Kinds of Love

Love comes in so many forms—bonds both observable and invisible. I don’t know if there is anything so profound as love of a creature or a tree or a space in nature. Mostly because it requires so much stillness and attention to open yourself to a consciousness of these living things that have their own language and rhythms and are still deeply mysterious to us. When you take the time to connect with those things that so many of us take for granted, it elicits a kind of love and respect that cannot be undone. There is the complexity of loving family who remain connected, even if only by blood cells and DNA structures, for life—who become the entire length of your history. You can love a friend or a lover but never with complete certainty because growth and change, both inevitable, can be unpredictable and ultimately incompatible. But then there are those friends who you suddenly realize, half a lifetime in, are still there—are always there or at least always return after a time away. You can love a home or your work or an idea. It is love we all seem to long for and anticipate and mourn.

And then there is the love that you never imagine—that you never could foresee. This is the story of that kind of love. It is the story of an old wizened, gruff, silent man and the way we fell in love.

My once husband and I spent years remodeling a house that would provide respite for family who were sick or old or had fallen on bad luck. I loved the satisfaction of making it unique and sweating over the labor—making it all our own. Though quick to learn and ultimately amazingly skilled, his perfectionistic tendencies and the continual need to stretch and grow through it all resulted in a painfully slow-moving albatross that he created and then could not wait to escape. When he did run away, he left me with a house full of ectoplasm, for no room had gone untouched by our visions and negotiations and creating and conflict and bonding. We had taken off the roof and rebuilt it and everything under it as well—almost. When he left, there was work left undone—work that I had to finish to move on.

The work was too much for me to complete on my own and too little for anyone busy to be willing to commit their time to—even for a fair price. I was defeated and stuck and couldn’t imagine how I would stay in a place that was haunted by so much story and so much heartbreak. And then, in September, Old Man Lou came along. My friend called to tell me that his 70-year-old friend who had been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer and given three months to live four months ago needed some work. Encouraged only by the confidence of my friend and fueled by desperation, I agreed to meet him.

The next day there appeared on my porch a seemingly frail, slightly hunched over, mostly silent man with watery blue eyes, and a long white beard and moustache stained yellow by tobacco smoke. I led him through the house and explained what needed to be done as he quietly sized up the details—porch posts and ceiling trim, kitchen beams and bathroom flooring, flashing at the garage roof overhang. He explained that a while back when he was feeling so bad he was sure his life was coming to an end, he’d sold his work van with all of his tools in it. Months later he was feeling much better but running out of money and had no tools. Either one of us was in a position to take advantage of the other, but instead we came to an agreement. If I allowed him to use my tools and ladders to do the work, he’d give me a very reasonable price. With reservations (how would he climb ladders and use power tools or even show up in such a seemingly fragile state?), I agreed. We had no contract and no estimated time of completion, just an agreement to begin.

The next day, though I’d asked him not to, he showed up with his ancient dog Pepper who swayed on stiff legs and, once she laid down, only got herself up to reposition in a new spot of shade. I was worried about my dogs hurting a strange and weak dog who suddenly appeared on their turf. Though he initially obliged me, and kept his dog in the front yard, ultimately the salty old man and his extremely senior dog would not tolerate separation. Lou again dismissed my request by bringing his dog into close contact with mine. He was right—everyone got along fine.

Unlike many contractors I’d worked with, Lou showed up early and worked a full day every day. On the days that he wasn’t well or something else needed to be addressed or he had a date with his girlfriend across town, he called me to let me know. With a little cigar in his mouth he surveyed and measured, he climbed ladders and made lists of materials. He revealed little bits of his storied past as he completed one task after another with beautiful craftsmanship. He came up with creative ideas for working with a stubborn 76-year old house that was rarely square or level.

I knew from my friend that Lou had lost a teen-aged daughter in a horribly violent way. Though he didn’t tell me about that, he did allude to regrets that he had and how he’d worked to redeem some life-choices. He’d been a longshoreman and later travelled around the country, finding new jobs and learning new skills whenever he was ready to leave a place and go somewhere new. A few times during our year together, he would be too sick to come over and work for days, and I would resign myself to the likelihood that this was the end. But, again and again, he’d return.

When the essentials were done, Lou insisted on building a fence around my garden to keep the dogs and chickens out. He was a very successful gardener himself and liked to tell me what he was growing. He just kept coming and would even do things I didn’t ask for. Then he wanted to build a chicken coop. I knew he probably needed the money but told him that I didn’t think I should spend it, since I’d already had so much work done. He insisted that I could just pay him a little each month, no matter how long it took. He even bartered with me. If I would give him my little tractor coop so he could fix it up to give to his hospice nurse, he’d knock $50 off the coop construction cost. Though he was getting tired and the designing and figuring seemed to be more and more of a challenge, he kept coming and even enlisted the help of his brother who came from out-of-the country. I began to understand that he wasn’t doing this for the money.

We had a fight. I got home from work on a Friday, the day after my divorce was final feeling pretty crappy. I didn’t know that I had a stomach virus brewing. Lou asked me to dig a two inch deep by 3 foot wide trench along the length of my garage where the chicken run would be placed. He would then lay down hardware cloth under the run that would serve as a barrier to any digging predators. I had told him I’d do the digging, but right now?! He also asked me to help him carry the frame of the run to place it against the garage to check for fit. It was awkward and hot and I was feeling worse by the minute. When I didn’t sit it down just right, he let out a loud, “Fuck!” I whipped around and told him I wasn’t a fucking idiot and he needed to stop talking to me like I was. He could calmly tell me what he needed me to do or not talk to me at all! He changed his tone and, before leaving a little later, he told me that he was sorry he’d upset me. When I told the story to our mutual friend later that weekend, he said, “Damn! I’m pretty sure Old Man Lou has never had a woman talk back to him that way!”

Not long after that, Lou was finishing up the coop—or chicken castle as I’ve come to call it. He built the coop tall enough that I would never have to bend over to reach inside to clean it or grab eggs. The run was also tall enough that I could walk inside standing fully upright. There was a full-height door to the outside of the run at the front end of the garage near the coup and one at the back end of the run. That one led to the back of the garage where Lou extended the girls’ run by hanging PVC pipe along the back and side of the garage as well as along the fence. He then wove the pipe on the fence and the building through sturdy old fishing net that he stitched together at its ends. It created a barrier to anything coming over the fence or from the sky. In this way, the chickens had three full sides of the garage to run without threat of predators. He added a third door on the opposite side of the garage. So, on one of his final visits to do work, Lou told me that the chicken coup had kicked his ass. I told him that I was sorry that it had been so much work. “At this point,” he told me “I only do the work that I really want to do.” And then he told me he loved me. And I said that I loved him, too.

After the chicken castle was finished, I got a call from Lou. He was distressed. Pepper was in a really bad way and Lou needed to find someone to put her down. He wasn’t sure where to go and wanted to know if I could help him find a place that wasn’t too expensive. I made some calls and gave him the information. I didn’t hear from him for a little while. Then, out of the blue, he called while I was out one evening, wondering if he could come by and get some money I owed him for some materials. I offered to bring it to him a little later, but he insisted that he needed to come by in half an hour because he had to go to dinner at his girlfriend’s house. When he showed up at my door, the first thing he said was how pretty I looked. Then he came inside and told me that, after we’d last talked, Pepper had rallied but then a week later she’d gotten bad again and he put her down. He also told me that he was sure he was close to the end. I swear Pepper had been trying to wait out Lou’s passing.

Three weeks after his beloved Pepper had gone on ahead, late one September afternoon, I went to Lou’s bedside in the house he’d torn up to remodel. He was delirious with morphine, but he recognized me and asked if I’d seen the work he’d done on the chicken coup—said he was sorry he hadn’t gotten it done. I reassured him that he had, in fact, finished and that he’d built a chicken castle! I told him that, in honor of his beautiful creation, I would name my next chicken Lou. “I also know that your nurse is thrilled that you fixed up my old coup so she can get her own chickens.” I thanked him for putting a whole new layer of story over so much sadness in my house and for helping me to make it my very own. I thanked him for helping me to start my new life. I told him I loved him.

And then, without yet knowing, that night and the next morning I spent thanking Lou out loud for everything his hands touched to finish or to make new. Here the garden fence. There the chicken castle. Up on the porch ceiling, the strips of thin trim perfectly ripped from long boards. Without being asked, a new cover for the crawl space with an improvised handle. And on and on. I didn’t expect it—could never have seen it coming—but I found love in my Salty Santa, Lou. As I was thanking him, he was going on ahead.

And so, even if you believe as I do that Valentine’s Day is kind of a silly holiday, you may still be feeling alone. If you are, snuggle your puppy, call an old friend, sit and listen to a tree or just recall all the kinds of love you have known. And be completely open to the wholly unexpected love that it is never too late to find. The world is full of all kinds of love just waiting for you.