Kathy Condie & Chuck Edwards
Sometimes we meet someone who changes our lives forever. In the seventeen years we've been in Haxtun I've met several of those people--most by accident. It's only by looking in the rear view mirror that I can really see the effect they've had on me.
Sixteen years ago we moved into a little tiny house with an amazing yard. It was at 237 W. Bryan Street in Haxtun, and it sat just across the alley from an old man named Chuck Edwards.
Mr. Edwards was kind. He was certainly past seventy, though his awkward kyphotic curve made him appear older. He was a thin man, and his personality was as modest as his physical stature. He just went about his day--mowing his yard, taking care of his flowers, walking to the post office, driving to Sterling for a senior's dance or to Fort Morgan or Denver for an appointment at the VA hospital. He never drew attention to himself, and he was always alone, though he had older children and grandchildren nearby. His wife was buried in the town cemetary.
Over a period of time we got to know Mr. Edwards --we talked to him, offered to shovel his sidewalk, (he always politely turned us down--he was independent and self-sufficient), and invited him to a BBQ when we bought our first grill. He was always pleasant and neighborly. He seemed to enjoy our kids, even when they were loud or trespassed on his lawn. He was a great old man, and we loved living by him.
After just three years, our family of five outgrew our little blue house. Its 630 square feet were no longer enough. We put a for sale sign on the lawn and moved five blocks east, to 226 N. Walker Ave. One fall day, an older white Buick pulled up beside the curb out front, and out stepped Mr. Edwards. He slowly gathered some things from his car. With hunched shoulders, he walked to the door. He explained that he'd come to share food with us; he received USDA leftovers and he'd brought us some.
He continued doing this for nine or ten more years, until he became housebound. Even then, he shared with us, but he called us and asked us to pick the food up. He called us faithfully, every month. It was hard to go to his home because his house was old and not in the best shape. It was extremely clean, but the linoleum floor was cracking and peeling, and one room was closed off because the roof was leaking. He had boxes piled all over his living room because he'd cleared out that room in preparation for the repair that was imminent, but which never happened. Mr. Edwards died just after we moved into our third house in Haxtun. I was teaching by then, but I was on spring break and I was busy or relaxing or whatever, and I didn't go to his funeral. For a long time I wished I had. I though of him often. He was a wonderful, humble man who made the world better and a bit more beautiful. He was alone, without quite enough affection from his children and grandchildren, but he was optimistic and we had grown to love him. I can still picture his hunched form walking around town as he did errands and then, years later, shuffling to his door while I waited and wondered what it was like to be as old as he was. I hope to find out, and i hope to be as humble and generous as he was.
Sixteen years ago we moved into a little tiny house with an amazing yard. It was at 237 W. Bryan Street in Haxtun, and it sat just across the alley from an old man named Chuck Edwards.
Mr. Edwards was kind. He was certainly past seventy, though his awkward kyphotic curve made him appear older. He was a thin man, and his personality was as modest as his physical stature. He just went about his day--mowing his yard, taking care of his flowers, walking to the post office, driving to Sterling for a senior's dance or to Fort Morgan or Denver for an appointment at the VA hospital. He never drew attention to himself, and he was always alone, though he had older children and grandchildren nearby. His wife was buried in the town cemetary.
Over a period of time we got to know Mr. Edwards --we talked to him, offered to shovel his sidewalk, (he always politely turned us down--he was independent and self-sufficient), and invited him to a BBQ when we bought our first grill. He was always pleasant and neighborly. He seemed to enjoy our kids, even when they were loud or trespassed on his lawn. He was a great old man, and we loved living by him.
After just three years, our family of five outgrew our little blue house. Its 630 square feet were no longer enough. We put a for sale sign on the lawn and moved five blocks east, to 226 N. Walker Ave. One fall day, an older white Buick pulled up beside the curb out front, and out stepped Mr. Edwards. He slowly gathered some things from his car. With hunched shoulders, he walked to the door. He explained that he'd come to share food with us; he received USDA leftovers and he'd brought us some.
He continued doing this for nine or ten more years, until he became housebound. Even then, he shared with us, but he called us and asked us to pick the food up. He called us faithfully, every month. It was hard to go to his home because his house was old and not in the best shape. It was extremely clean, but the linoleum floor was cracking and peeling, and one room was closed off because the roof was leaking. He had boxes piled all over his living room because he'd cleared out that room in preparation for the repair that was imminent, but which never happened. Mr. Edwards died just after we moved into our third house in Haxtun. I was teaching by then, but I was on spring break and I was busy or relaxing or whatever, and I didn't go to his funeral. For a long time I wished I had. I though of him often. He was a wonderful, humble man who made the world better and a bit more beautiful. He was alone, without quite enough affection from his children and grandchildren, but he was optimistic and we had grown to love him. I can still picture his hunched form walking around town as he did errands and then, years later, shuffling to his door while I waited and wondered what it was like to be as old as he was. I hope to find out, and i hope to be as humble and generous as he was.
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