Properties to oversee, politicians to host, neighbors to check in on. Long days for a pillar of community.
70 years of experience in the role help the man, addressed universally as Mr. Anderson, handle these duties.
Handle it he can, but as he nears his hundredth year the days feel heavier. Alone now, his wife passed, the mornings are harder to greet, the nights emptier.
As he lays in bed a guilt rises within. Geez, without Mary, with so much accomplished, maybe it’s time to hang up the gloves.
But soon, responsibility calls and it quickens his creaking joints to accept this new sunrise.
Mr. Anderson has donated much, helped many. More residents along his stretch of the Hudson Valley than can be numbered for multitude have found themselves under his employ or as the beneficiaries of his charity. So much accomplished, but gosh, there is still reason to live.
Times have changed since he first became integral to his neighbors, but they change slower in this land that rests above the Hudson. This great river’s water and its traffic move along below unceasingly, yet the community changes only in starts and fits.
Tankers, speed boats, driftwood pass by. Winter comes and ice blankets. The scenes change, technology advances, but the river’s consistent motion seems to help The Valley stay The Valley. Mr. Anderson plays his role too.
He can recall days before development, when the 1940s were the present, not some distant memory of an era recalled in textbooks and stories.
Up that way. Sitting in his lounge chair, the Hudson is rolling along in the background, he can point to a neighborhood where thick forest once sat. Down that road. He can tell you who owned farmland, where this house now sits and that one too. He easily recalls the low price Eliot Roosevelt was offered for a working farm and how his wife dismissively asked how he’d possibly pay for it. Geez, never bought it from my father.
It is not only his age that allows him to recall what once was. What has changed here was largely overseen by him. Change eased along but only at the pace dictated by a man who knew what ought to change and what ought to remain.
So, build he did. Apartments, entire neighborhoods, storefronts. All with the good of his residents and the nature that surrounded them taken into account.
Much remains to be reaped in these former fields and forests that thousands now call home. Reaping remains to be done. It will long outlast Mr. Anderson, old as he has grown.
He’s come to accept this. All things end. His marriage of 70 years. Christ, if that can end even time could, but not while he’s alive to see it cease. Nearing his end and still strong of mind and body, Mr. Anderson has the future on his mind to accompany life’s never-ending to-do list.
What will happen? Well, as he sees it, absent a surviving heir to run his operations, some land will be sold. Other properties will end up in the hands of his daughter, ungrateful and undeserving as she may be. Better to her than to the state. The state has already gotten their millions. The people have parks and preservations as proof.
It’s not noblesse oblige that strikes Mr. Anderson’s charitable chord. Self-made, he’s no noble. No aristocrat, they used to be down the road on either side American royalty. He knows he’s not one of them because he knows what royals are.
His legacy factors into his planning but only in some theoretical sense. “Don’t name it after me!” Being a pillar of community is what leads him to give, money and time, to his neighbors. It’s just the right thing to do.
Pillars of community. They still exist, you know. Despite what you may hear, Mr. Andersons remain in this world. Fewer, maybe? Who knows. Still around, though. He’s proof, and he won’t be the last. Not all is the same, though.
The future is here, the news shows it every night, so do the Amazon trucks that so frequently pass these winding country roads.
Where are the old shops? Nothing but a restaurant can last around here. It is not just the delivery trucks that signal future’s arrival. He has other means of knowing too. He collects the rent, after all. Knows how hard it is to make a living, to strike out on your own, to compete with the big boys.
Changing for sure, slowly or not. Change can be good. Good, yes, but the same old challenges remain for a community leader. Long as people are people, well, Mr. Anderson, he’ll be needed.
Donation requests to be fielded and considered. Invitations to celebrations, his R requested with an SVP. Funerals to attend. The joyful events are not as fun when you’re a widower, but still need to show up. The sad ones, well, can’t miss those.
Geez, always something to be done for a pillar of community.
People want to buy his land, the apartments too. Tire kickers usually. The kooky builder from Florida. He came knocking. He called and cajoled. Failed to persuade. Had the nerve to reach out months later asking for bail money! Ha ha, you can’t make it up. “How did he even find out about this town? How did he get my number?” Better to the miserable daughter than into the hands of a man like that.
The water too. Over billing tenants? Never on purpose! Yes, yes, a glitch in the billing system, or so he was told. Heck, he doesn’t know how all that technology works or doesn’t. And why must he resolve it? Well, he owns the water company too.
A long story, but it’s true, the legal documents and licensing can show that. You just need to look it up. Owns the water company, geez.
99 and fielding tenant calls at the office. On a beautiful day too.
Golf! Oh, how good 9 holes would feel this early summer morning. Ah, but for a pillar of community work and helping has got to come first and they do for Mr. Anderson as they always have.
Forecast looks fine for tomorrow, better even. He’ll make up for it then. 99 and still planning.
Walking will suffice. Later he’ll stroll. Right by the Vanderbilt mansion, tip his cap to the old Commodore’s memory. Public land now. Imagine giving that up? He can, he’s given up plenty.
Oh, the nurses, “the help”. Need to pay them. That damn workers compensation issue. Who the hell knows how this works? Who the hell has time for this? Ha ha. Another day in the life of a man of influence. This day may end but not without exhaustion.
The nurses, these health aids. Oh, they’re good to him. They grew up knowing of him and his good doings. Now. Now they spend the day with him, part of the night too. “I don’t need help.” “Sure, you don’t, Mr. Anderson. We’re just here to clean up. We can make home life easier so you can work on the important stuff.” “Well, yes, and that’s important too. Keep it up, why not?
The water. Oh, yes, the water. It’s time to figure that out. Hell, might as well call each tenant. Email? Oh, no, that wouldn’t end well. Gosh, might not even send. Hell, how does anyone work this technology? Calling will do, voicemail if needed. No fix today, but clarity can ease minds.
It’s a few bucks but gosh these people don’t have much. Gee, haven’t raised their rents in a decade. No need. Wouldn’t be fair. Could triple it, with ease. But at what cost? No, the rent will remain as is for those long here, as long as he’s alive. Long after too if his plan is honored.
Many calls, grateful apartment renters. All minds calmer thanks to this tired but capable pillar of community. So much done so far this morning and yet the responsibility energizes him. More cheerful than golf with his lawyer would have made him. Poor bastard can barely drive let alone putt! Still, he’s a dear friend and they can go tomorrow.
Oh lunch. Time for lunch. Can’t delay eating like he used to. Not at the age to test boundaries of this old body. No, lunch will have to come now. No calls left. Long mornings for the pillar of community. Time to relax.
Italian will work just fine. He’s dined here weekly and plans to continue doing so. Eating alone for lunch. Now that’s fine. Dinner, well, he still hasn’t grown accustomed to that. No plans to either. That’s not something worth getting used to. 70 years then two turned to one. No, that won’t be gotten used to.
The menu. He chuckles and thinks. “Gosh, look this thing over as if I haven’t memorized it.” Just to be polite. Mr. Anderson is in no rush, not when the owner and his wife want to chat. Not going to speed the process when the waitress wants to check in. Can’t demand the cook get to work when he wants to come out from the kitchen to shake his hand, ask how he feels.
That’s the thing with pillars of community, they are there to hold things up, keep things consistent. He’s done much for these people and they are grateful. “99 and people still want to speak to me. Geez, I can’t believe they care.” He knows why, but he doesn’t lie when he expresses disbelief.
Chicken Marsala, broccoli, potatoes. This man’s pallet is not about to change. No, not at 99. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Though if Laura bakes something he’s never tried, he’ll have that. Same for dinner too. Maybe she’ll bring meatballs too? Geez, she’s been good to him since she was 10.
Meat and potatoes. A simple lunch. Tasty but simple. Full up. Recharged too. And a good thing because more work has to be done.
Zoning board. Why does it still exist? He makes the calls. Still, one day he won’t, a good thing he kept it around. Not good today, but how much longer does he have? It will soon be useful again. For now, a formality, a small nuisance. Can only be small when everyone there wants to check in on him, make sure his health is in order, make sure he’s happy. There’s no agenda, they just care.
Long days for a pillar of community.
I’d renovate this old building if I was going to be alive longer. Gosh it looks run down. Well, still works. There’s an irony to critiquing things you built, and it’s not lost on Mr. Anderson, not at all. His sense of humor, well, it’s intact as ever.
Permit approvals to grant, zoning discussions to be had, but not before the board members can query him. Oh, they’ve always got questions, always curious to know about this and that. When was that built? Who Ok’d this structure? He’s the man with the answers. It could exhaust some but for him, well he feels energized, important.
“I guess this board isn’t the worst thing, guess it serves a purpose.” He leaves satisfied. Always wonders if this will be the last meeting – the last for him not the board. Doesn’t think it morbidly. No, just being realistic. Helps to make the most of each day, each interaction when you consider how few may be left.
Now what? Oh, guess it’s time for a walk. First a drive. Fires up the F-150. Speeds along. Who’s going to pull him over? He paid for half the new police cars and that amounts to 2 of 4 total. It’s hard to get in trouble when you’re friends with the 5 officers on the beat. Hard to get a ticket when they know your truck and know you’re busy.
Pillars of community have a need to exceed the speed limit, yes. Important things on their agenda. He’s in no rush today, but who would know the difference? Ninety-nine and he’s cruising. Hits corners of these winding roads hard. Knows the apex of each turn. Knows how late he can brake, how early he can hit the gas once more.
Hell, he built many of these roads and made sure they were maintained. He ought to be allowed to use the pavement as he sees fit! Never at risk, no children running around. No, this neighborhood has grown older as time passed by.
He’s home and the aides are happy. “Mr. Anderson!” “No pictures, no autographs!” Laughs all around. “I’m heading out, but Lorraine is ready to walk with you.” “I think he should rest but I’m not the boss.”
“Gosh, tired enough she could boss me around.” He thinks, then speaks, “Make hay while the sun shines, it’s cooled down a bit, might as well get it over with.”
But just a minute, the chair looks comfortable. Eases in. Ah, and uh, and now his eyelids, they feel heavy. “Geez, wake me soon, will ya?” Off he drifts. The bulk of the day’s work done, Mr. Anderson has earned this rest.
Lorraine, well she didn’t quite follow orders. Let him rest. Man is 99 after all. Goodness, how does he still do it? Rest is more important than a walk, no matter how strong he is. Still light for hours too. Still time before dinner.
When his eyelids lift and scan toward the clock, Mr. Anderson is less than pleased. “Geez, dear, told you to wake me. Look at the time.” Lorraine pretends to have been absent minded. “Whoops!” She’s glad he slept. Deep down he is too.
Time to get up, but first lace up. Slippers off, needs to ease these New Balances on while seated. Sure, he can walk, but to bend and balance? Even Mr. Anderson has his limits as he nears 100.
“Toward the Vanderbilt?” “Oh yeah, then to Mary.” Off they go, into the evening heat of peak summer. He’s got his health issues but not the heart, it’s still ticking away, even this heat doesn’t strain him.
No walker, no cane, no need. Geez, never had to use one. Always stayed active, that was the key. Life alone kept him active. Managing the properties, sometimes even working the equipment. Gosh, it wasn’t intentional, wasn’t exactly raised in the fitness era, but his work kept him young.
Active social life too. Inside each house they pass along the hilly and winding route to the Commodore’s estate resides a friend old or new. He’s been inside all of them. Either as the builder or an invitee to some get together or other, he’s learned what these homes looked like.
When you’re a pillar of community everyone wants you to stop by. The older he got the interest only grew. He was once young and either he or his wife would make a new friend through church or life’s general course. The invitations were received and sent out too. Always something to keep them busy.
Now, he’s like a celebrity. Well, not just like one, the name Mr. Anderson alone was enough to cause excitement. Needed no further words to get attention once you dropped that eponym in conversation.
Who wouldn’t want a local celebrity to grace their birthday party or their child’s baptism? If even just for a few minutes, his presence was appreciated, meant something to these people. It was never a few though, gosh how could he leave an event when so many wanted to catch up?
Walking along he chuckles. “Geez, we take this walk most days and I always remember something different.” When you’ve been around for a century, there is not just one family who has lived in a home, not only one party you can recall attending.
Maybe it’s the time or the temperature, maybe it’s Mary’s absence now. The same sights trigger different recollections. All of them are clear. As he shuffles along, he starts to think aloud. “Sold this one for $100,000. Bought it back for $175,000 and resold for $250,000!” Many such stories can be recalled.
Tomorrow there will be another tale of the sort or perhaps one about a couple whose kids helped them keep their home when money ran out. Each walk prompts new recollections based on how the slanting beams of the sun catch the vinyl siding or stone veneer of each house.
Mr. Anderson is not alone but he talks as though his audience is not present. Mary has been gone months now, but still, she’s by his side in his mind. Two shadows chase his and Lorraine’s every step, but it’s Mary’s ghost who leaves in their wake an invisible third. He’s ninety-nine, he’s not going to forget his only wife, not after a few months, not ever.
He points ahead where stands a stone stable. “There used to be horses in there, they sure were beautiful. Big too. Horses, now there’s a rich man’s business. Too much for the Andersons, but not the Vanderbilt’s.” They both chuckle at Anderson’s lack of want.
Closer to the main drag, the pillar of community is getting noticed. The Sun at his back, passersby are blinded until the shadow of the tall man grants them relief and their readjusted eyes realize who stands before them. “Mr. Anderson! How are you?” The curiosity is genuine, the excitement obvious. “Ah, we’re hanging in there.” He’s been saying this for years. 99, no, he won’t drop the ‘we’ or the ‘us’ at this point, though he sometimes makes an effort.
Several of these meetings take place as they climb toward the church and Mary’s graveyard. All are respectful of his time, never a nuisance. At this point, it’s interest like theirs that keeps his old body moving. Each hello is a reminder that he is remembered, valued.
There it is, that beautiful Episcopal church. It was always beautiful, but knowing he paid for the restoration after the fire makes it ever the more pretty. Its white exterior, the bugs surfing on the light breeze off the Hudson’s cool water. Evening Sun blankets the outside in orange-yellow warmth. Its style is simple, simple like a church ought to be, he figures. Beautiful but simple, the aged Episcopal church.
He feels welcomed. Welcomed because of its appearance, welcomed because he might as well own the place after so many donations. Not his to own, though, he’s a member just like everyone else.
Not a car in the small gravel lot, no satisfying rubber on rock crunch to hear, nobody to greet. Peace. Lorraine by his side, Mr. Anderson follows the slate path around the perimeter and to the cemetery in the rear. “Geez, looks so pretty here in the evening.” Lorraine nods, easy going woman that she is.
As they head off the slate and their feet meet uneven asphalt, they slow their pace. “There it is. So simple, have to remember which one it is every day. That’s what she wanted too. Something understated.” More nods from Lorraine, more silence.
Now Lorraine stands still as the summer evening air rests on her face and fills her lungs with each careful breath. God forbid she intrude on the couple.
Mr. Anderson approaches Mary’s tombstone with trepidation, intent on not disturbing the dirt and grass that surrounds. A pretty marble cross. Loving wife, loving mother. A few simple words. “I wrote them and they’re true, but they could never do her justice.” He knows he’s alone now, knows Lorraine has figured enough to stay back without looking. He’s mumbling to himself as he addresses Mary.
His shadow rests angled before him making gentle contact with that of Mary’s tombstone and the warm toned tulips that dance around it with each breeze that blows.
What’s there to say? He left nothing unsaid to his wife of over 70 years. He’s got not a regret. He’ll be back with her soon. That’s what the logic tells him, but his longing speaks different truths. Loved her beyond logic, so what good could words or reason do now? How can anything be the same in this slow changing place? Geez, so many thoughts on the mind.
Gives it a few minutes. Has his fill of melancholy. Wipes his eyes. Hastily makes the sign of the cross and off they go.
Back they walk. The downhill journey much less eventful. It seems with each step down, the Sun sinks further behind the Catskills. It’s as though this man who has controlled his community for nearly three quarters of a century is controlling the very time of day with his movement.
Nobody out walking now to greet the old pillar of community. Nobody to see the redness in his eyes. Nobody would judge him but that wouldn’t matter, he’d look down on himself. Who needs to feel pity on a man who’s had it so good?
Stepping along the granite lined walkway, they arrive at his door just as the front light’s shine becomes needed to illuminate the handle. Out on the deck they could watch the last of the rays disappear from view, but from this side it’s night. Mr. Anderson is glad; it’s been a long day.
Inside. Voicemails. Geez, a few calls to make, a couple to delay til the morning. Couldn’t have been gone that long! Slippers on, pajamas too. Eases into his lounge chair, eyes are heavy. No, need to make these calls. Laura is coming tomorrow, need to make sure she doesn’t worry. Gosh, the daughter I wish I had.
At first these calls, they feel like work. Once he’s gotten into the groove though they wash the sadness of his visit to Mary from his mind. He’s busy and busy means alive, busy means focused. Back in command.
Calls over, just a little TV then it’s bedtime. Watch some Yankees baseball, see if they’ll disappoint. Something to chat about tomorrow either way.
Geez, you hit ninety nine and nights end the same way they did when you were a child. You hop in bed, you lay down, and you’re alone with your thoughts, cocooned in blankets to return rejuvenated in the morning.
Mary no longer lying by his side, Mr. Anderson’s thoughts are different, lonelier, sadder. Still, the day generated plenty of exhaustion and soon it will get the better of his restless wondering.
How many nights will he have left? Well, can’t be many. More than he can count on the hand but can’t be numbered in years he figures. Somehow, though, he knows tomorrow will be worth awakening for if God allows him the pleasure.
Ninety-nine and Mr. Anderson is still needed, continually in demand. Today the reminders were too many to ignore, tough as that morning was.
The work may be tougher than before, each step a bit stiffer, but as long as one foot ends up in front of the other, he’ll move forward.
Tomorrow he’ll see Mary again, long as the weather and his will allows. He’ll see her every day until he sees her again. The “we,” no it won’t leave his vocabulary, can’t. Too late for that. Nobody will correct him either.
Tomorrow he’ll see more friends. Tenants, neighbors, and more. Some he can anticipate, others he cannot. They’ll ask how he is, how he feels, how they can help him in any way. He’ll put on an air of strength because these people deserve consistency as long as he’s alive. It’s his job to help, not theirs.
Tomorrow he’ll rise again, he’ll overcome morning struggles. Tomorrow will be just another day full of responsibility for Mr. Anderson.
Tomorrow will be another busy one with people in need, the aging man in constant demand.
Long days for a pillar of community.
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