You don’t know Art Napier. For that matter, even though I lived across the street from him for the past 8 years, I didn’t know Art all that well either. But I certainly liked him.
What first struck me about Art was Art’s wife Margaret. Art was 84 and his wife was about 87, and she’d already had Alzheimer’s for nearly a decade before I bought the house across the street from them. A vigorous, friendly guy, Art positively doted on his wife. He provided all her care, kept up the yard flowers and the cat, and on sunny days he’d escort her out to her favorite chair on their porch where she’d enjoy the sunshine or the older neighbors or just watch my pre-teen kids play in the street. It’s a testament to Art’s care that Margaret is alive today. Should it come to that, Art was the kind of husband I hope to be.
Art kept his lawn under martial law. Weeds dared not venture into Art’s landscape, and he could be counted upon to plant hordes of annual flowers in the front where his wife could enjoy them. A WWII combat veteran and a 26-year Navy man, Art also raised a small U.S. flag every morning and struck the colors every night. He’d pick up his newspaper and have his coffee. Art was a man of consistency.
He liked my kids. He liked the noise, and the footballs, and the skateboards. He was a sucker for cheerleading donations, or football donations, or whatever it was my kids were extorting from the neighbors during the school year. Later, he was tolerant when my kids or their boyfriends / girlfriends would appropriate the parking in front of his house. I’d occasionally ask to make sure it was okay, and Art would just laugh it off.
Being a vet myself, I occasionally got Art talking about the war. Among other things, he drove landing craft in some of the Pacific battles. He’d killed people and he regretted it, and 60 years later he was still having nightmares. Art never held a grudge against the Japanese people for the war; he’d say in his West Virginia twang “It wasn’t their fault any more than it was my fault”. This might not matter much to anyone, but since my kids are Asian, it mattered a little to me. I’ve seen worse behavior out of people who never fought in the war.
After Art left the Navy he worked at the Navy shipyard. That is apparently where he inhaled the asbestos that started killing him last September. I began noticing the flag wasn’t always out, and sometimes the yard looked a little dry, and Margaret made fewer appearances when the sun shined. Art’s kids did a good job of checking up on him, but 91 years, a world war, and an innocuous but deadly bit of pipe insulation all took their toll. Art passed away the day after Christmas.
This is for you, Art. Thanks for setting one final example of what it means to care and what it means to be part of a neighborhood. I won’t forget.
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