Mr. Y is a patient at our clinic, and I have become very fond of him in the eleven months I have known him. His wife and at least one adult child accompanies him for every appointment (Mrs. Y is, in fact, a patient, too). The family, a warm and engaging pack of Christians, are some of the nicest people I've met in a long season. But Mr. Y himself is the standout.
He's in his eighties, painfully frail and thin. He walks with a considerable stoop, using an aluminum walker to ambulate. He wears jeans and snap-button shirts, and when he leaves the house, a baseball cap is perched on his almost-hairless head. The most impressive thing about Mr. Y is his understated acceptance of the very severe physical trials through which he has been passing for some years now. I work around women who act as if their lives are ending if they have a headache or a hangnail or a sore toe. Mr. Y endures constant pain, nausea, fatigue, dizziness, along with the regular ravages of age...and all without complaint. If asked how he's doing, he'll smile and whisper, "Oh, 'bout the same as always." His little arms are perpetually bruised from all the shots and infusions and transfusions he has to have, and his voice is paper-thin and weak. But he always manages to be cheerful, to speak a word of grace to others.
Some months ago, not long after I had made his acquaintance, Mr. Y was in the clinic for a checkup. As he was piloting his walker past me on his way out, he stopped, patted me on the shoulder, and peered deep into my eyes. "I sure do think a lot of you," he said in that low voice.
I know the generation that produced Mr. Y, and I am very aware that to men of that generation, a phrase like "I sure do think a lot of you" is very close to "I love you." It got my attention. So I told him that I wanted to come and see him sometime at his home. He said, "You come on." I mentioned this to his sweet-natured daughter, Teresa, who told me, "Oh, he'd love it if you came to see him." So today, after many delays and rain checks, we headed up to see him.
It took us an hour and a half to drive the almost 70 miles to his house (Mr. Y himself gave me directions on the phone yesterday afternoon). We noticed the coal mining operations in the nearby country, and when we pulled into the driveway of Mr. Y's little house, we saw a pile of coal in a shed adjacent to the garage. It looked shaggy and ancient, a relic of the once-wealthy hills. Mr. Y came out onto the porch and waved. "Are y'all lost?" he joked. It was the first time I'd ever seen him hatless.
Once in the house, I introduced MeeMaw all around, and got hugs from both Mr. and Mrs. Y. Daughter Teresa was there, along with her husband Gary and their children. "We just got up from the table; y'all want something to eat?" asked Mrs. Y. We declined, but for the next hour, we feasted on good conversation. We got to see photos of the Y's 60th anniversary (five years past), and also a very interesting photo of a swarm of bees on an oak tree. The photo had been taken in a church cemetery. Then the conversation got really riveting. Seems that Mr. Y has quite a bit of experience with beekeeping, including harvesting swarms for his own hives. He's very knowledgeable, and is a bracing storyteller, so I picked his brain a bit about the apiary art. I mentioned that we have tulip poplars on our land and were hoping to get honey from them when/if I install a hive this spring. Mr. Y said, "The tulip poplar honey is give out [reputed] to be the most nutritious of all honeys. Lots more vitamins and, what do you call 'em? Minerals? Than other honeys."
After an hour of visiting, we decided to head on back to Possum Cough. Mr. Y hugged MeeMaw's neck, beaming up at her as he embraced her. He called her by name and asked us to come back and see him again.
To return home, we took a different route, recommended by son-in-law Gary. The route was winding and beautiful. It took about an hour, and was actually about 20 miles shorter than the route we took going up there. On the way, we were in the middle of a dense kudzu jungle when we spotted a pair of old abandoned foot bridges. We stopped and took photos of the bridge and the stream bed, as you can see here.
When we got home, MeeMaw was starving (I had promised to take her somewhere to eat, but the new route home didn't include a restaurant, so I owe her...and don't think she'll allow me to forget it, either), so we made slaw dogs and wolfed them down. We also made plans for the things she bought early this morning at the farmer's market. She got some good-lookin' okra and tomatoes, and the big find was some black-eyed peas! So common in Texas, these things are harder to find in this area than Bigfoot. So we'll be shelling them tonight. I can already taste them, along with a pan of cornbread and some sweet tea. MeeMaw also got me a jar of homemade orange marmalade. But not just any marmalade. This stuff won the blue ribbon at the Greene County Fair, and it was the last jar the little lady selling it had on hand. So tomorrow morning, there will be hot buttered toast and something orange and piquant to spread on it.
I almost forgot. When we left Mr. Y's house, he hobbled out onto the porch and watched us until we were out of sight. His little arm never stopped waving the entire time.
