My neighbor Steve died a few weeks ago. His heart stopped. I’m not exactly sure why, but he was about 65 years old, easily 150 pounds overweight, and smoked a lot of long white cigarettes everyday. Go figure.
Steve was a nice guy. He was kind and generous. He and his family welcomed Valerie and I into the neighborhood with food and drink -- offered before they even knew us.
Steve was a retired City and County home construction inspector; he was a seamstress too. Yep, this big, fat guy with dark, poor circulation in his legs was a needle and thread guy. Nine years ago, Steve made our newborn daughter a beautiful quilt blanket. Wow, a precious gift indeed! Iwalani will probably keep it forever. Geez, Iwa might hold her child in it someday.
Steve invented this fabric shopping cart caddy for kids. We tried it; it was good for toddlers, but probably not a big market item. At least Steve produced a prototype; I never did follow through on my customized urinals for quads. And I still haven't picked up my "new" wheelchair from Frank Lane. I really ought to pick up that chair before I die.
Steve is gone. His wife found him in a “cold state” and quickly called 911. He was rushed to the hospital, but died a week later on February 20th. We didn’t know until March 15th, until we crossed the street and asked his grieving wife. “How is Steve? We saw you going out each day....”
“Steve died about 3 weeks ago.”
“OMG. Sorry. So sorry. Nobody told us. We thought we would learn by....”
“It was in the paper.”
“We don’t get the paper.”
“We buried him last week.”
Major awkward moment.
Since living on Kanaina Avenue for the past 14 years, 9 neighbors have died. We’ve never seen any of their obituaries. We do not subscribe to the newspaper. And even if we did, I probably wouldn’t scan the obits.... Or is this another one of life’s little things you’re suppose to do?
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