It was a quiet little house, tucked towards the end of
a quiet block of houses.
There never was much activity around it. A lot of people thought it was empty. I
lived across the street from it, so I knew there were people there.
The family name was Craig. I forget even how I came to know that. I had never spoken
to anyone there. Actually I only saw one person ever come and go from the house.
A woman. A good-sized woman. Always had her head tied up in a scarf. And
every day, at the same time, before there was much activity on the block, she would
exit the house. And walk away dragging a two-wheeled wire grocery cart behind her.
Never knew where she went, still don't. Heard later, she worked in service for some
of the well-to-do people on the other side of town. She left early so she could get
their breakfast ready before they went to work.
On those few days that I would be up and about early, purely by accident mind you, I would
wave a shy wave to her as she trudged off to work.
The Craigs were one of two families of color on the block. My family was the other.
Although I did not know this women, there as a bond of kinship. Her round,
brown smiling face made her look like a whole slew of grandmothers I knew. I just
did not know her. In my mind's eye, and with a whole lot of years to reflect on this, if I
had to paint a picture of Mrs. Craig. She would look like Esther Rolle from
"Good Times."
I also never realized there was some else in that house. All day long. Someone
was in there. I saw Mrs. Craig exit and re-enter but it took a tragic turn of events
for me to even learn there was a Mr. Craig.
One day, I looked across the street to the Craig house and saw an ambulance pull up in
front. They were there for a long time. Then the attendants came out rolling a
stretcher. There was a form on the stretcher covered with a white sheet.
Totally covered. I could tell by the shape it was Mrs. Craig.
I now was even more sorry that I never really got to know her. Just knew her as the rather
big woman, with a big smile on her soft brown face, and a scarf tied around her head, that
left for work before most people on the street arose from bed.
As the body was placed in the ambulance, I noticed a figure in the door. Lean and
angular, it was a dark-skinned man supporting himself against one of the door posts.
His head had a brush of a mustache, on one end and a shiny bald spot on the
other. He clearly was grieving. This was my first sighting of Mr. Craig.
And it was my last sighting for some time.
That was in the spring. Winter came, and I had not seen the thin little man again.
We had one of those typical snows that Pennsylvania was used to getting during the
winters of the 1960s. Pretty well blocked you in. For us kids, it was a chance
to play and be helpful at the same time.
You got to see everybody when you were shoveling out.
I still had a fair measure of been-snowed-in-too-long-steam to vent even after I had
finished the sidewalk in front of my house, so I turned my attention to the short stretch
of sidewalk in front of the Craig house.
The house was skinny, so there only was 15 feet or so of sidewalk shoveling to do,
two steps and a four by four foot square concrete porch. It only was another 10 or
15 minutes worth of work.
The job completed, I turned to return home. I heard a slight squeak as a door
opened. Turning around, I saw Mr. Craig close up.
Even for the 1960s, he seemed to dress old fashion. Kind of proper actually.
I looked down at his feet. He had on spats. I had only seen spats on cartoons
and old pictures. This was the first time I ever saw someone wearing them. He
had on brown wool pants. A formal shirt and tie, a plaid vest, with touches of
yellow, completed the outfit. He was well attired, he just looked, well I guess the
only word for it is old fashioned.
Mr. Craig beckoned me up to the door.
"Thank you son, for shoveling for me," he said with just a trace of
raspiness to his voice. "Would you like to come in and warm up for a bit."
I don't think anyone in the neighborhood had ever gone through the front door of the Craig
house. When I was littler, we kids used to say, they may have gone in but they
never had come out. It was a mystery, and like anything else mysterious, a tad
scary.
When I passed through the door, and entered that little house, and yes it was as tiny as
it seemed from the other side of the street, it was like I had turned back the hands of
time.
There were two focal points in that living room I entered, a big wind-up phonograph with
the most beautiful horn emerging from it that you ever have seen. And a well broken
in over-stuffed chair. It still looked warm. You just could sense it was Mr. Craig's
favorite location. And it looked out the one window that was in the front of the
house.
I realized from that seat, he was able to see me playing, because it faced right towards
my house. I looked and saw my father fine-tuning the snow removal from the family
car that I had done in the typical little boy hurry.
That was the start of a long-running friendship between the reclusive Mr. Craig and the
effervescent little boy from across the street.
I wish I could remember more of the details from those chats. I remember he told me
he and his wife never had children. The closest relatives he had were nieces and
nephews. Hardly a conversation passed that did not include mention of his wife.
They had been a tandem for so long, Mr. Craig was trying to move forward, but road
is not easy when you are missing your partner.
Mr. Craig said he enjoyed the visits. He even became less reclusive. He came
over and met my parents. And when he was in the mood for one of those chats, he
would leave word at the house, that if I was allowed to, could I come over for a visit
when I got home from school.
My most memorable day with Mr. Craig was a quiet afternoon, a year or so after our initial
meeting. He was growing increasingly frail. The gaunt body now was turning bony.
He still had a ready smile for me and a story to tell but you could tell he was
failing.
Something was different about this chat session. His stories all were about his
wife. How much he missed her. How he wished he could be with her.
Then he walked to that big beautiful phonograph. He slowly and carefully wound the
crank. Then he reached down into a storage area in its base and pulled out a thick,
heavy looking album. He placed it on the now steadily and smoothly spinning
turntable...lowered the needle at the base of the big horn and like magic, music filled
the small living room we were seated in from wall to wall .
Old big band jazz. Swing and swaying type of music. The song that needle urged into
the room was Duke Ellington's "Take The A Train."
There was a sparkle in Mr. Craig's eyes. Almost a mischievous glint. He said
that was the music he and his wife used to dance to. And the song that was playing, they
had their last dance to that tune.
I could hardly picture the Mr. Craig I now knew and the Mrs. Craig, I used to watch
from across the street, cutting a rug in that little living room. The smile on my
face must have given away my thoughts.
"We did not have much," Mr. Craig explained, "But we sure had a lot
of love, and a little bit of fun too," he said a smile creasing his mahogany face.
"We loved our music and the time we could spend together. Now I just have the music.
The rest of my love has left me," he said. "But not for too much
longer."
I found out Mr. Craig was a religious man. A well-worn Bible sat by his chair.
He read it throughout the day. He just never felt comfortable going to church, by
nature he was just reclusive. He only shared his life with his wife. And now
that she was gone, little pieces of it with me, the little boy from across the street.
He said he believed in the Lord and His promises and one day he and his wife would
be together again. It just seemed he resigned himself to being somewhat lonely until
then.
Mr. Craig left my life as quietly as he entered it. I had not seen him for a couple
of days. His landlord was concerned. Upon entering the house, there he sat in
his comfortable chair. The needle of the phonograph was still on that big thick
record. His head was turned towards the window, in the direction of my house. But
Mr. Craig's eyes were sightless. He had left this world to search for his lost love.
I walked past Mr. Craig to get to the phonograph. And with just a few careful winds
of the crank, the phonograph started playing the soaring sounds of "Take the A
Train," music again filled the room.
Everybody stopped and looked at me as when I started the music playing but I could
not say goodbye to Mr. Craig without a final listen to the music that made him so happy.
And at that very moment, I felt happy. This was the music Mr. Craig was listening to
when he went home. The music that made him happiest. And I knew he had no fear
about the journey that he was about to take, for he was just waiting to catch up
with his dance partner on the other side. When he put on "Take The A
Train," that day, he knew it was for his last dance.
I've met a lot of people since that time, but none that wanted to get to heaven more so
than Mr. Craig. The old cliche is "everyone wants to get to heaven but nobody
wants to die to get there," Mr. Craig had no problem with the travel
arrangements. If death was what it took, then he wanted death to have its way.
He had experienced one great love on earth and he was looking forward to sharing another
great love in heaven, the love of his Lord.
It took me some years, and a lot of maturing, to realize, that even at his death, Mr.
Craig may have felt lonely but he was never alone. The memories of his wife and the
love of his Lord were with him every night and day. And every now and then,
there was the occasional visit from a little boy from the other side of the street.
