In Memory of "Jake"

It was late evening a day in late Spring more than 30 years ago, as I remember.   My long day at the office ended with an uneventful, thus pleasant drive home; across mid-Manhattan and up the Westside Highway to the George Washington Bridge.   In a snap, I was in New Jersey, skirting Fort Lee, floating onto Route 4, then into my community, my neighborhood and home.  I was happy.

My daughter was away in college.  My son was there, upstairs in his room.  We greeted each other, voices raised to reach one another.   “Hey ‘D’.  I’m home. You ok?”  

“Hi, yeah ……. “  Darin’s tone - courteous, yet abrupt; most likely he was on the phone.   A high school senior with a part-time job, his personal time was limited.  I understood not getting his full attention.  Too tired to cook, I was looking for a quick food fix when he came into the kitchen.

“I have to go to the hospital," Darin said.  "My chest hurts.”  Any happy aura was gone.  My stomach panicked.  “Please Dear God, may it be only a mild pain siege we’re able to handle and he'll escape a full-blown sickle-cell crisis,” was my silent plea.  I questioned when he had taken pain medicine.  The answer prompted me to suggest he try to hold on, drink plenty of water and let the medicine work.  “Can you give it more time?  Let’s try?”  He went back upstairs.  It was a Sickle Cell pain attack so the possibility of avoiding going to the hospital’s emergency room was slim.  Still, maybe we wouldn’t have to go.

In my bedroom, door closed, changing from office attire, I thought I heard the front doorbell ring.  I was right.

Opening the door, I was surprised to see Mr. Stevens (Jake) our not-quite-directly-across-the-street neighbor.  In a helpful but hurried tone, he said, “tell Darin I’m here.”   Obviously reacting to the puzzled look on my face, Jake told me Darin had called him.  “He asked if I could take him to the hospital.”

Three thoughts flooded my mind.  First the selfish one, that being how mortified I felt to have misread Darin’s critical need - and, not helping.  Second, I was proud of my son for knowing whom he could call on and following through for what he needed.  Third, how blessed we were to have wonderful neighbors such as the Stevens family unit. 

The Stevens had grown children with careers and families of their own.  They also had a younger daughter, Janet, a best friend of Farah, my daughter, and a grandson, Harold, a best friend of my son.  Mrs. Stevens (Sarah) and I were close, warm friends.  We women and children frequently shared time with each other.   If Jake happened to be around, he was a willing conversationalist, ready to debate history, politics, and the news.

Everyday Jake went to work in Manhattan.  He worked in the Fashion District; a pattern maker, I understood.  A tailor too, I’m thinking.  He traveled back and forth on a commuter bus from NYC’s mid-town Port Authority.  In the evening dusk we could see him walking home from the bus stop several blocks away.  I always thought of Jake as a fine role model of a family man.  He was a hard working, reliable contributor to his family.  He was a reader and a thinker.  He had opinions and expressed them.  Jake was the kind of Black patriarch I tried to evidence and sought to recognize in Black Star Girl, my book written to celebrate my own exemplary black father. 

I don’t recall ever asking Mr. Stevens or his wife for  help with a specific problem.   Thus my surprise and gratitude the night Darin was in distress and made that call, confident he could count on Harold’s grandfather to get him to the hospital when he was in need.  It was a revelation I appreciated and I’ll never forget. 

A decade and more ago, the Stevens moved away from our neighborhood, our community, from New Jersey.  We remained in close touch.

Earlier this week, Jake's living on this earth ended.  He was 89 years old.  The family, his widow, children, grandchildren, in-laws, nieces, nephews, and other family members and friends will celebrate his life this coming Saturday in the Atlanta, Georgia area.  My prayers for their peace and comfort go out to them.

Rest in Peace Jake.  You will be lovingly remembered as the great man you were to many.

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Have you had the opportunity to be a memorable neighbor, a helpful neighbor, a role model of a good neighbor?