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| Lexi in Walter's kitchen. Note the cherries and chocolate! |
Walter J. Fleming was 93 years old and lived across the street from us for 16 years. We met Walter even before we signed the purchase and sale agreement when he came shuffling over using a metal cane, looking both ways before he crossed our relatively quiet street, holding a stack of photos he had taken while the house was being built.
He'd been a photographer in the air force and flew across the continent during WWII taking photographs on reconnaissance missions and thought we'd want to know where our septic tank was just in case. He handed us a stack of photos showing the progression of our septic tank installation, each photo with Walter's hesitant writing marking the date. A survivor of polio, his hands shook, his gait unsteady and his voice sometimes muffled by his excitement that neighbors had finally moved in.
Walter chatted with us just about every day, from a simple wave while he picked up his mail to an extended visit in his garage, listening to patriotic songs blasting from an old record player. He'd join in, his shaky voice struggling to reach the high notes, but by God, he remembered every word and sang with conviction and pride.
And once our kids came along, Walter and Mary became surrogate grandparents, dispensing some interesting advice along the way with plenty of hugs, kisses and one hell of an improvised zip line that tempted safety and raised a few eyebrows because if the kids didn't stop, they'd run the risk of smacking into a big old oak tree that Walter covered with a thin seat cushion to soften any blows.
The kids would scale the wobbly ladder, grab the plastic handle and jump off, zipping along the nylon cord, yelling and screaming until they reached the seat cushion.
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| Lexi and neighborhood Pal, Jake in front of the fridge! |
He let the kids push each other in an old fashioned office chair, the kind with big wheels that moved across the pavement like skates on ice and the kids would spend hours pushing each other around Walter's semi-circular drive.
He'd lower himself into an old green lawn chair, rest his cane across his lap and smile as he watched the kids play for hours with his handmade rigged up toys.
One of their favorite toys was a garbage can that Walter had strapped to a dolly. While one kid was pushing the garbage-can dolly, the other one was inside, holding on tightly, their head just cresting above the rim. Waves of screams and laughter would roll down the street as the pusher of the garbage-can dolly would break into a sprint. It tipped over a few times so it was a good thing Walter had an never ending supply of band-aids and freeze pops.
When the kids grew tired of the dolly, Walter nailed four wheels on a small platform, put on two handles and tied on a long rope on the front. The kids would fasten the rope around their waists and race down the street, and around Walter's curvy driveway, gaining so much momentum that often the passenger wouldn't stay on for very long; they'd fly off when the platform rounded a corner, rolling into the Rhododendrons.
He'd shepherd the wounded into his garage, dispensing fudge pops and popsicles followed by bottomless cans of Dr. Bob, Stop and Shop's equivalent of Dr. Pepper, and Archway and Lorna Doone cookies. Walter's old pink freezer was filled with treats for the kids, and the rusted old exterior masked by dozens of their photos and three cans of pink spray paint.
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| The kids were always welcome |
The kids spent years at Walter's house, gradually seeing him less as they all grew older. He'd wave to the kids; they'd wave back, but the days filled with laughter and joy had come to an end. The kids had schoolwork, after school sports and activities, but Walter still kept his freezer stocked with treats, his pantry filled with cookies, the remnants of the old zipline overgrown with moss, the garbage-can dolly on its side collecting stagnant water. The basketball hoop rusted, the outside table and chairs were covered with vines.
Then he fell and became too unsteady on his feet. Mary showed signs of dementia. They moved out to western Mass to be closer to their daughter.
We cried when he left.
When Walter died, he was buried in the military cemetery with taps playing softy in the background. A small crowd gathered from the neighborhood at our local clubhouse where his family had poster boards board filled with the kids' pictures, from their days as toddlers to barely teens, their faces sticky with ice pops and chocolate, their smiles so wide and pure.
"You give me a reason to live," he told the kids over and over.
Walter J Fleming was the grandfather they never had and a little bit of us all died that day, too.
