It has been 13 years since I lived across the street from Mr. Griffin: my personal guru, catfish fry chef, small engine mechanical genius, avant-gardener, and Fred Sanford stunt double.
I haven’t thought about him consistently in many years. But then there are numerous reminders: The photograph on my shop bulletin board. The hand tools around my property that he gave me. And the garden we’ll be planting in a month or so.
Twenty years ago, my wife and I bought our first house in Abilene, Texas. Long gone are the days when $46,900 can buy you a 3 bed/1 bath with a driveway and a fenced back yard. We were paupers living like royalty.
A few weeks later we noticed this sleepy house across the street from us suddenly had a crowd of people in the front yard. They were all dressed up to the hilt on a weekday. I assumed a funeral had happened.
About a month after that, Angela and I were walking our new puppy in front of that same house. Mr. Griffin, an 86 year-old recent widower, was on his porch. We had no clue that we had just met a major character in our story for the next several years.
His lighthouse-like presence and hillbilly wisdom guided me through a seven year desert period before we were reassigned to Canada.
Mr. Griffin had four marriages. Two ended in separation. Two ended in widowhood.
The History Channel had nothing on his stories about reluctantly serving the US Army as a black man during WWII. Or his lifetime career as an automotive mechanic and service attendant at various Abilene, Texas gas stations.
His detailed instructions once guided my hands during a small engine lawn equipment repair. His own hands, riddled with arthritis, had long retired.
“Big Buddy”, as nicknamed for my small children, had his own nicknames for them: “Little Buddy”, “Mo-Nique” and “Rabbit”. He was one of the first people that we visited after each of their births. And when my youngest (Rabbit) was born, Mr. Griffin was two floors above the maternity ward dealing with his own elderly-related medical issue. I wheeled up Angela and our baby to see him.
He independently lived in his own house up until one month prior before our move. A bad fall finally convinced him of care-home living. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect. He was the only reason I was reluctant to immigrate.
Mr. Griffin, Big Buddy, Obi-Wan. It has been many years. But your founding presence and influence in our lives will carry forward.
Mr. Griffin
What a tribute! His legacy lives on. May the force be with you.