A Very, Very, Very, Very Old Man (F)

I know what you're here for. Like the others.

My name is Gregario Fuentes and I was born on August 1, 1874. My birthplace was in the maternal home of my young mother located on Villere Street in New Orleans.

First things folks ask is if I knew any famous persons. Sure did. 

Mark Twain himself told me that all babies are ugly at first, but each is ugly in its own way. But that was in Manhattan when he lived on West 10th. I was working at the Fulton Market and Mr. Twain tipped me for fetching him an extra sack to carry some whitefish home.

The hard thing is still living after so many are gone. And being hard of hearing. That's a bad one, but better than being blind in both eyes. 

I do remember meeting Edith Wharton outside the library on 5th. I picked up her parasol for her and she thanked me and smiled very nicely as she walked on. Of course I didn't know much about her, but another lady told me who she was and what she was famous for. I was glad to do her a friend.

When I turned 38 I got it into my head that I would eat a serving of ice cream every day of my life. Had a spell when it was always chocolate but that got to me too much after several years. So I settled on vanilla with different toppings. Of late pecans have been what suit me most. 

I was told I was too old to join when our boys went over in '17. The ones I knew that made it back had it rough, a lot of them.

I saw Babe Ruth play one time in 1924. Saw one of his 46 home runs. Looked like it might not come back to earth.

I miss reading. My mother was very particular about learning to read. Last book I could get through was Last of the Breed by Louis L'Amour. That was some time ago. Now I just listen to the television and squint.

October 1st in 1940 I got my first social check for $23.67. 

Pearl Harbor, now that was a dirty one.

In 1989 three government men came out to see me because I was 115 and the social checks were stopped. They asked me a bunch of questions. Studied my birth certificate that I had in a Florsheim shoe box like it was from another country.

I got my first pair in 1896 by the way.

But the social checks started coming again and been getting them ever since.

And you want to know how much social I get each month.

Well that doesn't matter much as I am the sole heir of 52 wells in Vermillion Parish. 

Lyman 2025

Some Notes, In Passing

My first time sailing was aboard a Morgan 22 my father bought when we were visiting family in St. Petersburg.  The wind was light, 3-5 knots, and Tampa bay seas that morning 2' swells. In my father's excitement to take out his new purchase, we set off despite not having winch handles on board. Mercifully the wind stayed light, but sheeting in the head sail was still a chore. We spent 2 hours tacking back and forth. And I was hooked. At the time I was 12, my father 31.

My father's death came as a shock--an accident. He was 91. A very big number, I think.

The boat had to be shipped to our home port--Duluth, Minnesota. We built a small dock on an undeveloped spit across from Hearding Island. 

My father's standing request was there would be no formal funeral, no public notice, no obituary. 

One Saturday morning my father and I took the boat out into the harbor and before we were halfway to the lift bridge, a thick fog rolled in off Lake Superior. We were floating more than sailing. Behind us came the sound of mechanical equipment. Suddenly, to our shock, an ocean freighter came steaming by us no more than 50' on our port side. "Mother would be upset if she were here." I understood the message, loud and clear.

At a small family gathering, we shared stories and thoughts about my father and his life. Dutiful was the word I offered. He was a dutiful husband--72 years. He was a dutiful father for the 3 of us. He was dutiful in his efforts as an architect for his clients and as a college teacher for his students. 

And there would be no grave. No headstone. No epitaph. His body was to be cremated. I spread the ashes in a small garden he maintained at my parents' condo. 

Sometimes when sailing we would find ourselves close to other boats. There were 3 Cal 25s my father was keen to keep an eye on. Without much fuss, we would tack onto their heading and all engaged understood an informal race was underway. One time my father reported one of the other skippers merely said to him "Fast boat". He was pleased.

I envied my father's architectural career, to be able to in a real way see the fruit of his labor. Folks living in a residential building he designed, audiences enjoying performances in a theater of his, and the schools--all levels--full and thriving. But, I think he took just as much satisfaction from teaching architecture, and even simpler drawing classes. 

He was smart--very. He was capable. And he could cut to the chase. When I turned 16, he told me I was old enough to spend the night in jail. I understood that message too, loud and clear. As for going to college, he advised that by the end of the effort I should be something. 

He was bold. When he was 30, he moved us from Sarasota, Florida to Duluth. When he was 40 he left a successful private practice with my mother and younger brother and took up teaching at LSU in Baton Rouge. At 50, he accepted a teaching slot in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. He and my mother were in residence there for 5 years. He returned to architecture,working in Savannah, and then finished his career in Macon.

I believe he was as pleased for me when he stood in the companionway of my Pearson 26 as we raced in Charleston Harbor as when he skippered his own boat. 

He was a good man. To my way of thinking, his was a life lived.