Two weeks ago, a longtime resident of my building passed away. He was 93. Out of respect for his privacy, I’ll call him H.
I didn’t actually know H all that well. I’ve only lived in this building since last October and I doubt I exchanged more than a few sentences with him in total since then. He was kind of quiet and unassuming. I did see him around quite a bit, often carrying a tool kit or a case of nails. We have a workshop in the building, so I didn’t really think anything of it.
Then, one day, these wine corks appeared in the gaps between the decorative panel siding in our elevators. They were shoved into several places, running up the wall at intervals. I couldn’t fathom what they were for -- other than maybe someone had a really awful day and didn’t wait to get to their condo before opening a bottle of wine...or five.
A sign that went up a few days later solved the mystery. It read “Do not remove corks. Repair in progress.” My first thought was “Well, that’s resourceful.” My second was “Who would steal corks?”
Several days after that I came upon H in the elevator. He was tinkering with the corks, moving them about purposefully. I remarked on them and he said the laminate on the edges of the panels was coming loose and the corks held things in place while the glue he had applied dried. He’d been slowly working his way through all four of our elevators doing the repair.
“I would have never thought of that,” I said. “You're so creative. I’d love to be as handy as you.”
He just gave a bit of a shrug, not saying much.
I didn’t give it a lot more thought until I went to the building’s Christmas party. H was there and the person I was speaking with introduced me to him. He said something to the effect of H being responsible for countless repairs around the building, and he had even designed our garbage room.
“Really?” I said. “I love that garbage room.”
Perhaps I should explain.
When I was thinking of moving into this building I viewed my potential unit, and also got a tour of the rest of the place. That included the garbage room. I have to say that it completely floored me. (And, no, I don’t regularly go around gobsmacked by garbage rooms).
It was so clean, spotless and well-organized I almost couldn’t believe it. If Steve Jobs had designed a garbage room, it would look like our building’s. I kid you not. There are all sorts of handy touches that make the rather distasteful process of dropping off your garbage, recycling and kitchen scraps pretty much effortless. And it’s clean. So clean.
When I professed my admiration for the garbage room, H again just shrugged and didn’t say much at all. He almost seemed embarrassed at the attention.
From Christmas onwards I continued to see H around the building. He was at it with the elevator panel repairs again a few months ago -- though he’d upgraded to some stainless steel holders. I kind of missed the corks. But, you always knew H had been around when you saw his holders in the elevator. It was kind of comforting, that quiet presence.
About three weeks ago I realized I hadn’t seen H around in awhile. A few days later we received an email that he had died. I felt very sad, but happy for him that he’d lived to 93. He was apparently active right up until the end, walking all over town to run errands and do his shopping.
I didn’t really know H at all, but my life was impacted immeasurably by his quiet service. He carried out countless tasks in the building, unpaid, that benefited all of us.
Yesterday, I had to take my recycling down to the garbage room. As I looked around I said to myself “H is gone.” The room was clean and tidy, of course, but there was something missing -- a presence that you didn’t really appreciate until it wasn’t there.
I think we all have people like H in our lives -- those who just get things done, often unseen, without wanting a fuss or recognition. I don’t know what H’s religious affiliation was or if he even had one but, to me, what he did was akin to a spiritual practice. He was of quiet service, like I said, and I hope I can incorporate a little bit of that into my own life.
Kevin Aschenbrenner is a Victoria-based writer, poet and communications professional. He holds an M.A. in Culture and Spirituality from the Sophia Center at Holy Names University in Oakland, Calif. He blogs at www.dearpopefrancis.ca
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