One of my neighbors recently made the hard decision to let Alzheimer’s take him. He’s now in a hospice. If his family allows I may mention his name in a future post. Right now they’re a little too broken-up to talk about it. But I need to.
When I first moved to my current home on Winter Avenue, I thought race was the lesson my neighbors would teach. We were the first white couple to move in since the Open Housing Act. The new MARTA station at the head of the block had torn out a big piece of the old neighborhood. The neighbors organized so they could get basic police protection, as governments on both sides of the street ignored them.
But race has not been their lesson. Grace has.
When we first moved here most of my neighbors were in their late 40s or early 50s. This was the local office of Grandma’s House. With each holiday cars would line the street and pile up on the lawns.
That honor has continued, although fewer cars come now. Instead I’ve watched families make hard decisions, to take grandma in and sell the old home, or to let grandpa stay and sell out after his death.
I’ve lost many, many dear friends over these years.
There was John Flint, whose 100th birthday party I attended, and who proved
to generations of Agnes Scott girls that a black man isn’t always the
equal of a white man — sometimes he’s better. Kinder, gentler, more
understanding, better to his kids — he had 8 and there wasn’t a bum in
the lot.
There was John Shanks, the quiet man who never mentioned what he had
done in life, and only talked about what we might do tomorrow. I
learned later he helped found the DeKalb NAACP, at a time when to do so
was to risk one’s life. They named their citizenship award for him
after he passed.
These men are why, when I had a son he didn’t become Dana Jr., as I’d
once planned. I took the Catholic route, which is to name your children
after saints in hope they will take on their character. Few men are
privileged to actually know saints, to speak with them, learn from
them, and see the example. My son’s name is John.
There were other saints. Nellie Harris performed the miracle of the loaves
and fishes, getting carloads of groceries to the poor, and making our
block parties TV-worthy. Rufus Kight was always gracious to me, even
when I was an idiot, and kept his yard like England’s Kew Gardens.
Henry Gary taught me the beauty of hard religion, something I still
don’t agree with but now tolerate better.
Edna House (Mr. Flint’s
daughter) nursed her husband, father, sister and (now) her daughter
through some horrible illnesses, never once losing her optimism or
dignity. Edna is still with us. She’s 93, but I always tell her she’s not old. Talk to me when you’re 98, I say. I’m looking forward to it.
The man dieing now leaves four wonderful adult children, one of whom
became pretty rich buying up old homes and fixing them up, along with
many grandchildren, some great grandchildren, and his own life example.
It’s this that is most vital. It is how you live that determines
whether you will be immortal, not what you make or what you do or what
you build but how you live. And I hope to see my friend in heaven one fine
day. I expect to.
The point is that my wife and I are now at about the age these fine
people were when we first moved here. Many good neighbors have been
replaced by white folks, couples and singles, who stay a year or two
and then move on. We smile, encourage them to put down roots, and I’ve
dedicated myself to doing more for them, if only by example, in the
years that are left to us.
We remain, and always will remain, in debt to the past, to these men
and women of black America’s Greatest Generation, Dr. King’s foot
soldiers, folks I’m honored to have called my friends.
