"Adieu, Fearless Friend

Jim, my fearless friend, died recently. Others of his legion of friends will note that he "transitioned," and some will remark that he "passed away." Not to quibble! However, since my younger daughter Courtney's death, I've embraced "death and dying" as terms emblematic of permanent-not-coming-back-this-way-again-loss. This distinction does nothing to ease the heart-wrenching, mind-boggling emptiness I still feel five years later.  I expect nothing ever will.

Jim died, not suddenly at all; he'd been under hospice care for little more than a week; his two daughters and son holding vigil yet dreading its ending.  The "old folks" would say, "He just slept away," leaving jaundiced earth behind.  His contemporaries would opine, "he just went on Home" to a promised Glory, through the door God had dispatched his angel to open.

When my dad died a decade ago, the nurse who met us at the elevator eulogized him as "A grand old man."  And he was, or else why years later does that designation ring so clearly in my heart? Yet, even though Jim outlived daddy in years' count, I'd never describe him with that pithy declaration. I'd leave out "old" but certainly keep the "grand" description.

Rather, I'd designate Jim as the consummate "GQ Guy," and a grand one at that, simply because he embodied "Gentlemen's Quarterly," both in demeanor and dress. He wore Harris tweeds, drove a Benz for all the years I knew him, and exuded natural, innate strength that didn't overpower.  Rather, it soothed.  Jim loved his family, jazz, good food, and friends he'd treasured from childhood.

Jim, his wife Jan, and their daughters lived directly across the street from my family and me in southeast Denver.  We shared culture in common, buttressed by our parents' values and beliefs, even though Jim was the only "Denver Native" among us. Both he and my then-husband had served in the military, although in different branches,   Proud homeowners, they made sure their lawns were as impeccably dressed as they were.  Both families attended church regularly, although we did not share the same religious denomination.  Life, we'd agree at weekend cookouts, had treated us well!

Our daughters walked to a school located about a mile from home.  They much preferred walking over my driving, especially when I was learning to drive a stick-shift.  They'd try to disappear under the back seat as I  rounded a corner on two wheels and in the wrong gear! So, walk they did, before and after school as a matter of course.

A few months into the school year, however, Tracey announced that she and her best friend Toni were fed up! Fed up? Why?  They were sick and tired of the taunts two brothers who lived on our street shouted at them on the walk home every day!

"N-----, N-----,  N----- on your label, label, label. You will like it, like it, like it on your table, table, table!"

Yes! The "N" word!  "They've been following us home every day since school started, singing that song! "The sing-song chant represented the straw that broke the camel's back, Tracey declared.  

"I took off your high heels I'd dress up in for our Halloween party 'cause I went as a fashion-plate lady.  Toni and I tried to ignore them but they just kept it up!". 

Tracey explained that she and Toni stopped and confronted the boys, who initially never stopped the chanting. That is until Tracey used my shoes to start beating one of the boys around the head and shoulders while Toni held him captive.  (His brother left the target to fend for himself; he ran)!  

"When we let him go, he knew he'd met his match and ran after his brother," Tracey concluded.

"Say it again and you'll get the same beating," Toni yelled after them.  The two girls then leisurely strolled home, stopping occasionally to high-five.

"Oh, Lord! Who are these boys? Where do they live?" 

Tracey and Toni walked to our front door, opened it, and pointed to a home four doors down on Toni's side of the street.  "There!"  

Just then, Jim was pulling into his driveway; the two girls rushed across the street, bubbling with the news.  I quickly followed.  Toni and Tracey took turns briefing Jim on their exciting adventure.

"Let me put my briefcase in the house, Dot, and we'll go down and talk to someone there," Jim calmly said.  The two of us then walked to the home; Jim knocked on the door that a tall man opened.  Jim introduced us as neighbors, cogently explained why we were there and waited until the man nodded us in.  

Jim and the boys' father sat on the sofa while I perched on an armchair across from them. Breathing a sigh of relief,  I barely listened while the two men seemed to be quietly discussing what had happened.  "Well, do you want to settle things differently," jolted me back to the moment.  

"Yeah!" Jim responded, whereupon the father got up from the couch, swinging a punch at Jim who was struggling to gain purchase and get off the couch!

I jumped up and rushed to push-pull Jim to his feet The two men fought all over the living room until Jim landed the punch that put his assailant on his knees. Whew! Ever the  GQ Gentleman, Jim opened the front door with a "Come on, Dot" and walked out without a backward glance. 

On the street, "Damn, I tore my sports coat," was all Jim said as we walked to our homes in silence.  "I'll come over later when Tom gets home and we'll decide what to do," served as his goodbye.  

A policeman knocked on my door about 45 minutes later and handed me a warrant to appear in "Saturday Court" before a judge!  It turned out that the father had called the Police Department.  "Whoever calls first gets us," he explained. 

In court, we learned the father served on the ministerial staff of a local church two miles away, Hmm. In court, each of us presented an account of the previous afternoon's occurrence. Since the father chose not to press charges, we were released, but not before the judge advised us to live in harmony as good neighbors.  He cautioned us, however, to keep a "reasonable" distance from each other.

Jim, Jan, Tom, and I went to breakfast, not to celebrate a victory, but to talk about life in the Big City as Black people.  Ruefully, Jim wondered how and where sixth-grade white boys had acquired their vocabulary and how jaded a worldview they'd have by the time they went to high school. 

While the boys never again followed Tracey and Toni home with taunts and the family didn't move pff the block, I never saw them again.  I often wonder where they are now.