Allen and Elizabeth

You notice friendly people when you live in L.A. They stand out. That's why, when 3 or 4 months ago Miss Elizabeth ran out the front door of her home to catch Charlie and I as we passed by on our morning walk through the neighborhood, I was so surprised.

"Hey there," she yelled.

"Hi,"

"I just wanted to let you know that I keep this bowl out in front of my house for all the dogs that pass by. The hose is right here. You just feel free to turn it on and fill the bowl up anytime you want!"

"Thank you! How nice!" (me)

"No, thank you," she said, "I love dogs, but I can't stand to love and lose another. This is my way of still having dogs to love."

"My name's Susan," I said, "and this is Charlie."

Miss Elizabeth must be creeping up on 80 years old. But every facet of her face shines warmth, and there's still a youthful beauty that emerges from her snow white hair, ruby lips, and smiling eyes. You can almost picture her as a young girl in front of her bureau, brushing her hair, dreaming of who she'd marry. She radiates a kindness and serenity that can only come from a life well lived and lots of love known. But when I introduced Charlie and I, her face dropped a little. And sadness flashed out and then back quickly, windshield wipers across her eyes. And then it was gone. She smiled, "Oh honey, I won't remember your names. I've still got my body, but my mind's gone."

Startled, I reassured her, "Well that's OK. I'll remind you next time. And what's your name?"

"Elizabeth."

Charlie didn't seem to realize the importance to Miss Elizabeth that he drink her freely-offered water, and he gave it only a lick or two.

"Well, maybe when it gets hotter," she said. We smiled, and Charlie and I walked on.

That was several months ago.

Charlie and I have stopped in Elizabeth's yard too many times to count since then. And often, she comes out to greet us.

Almost every time, it goes like this:

"Hey there!"

"Hi Elizabeth!"

"Oh honey, have I met you?"

"Yes, I'm Susan, and this is Charlie."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I won't remember. I've still got my body, but my mind's gone."

"That's OK Elizabeth; I don't mind reminding you."

And then Charlie takes his drinks, and I thank her.

"No, thank you," she always says, "this is my way of still getting to have a dog."

Charlie seems to know how much she loves him, because he runs up to her, takes some very love-filled pats on the back, and off we go.

But yesterday, yesterday was different. It started out the same:

"Hey there!"

"Hi Elizabeth!"

"Susan? Charlie?"

"Yes! That's us! Look at you! You remembered!" I say, stunned.

"Well, not really, but I put a post-it on the back of my door." She smiles. Meanwhile, Charlie is sniffing toward her still-open front door.

"He wants to come in!" she says, "Can I?" she says, reaching toward his leash. "Sure," I say ... even though I am itching to keep moving on because I have to get home and pack for my flight to Denver.

With a girlish joy, she grabs Charlie's leash and runs him into the house, and I follow.

And that's when I met her husband, Allen. Though all-man (I later learned he was a construction worker for most of his life), he, too, possesses that peaceful contentedness. "Come on in," he says, "I'm Allen."

Allen and Elizabeth's home is a book of stories. Allen starts to tell me the history of their home while Miss Elizabeth runs Charlie around to all the rooms in the house, smiling as wide as a child on Christmas morning. She is laughing.

"This home," Allen says, "was an old fruit shed built in the 1800s."

"Wow!" I exclaim, "You guys have done a lot of work." And they have. It could easily be a museum of California life between 1800something and 2009. One wall is entirely cedar and has that unfinished look of some old workspace or garage. I later learn that's the only original wall in the house. They sanded it and refinished it. But the wood still has holes in it, such that you get little peepholes into the adjacent rooms. Elizabeth has returned, thanks me for letting her take Charlie, and pulls out a scrap book.

I sweat a little. Flight's in 4 hours. But, I can't leave. They are too eager to tell me their stories. And I am too aware of the honor I am receiving in hearing them.

So, I look through their home renovation scrapbook. They removed a full inch of layers of wallpaper from the home. And Elizabeth's kept a square of every layer. Flipping through them is like watching decades pass in a moment. She's also got old newspapers that used to line the walls; they're deteriorating, but still readable. They look like they must be from the early 1900s. And they've got a chunk of the old cardboard and plaster that used to make up the entirety of their walls.

And then they move on to showing me the relics on their walls and the cast-iron wood-burning stove they found at a flea market.

"It needed some cleaning up," Allen states, "But we sanded it and repainted it and polished it, and now, it's good as new."

"Bargain shoppers!" I exclaim. And they stand proud. Allen proceeds to show me their office. "Almost everything in here was free. I found those file cabinet doors in an old classroom at UCLA when we were tearing it down. And I got the ceiling tiles from a bank in Glendale that was closing. And the shelves were out with someone's trash." And the room is lovely and clean, and you'd never know.

And the conversation goes on and on and meanders as conversations so often do. I find out that Allen and Elizabeth met twenty years ago, when they were both living in boats with their spouses. And then Elizabeth's husband died, and Allen's wife left him "for bigger and better things." And the rest is literally history; they've been together ever since. And before I know it, I'm holding framed photos of each of their old boats. "I spent 13 years on that boat," she says. Again, that windshield wiper flash of sad ... gone as quickly as it came. And I become aware, in that moment, that they aren't handing me framed photos of their boats. They're allowing me to hold the very fiber of their lives. And because us humans live in the here and now, in finite time, we are forced to try to fit all these infinite things like love and life into tangible objects, into frames ... to help us hold them.

Fairly soon after, Charlie and I head out. He is eager to keep moving on, and Miss Elizabeth can see it. But, as we walk toward her door, she shows me,

"See here, this is your post-it." The back of her door is covered with 15 or 20 post-its, her attempt to fight her failing mind. Ours' is blue, and on it, the words:

small red poodle
Charlie
tall brown-hair woman
Susan

"I hope we didn't tell you too many stories," Alan states,

"Yes," says Elizabeth, "You may never want to come back!"

They laugh, but I know they aren't actually joking.

"No, no," I say, "Just the opposite. I really appreciate you telling me your stories. You know, with the changes in technology and all the ways we have to reach each other, I think we're all getting lonelier and lonelier!"

"Yes," Allen agrees, "People forget that it's important to look someone in the eye and just talk to 'em."

"Thanks!" I say, "Have a good day."

"No, thank you," says Miss Elizabeth, "You've just helped us start it well."

Charlie and I walk away, and Allen and Elizabeth go back into their home.

And for the rest of the walk home, I think about Allen and Elizabeth and the uncommon kindness and trust they display. I think about facebook and cell phones and all the million different bits of "progress" we've made as a society and wonder if it's really progress. I make a mental note, "that is the kind of person you want to be."

It's hard, you know, in this age of garage door openers and locked doors. But then, there's Allen and Elizabeth.

I've still so much to learn.