Filial Affection
This past weekend, a phone call brought me news of the death of a man who had been our next-door neighbor in Glenside for more than a quarter century. Lester E. Sherry was in his nineties when he went at last "to the Lord," as he would have put it, for he was a deeply religious man.
A reluctant resident of the nursing home in Cape May, NJ in which his wife had died of Alzheimer's some years before, Les grieved the loss of his independence to the end. Just a few weeks ago, he told me with abject sorrow about the recent sale of his automobile and how diminished he felt, having to surrender that classic male symbol of freedom.
I believe that Les was more than ready to go to be reunited with his beloved Virginia. But I am surprised by my unreadiness to lose him as an earthly friend. That is because he was more than a friend to me -- I regard him with filial affection.
Because my own father died abruptly of a heart attack when I was 23, I welcomed Les' presence in our family life as my girls were growing up -- he took an interest in their school activities; he watched them mastering the mysteries of keeping a two-wheeler straight and steady; he conversed with them in a way that showed genuine interest in what they had to say.
He was a father-figure to my husband as well -- sharing the wisdom he'd gained from a lifetime career with Prudential Insurance Company and putting ultimate trust in Bob's knowledge of cars -- he once allowed him to cut a hole in the console of his brand-new Mercury to install some sort of radio component!
Les took me to the tennis courts at Abington High School and did his best to make a Billie Jean King out of me (alas, he couldn't). He loved the sport (and he especially delighted in besting our friend Father Mulligan at the net).
In recent years, he was able to console me in my new widowhood in a way no other man could. We had many a long-distance phone conversation, and I never tired of listening to his crisp diction, his measured thoughts, his fond memories of Bob and all the good times we'd had when we were neighbors. Each time I said goodbye, I always added, "I love you."
There was such a lot to love about Les Sherry.
A reluctant resident of the nursing home in Cape May, NJ in which his wife had died of Alzheimer's some years before, Les grieved the loss of his independence to the end. Just a few weeks ago, he told me with abject sorrow about the recent sale of his automobile and how diminished he felt, having to surrender that classic male symbol of freedom.
I believe that Les was more than ready to go to be reunited with his beloved Virginia. But I am surprised by my unreadiness to lose him as an earthly friend. That is because he was more than a friend to me -- I regard him with filial affection.
Because my own father died abruptly of a heart attack when I was 23, I welcomed Les' presence in our family life as my girls were growing up -- he took an interest in their school activities; he watched them mastering the mysteries of keeping a two-wheeler straight and steady; he conversed with them in a way that showed genuine interest in what they had to say.
He was a father-figure to my husband as well -- sharing the wisdom he'd gained from a lifetime career with Prudential Insurance Company and putting ultimate trust in Bob's knowledge of cars -- he once allowed him to cut a hole in the console of his brand-new Mercury to install some sort of radio component!
Les took me to the tennis courts at Abington High School and did his best to make a Billie Jean King out of me (alas, he couldn't). He loved the sport (and he especially delighted in besting our friend Father Mulligan at the net).
In recent years, he was able to console me in my new widowhood in a way no other man could. We had many a long-distance phone conversation, and I never tired of listening to his crisp diction, his measured thoughts, his fond memories of Bob and all the good times we'd had when we were neighbors. Each time I said goodbye, I always added, "I love you."
There was such a lot to love about Les Sherry.
posted by Bonnie at 5:21 PM
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