A poorly kept secret of your author: he is a collector of “stuff”. Among other things, at one point he owned approximately 120 vintage television sets. I have gradually dialed this back over the years, to a much more manageable (depending on who you ask) two dozen TVs. The Beatles once sang of a man so serene, as he had a tele in every room. It might interest you just slightly to know that it has been nearly a year since I turned a single one of them on. This is less a commentary on the quality of programming than it is on my more recent habit of spending my evenings at the kitchen table, viewing YouTube videos on my laptop. True, many of my collector friends have found methods to watch the “Tube” on the “tube”. I have not yet graduated to that point.

So, indeed, I do expend many hours per week with eyes glued to a screen. Among my favorite uses of this time is watching and listening to interviews with veterans of World War II. I find these men and women fascinating, and it greatly hurts my heart to know that we are losing them at such a steady rate. The lessons they have left to teach, the stories they have left to tell, the emotions they have left to share, shouldn’t be allowed to die with them. It is a blessing that so many folks have taken the time to seek out and record the greatest generation while they still can.

Warning: the writer has taken a fork in this road. (He is prone to this sort of thing.) A few years ago, a sunny day, one I remember well. A Saturday? Home from errands, probably unloading the morning’s purchases, I noticed him. Parked across from my driveway, that older gentleman was glaring at my humble abode. There was something unusual about the look in his eyes. Was he okay? Perhaps I should walk over and check.

He was somewhat apologetic; he introduced himself. I’d heard his name before. He had built my house. No, no contractor, he. Back from the war, he joined his fellow veterans in building an American dream here at the edge of town. The fellow worked down the street at the filling station. He bartered a set of tires for the plumbing. Another poorly kept secret of your author is that he is something of a cheapskate. To this day, I can crawl under that kitchen sink and read the build date, that iron cast in 1950. The red Formica still gleams (somewhat), at least for now. A remodel will occur, someday, but I digress. As I wash dishes in that old basin, I think of that set of tires. Did the plumber get whitewalls for his toil?

I chatted out on the street with the man for about ten minutes. Among the things that made Caroline County a special place to grow up: my father could stop in the middle of the road and talk to someone and never would anyone get too irritated. They knew to drive around. That lesson must not have been passed down, as the drivers heading down Reliance Avenue that day tired of our use of their lane. I invited him in but he declined; before bidding adieu, he invited me to visit him. I could be at his house in twenty minutes, if I drove slow enough. I looked forward to chatting more, discovering his story, and maybe seeing early photos of this old house in a photo album. There was no doubt: I would most definitely be paying a visit. Sure I would.

I don’t subscribe to the newspaper any longer. At one point the stack of unread Star-Democrats reached nearly two feet. Some rainy days I’d pull some older copies out and leaf through the comics (The Born Loser is a favorite.) But in time I ended my renewal. The truth is, there is very little news I really care to know in the year of my Lord 2023. A few things are still important. Upon my computer I have bookmarked the websites of the local funeral homes, and at least weekly I pay them each a visit.

You have read ahead. My heart, it did sink. “Ignatius A. “Pete” Moxey, 98…” He’s smiling in the photo they posted. US Army, five battle stars, married in ‘48. A daughter; I suppose her first bedroom was right here, next to the kitchen. Those memories, of what this place looked like back when the first coat of paint was still fresh, are now gone over to the other side. As they say, “you had one job”. My one job was to drive over and visit one day. It could be a rainy Sunday afternoon or a cold Tuesday eve. I might have become a friend, a frequent visitor. Maybe we would have gone for rides, shared laughs, kept each others spirits up. But. Bryan blew it. When will he ever learn?

Who have you not visited? Could you at least pick up the phone, or jot down something friendly on a postcard? (Have you ever met someone who disliked a letter from a friend?) I will try, despite my shy nature, to do better. I’ve long stated I wish to live to 100. Oh, how dear I imagine they will be, those kind few souls who shall not forget me. When they stop by, I’ll tell them some stories. I’ll be sure to relate that one ‘bout old Pete Moxey, lest folks forget. God willing, his ten minute visit will remain with me even then.