Are you really him? The rest of the story.

A few days ago I posted the story of "The Man in the Window". It should be right below this post. That story was actually the last chapter, or the end of the story. This post is the beginning of the story on how the man became known as "The Man in the Window" and explains why the children would want to honor him as they did in the other tale.

Are you really him?

It was mid afternoon on Saturday, with just a little over two weeks left before Christmas. One of those cold, damp, dark mid-west winter days that appeared the sky would open any minute and unload heaven only knew what; rain, sleet and snow had all fallen in the last ten days and the current guess was that soon all three would arrive at once. The yards were mired in mud from all the recent moisture and mounds of dirty snow mixed with the decaying leaves left in the shadows of hibernating shrubbery. The melting remains of soot blacken snow banks lining streets and walkways sent small rivulets of dirty water running down embankments to the grated street drains.

Scattered around the yards lining the twisted circles of streets in the large apartment complex could still be seen the lopsided remains of melting snowmen. Sledding saucers and long vinyl toboggans were leaning beside doorways to the private townhouses dotted between the huge multi family apartment buildings. Everywhere you looked was a bustle of activity as people tried to beat the weather and prepare for the upcoming holiday; men hanging fairy lights along gutters, others unloading pine trees from the tops of automobiles, Aldi bags of groceries from SUV’s, and children running in and out fetching and toting for holiday burdened parents.

Suddenly a caravan of cars, vans and pickup trucks each loaded with old furniture and packing boxes rounded the circle and pulled into the only off street parking area on the long block, there were so many vehicles that every available space was suddenly filled, leaving several to block the others in the middle of the drive. As if the sirens had suddenly blared at the fire house on the corner, the street and walkways began to fill with bystanders curious to see who was moving into the empty apartment at the rear of building 21. Children were spreading the word and soon it seemed that every child in the complex was milling in the street, the vehicle drivers began to congregate on the sidewalk; some checking their watches paced the length of the walk while others huddled in small groups, one man climbed up and began to cut the ropes securing his overloaded truck and started to pass down ladder back dining chairs and empty dresser drawers to another man. Suddenly, someone shouted here she comes, and everyone turned to watch a small green Escort pull into the lot and enter the vacant handicap space in front of the building. A short gray haired woman climbed out from behind the wheel of the car and called to one of the men who joined her on the passenger side of the car, where he removed a large oxygen concentrator from the back seat and taking the key offered by the woman headed into the building. The woman opened the front car door and helped a very portly man with a bald pate and long white hair that reaching to his shoulders, a bushy white beard brushed the middle of his chest, and wearing an olive green jogging suit, from the car. The man waited while the woman removed a small oxygen tank on wheels from the car and taking the man’s arm began to lead him up the sidewalk where two men were waiting to help him climb the nine terraced steps into the building and then the long flight of stairs to the second floor apartment.

The moment the man stepped out of the car a small hush fell on the gathering crowd, after a few minutes children could be seen pulling on parents coat sleeves and small voices could be heard asking in awe “is that really him.” Before the couple could take a dozen steps a small boy ran up to the man and tugged on his sleeve; the man turned his cobalt blue eyes framed by round rimless glasses to the lad and politely asked “yes son, can I do something for you” when the child stammered “ are you really him?” The man leaned over propping both hands and his considerable weight on his gnarled and crooked cane with the hand carved gnome for a handle and looked the lad straight in the eye and said “Well Son, I don’t know which him you are referring to, but, I am certainly me.” Then rising he gave a loud and jolly Ho Ho Ho, before turning to continue his slow pace up the sidewalk. Suddenly, the small boy could be heard yelling he really is “Santa Claus!”

As the trucks were being unloaded several of the women in the group began to unpack the boxes while the gray haired lady directed the placement of the furniture. The first piece set in place was a large old high back rocker placed in front of the large bedroom window where the bearded man would sit for many hours each day, keeping tabs on the comings and goings of the large complex and watching for and waving too the children that played in the yard below.

For the next two weeks each time the woman opened the apartment door she would find a small pile of envelopes and folded pieces of ruled note paper laying on the floor in front of the door. Each was written in a childish hand in various color crayons, some included a drawing of a jolly fat man and each began “Dear Santa”. It was only a matter of days before the children in the neighborhood began calling the man that lived on the second floor “The man in the window.”

That moving day was Dec. 8, 2001 and the next year shortly after Thanksgiving the “Santa letters” once again began to appear on the floor in front of the door of apartment 2E as they did again the following year. But, suddenly on Dec. 4, 2003 the man in the window was dead, and as the word spread notes, toys, flowers and Santa Figurines began to collect outside the door, and to this day the lady that lives there is referred too as the wife of “the man in the window” and she still gets ask if her husband was “really him” to which she always answers “Well, I don’t know which him you are referring to, but, I am certain that he was my him.”

Once the letters started to appear the woman hung a small basket beside the door filled with candy canes and a small “take one” sign. At some point a photograph of the man sitting in the window was attached to the basket, and since his death she now keeps the basket out and filled year round. The children now leave happy meal toys and other surprising items in the basket for the lady when they take the candies and each Christmas Season “Dear Santa” and even a few “Dear God” letters will still appear in the basket.

Now you know the rest of the story, of the man in the window

The man in the window

Thanksgiving was fast approaching; the volunteer firefighters were out with the neon green hook n ladder, hanging the big Christmas Wreaths with the lighted candle in the middle that would adorn every lamp post in town. The first heavy snowfall of the season had covered the ground during the night, the early morning sun was causing the tiny silver flakes among the solid sheets of white fluff to sparkle like diamonds, while a crisp wind blew feathers of icy flakes into the red cheeked faces of the children venturing out to enjoy the first snow day of the year. Snowmen wearing candy striped mufflers, with carrot noises and smoking corn cob pipes were stating to dot the front lawns as the first plow made its way around the circle of streets in West Winds large apartment complex.

A gray haired woman at the wheel of a small black car was staying close in the wake of the snowplow, she was in a hurry to get home, tired and hungry after pulling another 12 hour shift at the only 24 hour Gas n Go in her small town. Her husband would be waiting for his breakfast, but she could not afford to slide off the road and get stuck in the ditch hidden under the snow banks being left by the plow.

Safely in a parking space, and looking heavenward the woman said her usual prayer, thanking God for the nights work, the safe trip home, and the luck of finding a parking spot next to the already shoveled main walkway. The car clock told her it was 8:45, she was late, and he would be worrying. Grabbing the two heavy grocery sacks, she hastily gathered during a mad run through Wal-mart, she rushed down the walkway stopping to gather the mail, before climbing the nine terraced steps to the front door of building 21.

Once inside the lobby she placed her sacks on the floor, removed a half gallon jug of milk and went down the 5 steps to the lower level, rapped lightly on the first apartment door then left the bottle on the floor beside the door. Returning to the lobby she reclaimed her purchases and trudged up the stairs to her own door at the rear of the second floor. Once again placing the sacks on the floor she put her key in the lock, bowed her head in a brief prayer, took a long deep breath and turned the key in the lock.

Once inside the door she called out to her husband and once he returned her call she slowly released the breath, she did not realize she had been holding. Looking up she said "Thank you God" and the new day began.

With the groceries put away and the bacon laid out in the electric skillet, the woman poured a cup of coffee from the automatic pot, added it to a tray full of pill bottles and other medical supplies and headed down the hallway into the bedroom. Greeting her husband she placed the tray on the side of the hospital table, leaned over to kiss the cheek of the man that set on the side of the bed, and handed him the steaming mug. Then started the routine of dispensing that mornings 32 different pills and assembling the tubes and vials that would carry the medications that would open up her husbands airways and hopefully allow him to breathe for one more day.

Once the face mask was in place and the mist had started to rise, she began to tidy the small room, and went to open the blinds to let in the morning sun. Suddenly, she stopped and raised the blind and took another long look out the bedroom window to the yard below, were tramped in the snow in 3 foot letters, by the neighborhood children, were the words

"Hello, to the man in the window."

Wanting her husband to see the words the children had carved in the snow, before something could happen to them, the woman lead her husband to his chair by the window, as soon as his breathing treatment was finished. That day, the man ate his breakfast while looking at the greeting the children had left in the snow.......... just for him.

"Hello, to the man in the window."

Three weeks later the woman in this story walked into that same apartment to find her husbands body lying on the bedroom floor.

The date was December 4, 2003

In the complex where this story takes place, I am still referred too, by the children, as the wife of the man in the window.

When We Become the Olden Days

It seems like only yesterday when family gatherings on my Dad's side of the family were filled with Great Aunts and Uncles and even a few Great Greats at whose feet all of us would gather, to hear the stories they told about their "good old days". Then suddenly, I realized they were all gone and it was our parents who had become the "old ones" enthralling the children with their tales of the "good old days".

Then one day, I was struck by the fact that we cousins are rapidly becoming the oldest members of our clan. My Mother and my Dad's youngest brother (now 76) are the only oldsters left to tell the "good old days" stories.

Soon, way too soon, it will be our children replacing us as the matriarchs and patriarchs of our family.

I guess I have to question: first, if we are up to the responsibility of guiding our clan into the next generation, and second, what will all the young ones have to say about the world we left in their hands, to care for into the future.

It is very daunting. Just yesterday I was a kid at my grandfather’s knee and now I am a Matriarch of a family that goes well into the triple digits. It’s scary. When we become "the olden days" will our descendents remember us in a positive way? What kind of stories will we use to keep the kiddies at our feet enthralled? Better yet, what kind of stories will they have to tell about us when we are gone?