Eddie’s son died last week. Edward was his name. He was 45. He was a good man and a drinker like his dad, only his dad stopped years ago and Ed didn’t. Or wouldn’t or couldn’t. Eddie goes back and forth on that particular subject. Just because you’ve walked in someone’s shoes doesn’t mean you shared the same path. Ed had moved in with his dad and locked himself away in a room, which is the way alcohol likes it. His liver gave out.
Ed worked as a plumber, and his family and co-workers and friends loved him and his humor and generosity. They come by Eddie’s house in southwest Denver, looking dazed. “I just ran into Charlie, and he told me what happened.” “I can’t believe it.” Many showing up are Ed’s age. They ran around the neighborhood together like the kids on the block still do. The more ill Ed became, the more he withdrew, and it makes them feel bad that they didn’t try harder to stay in touch. “Hey,” Eddie consoles. “I know you feel guilty. Don’t. He was sick.”
Eddie’s glasses are smeared, and his hair is sticking up, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. It’s possible he’d been pulling on it, which is his habit when he’s overwhelmed. “I can’t handle this,” he says. “First one son. Now, another, my last.”
His first son died in 2003. Darryl was his name. He was 34 and had spent half his life sick with cancer. “Ed used to visit Darryl at the cemetery all the time,” Eddie says. “He only stopped when he got too sick.”
Ed’s 12-year-old daughter watches her grandpa. Ed adored her and his ex’s two children, whom he helped raise. His daughter is a level- headed child, has long been so. After her daddy died, she took his cellphone and started calling his friends, giving them the news. When she hugs her mom or her grandpa, she holds on for a long time.
Neither Ed nor Eddie is what you’d call prominent residents of our city. This doesn’t mean they weren’t/aren’t vital to it. They are among the people who keep its blood flowing without making a big deal of it. Work hard. Pay your taxes. Try to be good parents. Love your family.
They kept the yard clean and cracked up at their own jokes and watched old Westerns, ordinary, flawed, try-to- do-the-right-thing folks. The kind you don’t read about much and when you do, it’s with sudden recognition: “That could be my auntie.” “That could be my uncle.”
Eddie fell into that category as Longtime Eddie, whom I have written about on and off over the years. He’s never been shy about sharing his life with readers but couldn’t presume his family would feel the same, so Longtime Eddie he has remained. He says things like: “You work 43 years. You listen to the president. You serve your country. They tell you to be a proud American, and you salute the flag and sing ‘My Country ‘Tis of Thee,’ and when it’s all over they cut you back to part time because you’re getting older and you lose your health benefits. After 43 years of work, I got $830 a month in Social Security — $830 a month!”
Right on, readers would respond. I have written about a lot of people beloved by readers but probably none more so than Longtime Eddie. I have people come up to me and say: “You remember when you and Longtime Eddie went to the fiestas in Mora and how he said, ‘I don’t recognize most of them, but they recognize me. That’s the advantage of being ugly’?”
When Eddie called to say his son had died, I thought you would want to know. He loved his Ed, and they took care of each other, made each other laugh and drove each other crazy. They were grown men, living together again and doing the best they could.
On Eddie’s block, kids play and someone mows the lawn and relatives have arrived to help. The neighbors come by, give Eddie hugs, ask what they can do. In the larger city, none of this makes a ripple, but it is of moments like these our community is made.
Tina Griego writes Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. Reach her at 303-954-2699 or tgriego@denverpost.com.
