be a true neighbor, to return each and every smile and wave. I thought deeply of how I would appologize and what I would say to explain my behavior. I thought of how awkward it might be at first, but vowed to get past that.

The next day, I returned his smile, his friendly wave and, to his delight, I walked over to have a long conversation with him. He never mentioned my coldness, never questioned the sudden change, never held a grudge or even asked for an explanation. He just carried on happily, innocently, glad to have made a new friend. He never wanted revenge. He never wanted me to feel guilt, just the warm glow of the friendship bestowed by an old man.

There was a time when I thought I could feel no greater hate for anyone than I did for those nasty neighbors, but feeling the warm, loving glow every day of Ed's genuine smile, has made it impossible to feel any ill feelings toward people he loves. I realized for the first time the other day that it has been a year and a half since I became friends with Ed. And, his friendship truly washed away every ounce of hate within me. I suppose love can conquer hate, if we try hard enough and wave long enough, and smile wide enough.

I just hope that one day in my life, I will reach a point where I can love without demanding anything in return, wave without expecting a wave back, and accept a friendship wholly and genuinely without any explanations for wrongdoings. I know now that so mugh more can be said in a "hello," than just "hello." Ed never made me say, "I'm sorry," but every time I greet him, it's there in my voice, along with the "thank you" I hope he hears for bestowing his generous friendship upon me that has taught me lessons I guess we are never too old to learn, and appreciation for even the smallest things life has to offer.

I thank my stars for Ed's kindness and how he has let me freely make up to him the wrong I have committed without ever asking for more or less. Somehow he knows not to turn down my offers of garden vegetables and popsicles. And, somehow he knows how much better I feel each time he lets me give these small things to him. And, in return, I accept his generous offers of ice cream, hand-drawn postcards, and bird food to feed the finches.

How I dread the day when I can no longer look across the street and see Ed smiling and hear him holler, "I love this world!" If only we could all learn to love as deeply and as unconditionally, and to forgive as whole-heartedly as Ed. I am not there yet, and each morning, seeing him, reminds me how far I have to go - and how wonderful life will be when I get there.