1913 -2007
September 12, 2007
This morning the dreaded phone call came that I was expecting. The voice on the other end was Jean, the wife of the fantastic Mr. L., telling me that George had passed away peacefully at his home. The timing of the call was impeccable because my school is closed today. I have time to feel the loss of the beloved man that enhanced my life, and the lives of many others who had an opportunity to meet him. I have time to reflect on all the joy he brought into my life and write down my memories for posterity, in the same way that George recorded his own treasured moments.
Less than two weeks ago I was invited to his house for one last visit. That very day he had been diagnosed with cancer and told that he had no more than six months to live. He met that news with the same undying spirit that guided his life. Weak and barely able to sit up on the sofa, he mustered his strength and lifted his head towards mine as I walked into his living room. His countenance was gaunt and jaundiced, but he flashed a smile at me and laughed. Yes, he laughed in the face of death--full of life until the end. The disease that had rapidly ravished his body made him appear to me like a stranger, yet it was clear that the George my family grew to know and love was still living inside the tired shell that contained it.
Collecting all his strength he pulled himself up and into the motorized wheelchair that he had recently began to use. He declined our offers to help him, saying he would let us know if he truly needed our help. We laughed at George's determination to race around the house in his chair, maneuvering around tight corners and through narrow doorways as if he were in one of his treasured sports cars. His one wish that day was to hear the engine of his Crosley Jabro race car revving up. George navigated his chair to the garage doorway and my husband obliged his request.
George seemed to know he was dying long before he visited his doctor that fateful day. The week before the doctor's visit he asked his wife to take him fishing at his favorite lake. Throughout his life, George had a tradition of catching one trout per month in local streams. George was a master fly fisherman. Ironically, this year he hadn't caught a single trout, yet he found solace simply in viewing the beauty of his favorite lake. The day I visited him he described how the lake's surface was so still that it was like a mirror. Billowy clouds reflected from its surface. That day he also traveled to Miller Air Park where he and a coworker used to fly. To George's amazement, just as he and Jean arrived at the air park they saw a yellow, biplane taking off from the field--exactly like the one George used to fly. I can still hear George's voice saying, "Imagine that! What a coincidence!"
I met George more than twenty years ago when I joined the Vintage Automobile Club of Ocean County. Although there were many members in the club who had expensive, exotic cars, George was always the one who drew a crowd. His little Crosley Hotshot was playfully unique. During parades George would fit the car with a giant replica of a metal key to make the Crosley look like a windup toy. His granddaughter would proudly sit beside him and pull a rope to make the "key" spin. At the car club's awards banquet, George and his first wife, Flo, were always the recipients of the participation award. They never missed a car show or rally. George skillfully guided club members along New Jersey roads unaided by a GPS. He didn't need one. He seemed to know every road in the state, even the ones that were more like trails than roads. On one memorable outing he guided us down a narrow road near the Delaware Water Gap and we "discovered" an old, abandoned train trestle that towered above the ground. As we studied the structure with its layers of arches, it was easy to imagine we had been transported to ancient Rome to sit beneath a magnificent aqueduct.
When I decided to learn how to drive a stick shift, George came to my rescue. My initial lessons with my husband in his Jaguar XKE ended in frustration although his expensive, foreign transmission survived. George reassured me that the transmission in his old Bronco was indestructible and we hit the open road. He patiently smiled at me as I grinded gears and made the Bronco buck like its equine namesake. Under George's expert guidance I advanced to smoother rides: the Crosley Hotshot, a P1800 Volvo, and a Sunbeam Tiger. WHEW... that ride was fassssssssssssssssssssst!
During our outings he steered me in the direction of an area of New Jersey that George affectionately referred to as "the good country," otherwise known as Cream Ridge, New Jersey. We would stop at Assunpink Wildlife Management Area to see if the Trailing Arbutus were flowering. They are believed to be the first flower seen by the Pilgrims when the Mayflower landed, and they are now hard to find in New Jersey. George and I would travel to Walnford Park too. He would grab his walking stick and walk up the dusty, dirt road toward the blue mill at the park. On one occasion we went in search of the old, oak tree on which George and his granddaughter, Erin, carved their names. A bit farther down the road George would drive me past a massive oak tree, purported by George to be several hundred years old. Occasionally we would also stop by the Horse Park of New Jersey.
I could probably fill a novel with the many interesting stories George shared with me and my family during the pleasant Sunday afternoons when George would stop by our house on his way to the good country. There is his adventurous escape from Russia at the age of five during the Russian Revolution. There is the story of the lovely lady in Scotland for whom he hid little treasures among the crags of the countryside. Her scavenger hunt, and their friendship, lasted a lifetime--probably because of his skill in bestowing a romantic Russian kiss on the hand of fair maidens. There is his Pikes Peak Tail and his Mount Washington climb in the Hotshot. There is his tail of hunting rabbits on the prairie from the seat of a Model A Ford. There is the story of taking up vintage car racing at the age of 80 and ending his life as a widower at the age of 87 by marrying Jean, his lovely wife. All the stories add up to a life well lived that reminds me of a message he wrote to me once on a card. It said, "May your life be as free as the wind on the prairie." Ah, if only it were!
The propaganda of our frenzied, materialistic society surrounds us with one message everywhere we go--happiness lies in the attainment of possessions. We are bombarded with advertisements on television, radio, billboards, direct mail, and the Internet. Corporations, with help from the psychologists and sociologists on their payrolls, know us better than we know ourselves, and they use that knowledge to sell, sell, sell! In a world that values youth, we have often ignored our older, wiser citizens--the ones who remember a simpler, happier world and the ones who know what is truly important in life. Love. Family. Friendships. Peace.
As time passes we are losing our wise ones daily. George's charisma came in part from his ability to remind everyone that the finest gifts life has to offer are free. Before it is too late, find a George L. of your own and talk to him or her. Listen to his or her stories and learn how you can make your lives better. Make yourself and your loved ones a priority. Learn to appreciate nature and fight to save it. Plant a garden. Take a walk in the woods (if you can still find a forest). Hang a hummingbird feeder and wait peacefully for a fluttering visitor. Climb a mountain. Make new friends. Help one another. Look up at the stars and find the one that was recently named in honor of George.
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