Harley often had trouble moving his body, feeding himself, and drinking from cups without spilling. He experienced hallucinations and memory loss. He had trouble maneuvering through doorways until his wife, my late friend Ann, touched his shoulder and told him to march like a soldier. And then he'd pick up his feet a bit and get going.
I met Harley at a Drake University Christmas party, where his personality shined after he made a funny comment that has for years been repeated in stories.
I didn't know Harley well until I spent considerable time visiting Ann at their home. When I moved from Des Moines to Cedar Falls and needed some time away, I'd come for the day. Harley always wanted to buy my lunch at the local Chinese restaurant that had the best "crab raccoons" and we'd leave there stuffed to the gills. Ann and I would go for a drive, hit the bookstore, make homemade pizza for dinner, and talk until the wee hours. If I were staying overnight, I'd sleep in the basement bedroom, which was dark like a cave. I needed that restorative experience so badly so I could return rejuvenated to my family. I always left there happier than when I arrived.
It was easy to like Harley. He was quiet, but he had the best one-liners that made me laugh out loud. And he spent a lot of time in front of the TV watching baseball. He loved rooting for the Chicago Cubs, even when their performance was a little lackluster.
When Harley and Ann moved to Minnesota ten years ago, I continued visiting a few times a year. The six-hour drive was good for me. I need time alone, and the long journey was perfect. The routine changed a bit. I brought a ham and onion pizza in a cooler from The Brown Bottle, Ann made her famous lettuce salad, and I'd bring a homemade pie.
Ann always joked that Harley was like her Aunt Carrie when it came to pie. "What's your favorite pie?" she'd say.
Harley would smile. "Hot or cold."
Once I arrived in Minnesota, Harley usually walked out to the front room. "You're here!" he'd say. I'd put my arms around him to greet him before I set my homemade pie on the counter. He'd make a comment about the pie and the crazy traffic I likely encountered in the Twin Cities, and he'd always say something about ice cream, as he poured himself another cup of coffee.
Years ago I sent two pieces of peach pie overnight via UPS to Ann and Harley. Ann had an upcoming surgery, and I wanted to do something special for them. They knew it was coming and sent me pictures of their anticipation. I told them the pie might arrive kind of beaten up, and Harley announced that he would eat it no matter how it arrived, even if it were peach pie soup.
Visiting them always felt like coming home.
Ann was the best storyteller, and Harley would interject a few comments here and there, which always made me smile. Ann and Harley were married in early September in order to avoid the summer heat. On their wedding day, it was 106 degrees. As Ann walked down the aisle, a cricket climbed up the back of her wedding dress, and by the time she was at the front of the church, it appeared on her front. Once everyone was in place, the pastor whispered to Harley to grab the cricket. So in front of God and everyone, it looked like Harley was groping Ann at the front of the church. I remember saying to Harley that he just couldn't wait to get his hands on his new bride. He didn't respond. He just raised his eyebrows and smiled.
It was easy to see Harley's decline since I only saw him a few times per year. Sometimes it took forever to get him into the back of our Honda Accord so we could go out to breakfast where he ate his beloved biscuits and gravy. Getting into the restaurant was tough (and there were doorways he needed to think about and march past), and leaving was difficult, too, but he was always thrilled to go. Eventually he stopped being able to go with us for meals, and we'd leave him for ten minutes as we picked up Chinese food, or more likely, Ann stayed behind and I went to pick up what we needed.
The last time I saw Harley, I had driven to the facility where he had recently moved, a nice place where he had a big room, good care, and a brand new Chicago Cubs bedspread.
He didn't recognize me immediately, but when he did, he was happy to see me. "I brought you a piece of pie," I said. As we chatted, it was obvious Harley was a mix of confusion and clarity. What I noticed the most was his thin frame and his positive attitude. Ann fed him the strawberry rhubarb pie. She had put it in a big plastic container with ice cream on top. He said it was absolutely delicious. How he ate it as quickly as it was fed to him, I'll never know. He loved it.
Ann said her goodbyes and slipped out into the lobby of the place. At the time, she was experiencing significant back pain, and Harley was concerned about her.
I was left alone with Harley. He asked me to turn up the baseball game. I told him the volume was almost as high as it could go, but I turned it up higher, and he said it was better, but I think he just said that to make me feel good. I hugged him and told him I'd see him next time.
"I don't want you to bring me a piece of pie next time," he said.
I thought for sure he was hallucinating.
"I want you to bring me a whole pie!" he said. A smile spread across his face. He laughed and laughed, and I laughed, too. It was classic Harley.
It was a line I'll never forget.
Harley died sixteen days later, somewhat unexpectedly, after going downhill rather quickly. I think it was hard for everyone to make sense of it, but his leaving the way he did spared himself and his family a lot of pain. The progression of LBD is awful. He escaped some of the worst. It was as though a bus pulled up, the driver asked if he wanted to get on, he climbed the stairs, and took a seat.
He was gone.
These days, it seems strange to me that Ann is gone, too. I was prepared to chat with her about this one-year death anniversary and the feelings that arise during these difficult days.
I think she got on the same bus, too, just two weeks prior to the anniversary of Harley's passing.
A lot has happened in a year.
Saturday I didn't go for a walk, which is highly unusual for me, but Sunday when I went on my regular route around lunch time, I was thinking about Harley. I miss him. I know many people do, and yet I'm glad he's free. As I got closer to the ball diamonds, I looked up to see a beautiful bald eagle soaring in the sky. I stood there for a long time, watching it soar high and dive low with incredible ease.
I pulled out my iPhone and had no idea if I was capturing anything, but I had to try. I couldn't see anything at all, just the sun and some clouds. I took a dozen pictures, hoping at least one turned out. When I finally got home and looked at the images, I saw the eagle. It was just a tiny speck in the big swirling universe, it seemed, but I caught it on my camera. I still can't believe it. I like to think there's a connection there, that I was thinking of him and missing him when this majestic bald eagle appeared.
The eagle was beautiful, strong, and free -- just like I imagine Harley to be these days. The bald eagle seemed to have a fondness for baseball, as it flew over the ball diamonds, flying higher and higher and higher, before suddenly changing course and heading north.