Life Goes On

I must've gone by that house on Carrie Drive a thousand times; maybe ten thousand.

Living ten miles south of Grass Valley, the nearest center of commerce to our off-the-beaten- path subdivision, Carrie Drive, is one of the few arterials that drains onto a major north-south road to get there. So coming or going to work or running errands there was no way around it; I had to pass that yellow house. 

True; there's dozens of other houses lining both sides of Carrie Drive, too, and I've passed each of them as often as the yellow house. But what set this particular house apart, besides the substantial backyard drop-off visible from the road, was the name spelled out over the garage: RAGLAN. It always caught my eye. There’s no other house out there, on any other street, with the residents' name so prominently displayed. So it made them, and their house, unique.

The lovely Amy and I moved into this area, better known to the locals as Alta Sierra, in 1994. The Raglan's had already beaten us there, by how long I don't know. But I'd noticed their place- actually, the sign over their garage- during our house hunting trips before we bought. Of course, who’s to say if the practice of nailing 12 inch tall wrought iron letters and forming a name over one's domicile is a particularly new idea? Nobody else in that part of Alta Sierra had done it, though. I found it interesting and, for some unknown reason, felt it added to their home's curb appeal.

Once I started using Carrie Drive every day, I even see one of these Ragland’s every now and then. It was usually Mr. Raglan, out checking the mailbox or newspaper tube. He waved once or twice, too; whether to say hello or get me to slow down, I can't say for sure. But it generally seemed like a friendly wave, so I'll assume he was being pleasant and ignoring how much over the speed limit I was going. I’d seen Mrs. Raglan sweeping their charming front deck and puttering around the garage from time to time, too. But I never actually met a Raglan. They were just folks who we shared the same zip code with us who seemed proud to advertise they were here. Good for them. I thought it was cool.

But one typical Saturday a few years ago, the lovely Amy and I were headed off to town to run some errands and grab some lunch and run some errands. We'd taken a walk earlier, before the day grew too hot, and noticed a flurry of late summer activity on the route. One of the neighbors was prepping his boat for a family weekend at the lake. Farther along, two separate houses were hosting big yard sales. Other properties were in the process of receiving some much needed yard maintenance or make-overs from their owners. And when we walked past the school, a lively soccer practice was in progress. People and cars were coming and going, and we hadn't even ventured out of the neighborhood yet.

After our walk, we off-loaded the overfilled trash bags from the garbage cans into the back of the truck and then headed to the landfill for another bi-monthly Saturday dump run. It was about 11:30. A few minutes later, we were on Carrie Drive. When the Raglan's house came into view, it some sort of activity was going on. As we drew closer, the commotion became clear- an ambulance was parked in the driveway, its lights still flashing. A sheriff's car was parked next to the Raglan's mailbox, its left side partially hanging out onto the un-sidewalked street.

Curiosity and traffic safety caused me to slow, slow enough to see the wide open Raglan front door. Other than that, whatever was going on inside wasn’t within view of my quick drive by. However, never failing to take an opportunity to state the obvious, as we continued rolling past, I said to Amy, "Uh-oh. That can't be good." It probably wasn't either, but my focus quickly turned  back to driving, and our attention wandered back to the issues at hand-  getting our trash dumped before the noon rush, and after, what to eat and where.

There was a line at the County landfill, but we were closer to the front than back, and were in and out in pretty good time. Now, what for lunch?  In the downtown area I was quickly annoyed by the crowds of traffic and pedestrians. School had been in session for three weeks, and many of the stores still had weekend back-to-school and fall sales going on. There was a wedding at one of the big churches too, so I wanted to get out of Grass Valley proper as soon as possible. But we hadn't eaten outdoors at Tofanelli's on West Main Street in a while and, though I tried talking myself out of it, coaxed the truck in that direction.

The outdoor patio at Tofanelli's Bistro is a marvelous place to eat on a pleasant summer day, and that afternoon was no exception. So I was glad that’s where we stopped. Good food, good ice tea, great atmosphere and great smells coming from the big open bar-b-cue. There were four bikers at one of the nearby tables, swapping Harley and road-trip stories, and a young couple seemed quite taken with themselves at another. First date? Nope, don't think so. He was looking at her with mooney eyes, and she seemed smitten, at least from my hit-and- miss observations, trying not to be obvious they’d drawn my attention as I chewed slowly on my Tofanelli's Sliders and made small talk with Amy.

Next stop was Penny's, because there was a 10 percent off everything store-wide sale and, goodness knows, if we missed that one there wouldn't be another till….till next weekend. After that, we bought a few groceries at Raley's Marke. Then, with full tummies and the day's errands run, we headed home. It was about 3:00. Heading south on Dog Bar Road, ten minutes later we turned onto Carrie Drive and the familiar meandering last few miles to home. The Oakland A's game was playing on the radio. I had to slow to get around a dude riding his 10- speed. On the left side of the street, a dad and his kid were moving a ladder. Two girls were running across a lawn next door. Some guy was out washing his car in a driveway to the right. And an old duffer in a golf cart was coming at us in the other lane, back from playing a round on the nearby course.

We came by the Raglan's house again.

The ambulance and sheriff were gone. They'd been replaced by a vehicle belonging to the County Medical Examiner and, for lack of a better term, a pick-up wagon from one of the mortuaries. I resisted repeating aloud, Uh-oh. That can't be good.  Clearly it wasn't. Duh. Not if the coroner and undertaker were on scene. Somebody had died. Putting it into our own timeline, the dearly departed had expired sometime prior to Amy and I leaving for the landfill, and before we’d paid for our groceries at the market.  I couldn’t even guess when. But I didn’t have to guess who-one of the Raglan’s had left this mortal world.

Over the next day or so, I saw two other cars parked in the driveway. I inferred they belonged to the grown children who'd come home to be with their grieving mother. Two weeks after that, a moving van showed up and took all the home's contents away. Not long after that, a Coldwell Banker "For Sale" sign was posted next to the mail box, and the letters spelling RAGLAN over the garage, were removed.

The local rag ran an obit that filled in a couple of the rudimentary blanks. Mr. Raglan had died suddenly at home on Saturday September 9, 2006. No cause was given, but with an age listed as 72, a heart attack seems the most logical suspect. Services were handled by Hooper and Weaver. Peter Raglan was born in Iowa, had served in the Army, been a machinist until retirement, liked baseball and gardening, and left behind a wife, two sons, and several grandchildren. It wasn't much, but I now knew more about Mr. Raglan in death than I ever did in life.

I'm sure when our time comes, many of us fantasize going out heroically or in a blaze of glory. Odds are, though, we'll each leave as quietly as Mr. Raglan.  Oh, there'll be ripple effects within our own circle. For sure when I go, I hold no illusions that the world is going to stop and take notice. My departure will be as inconspicuous as a drop of rain in the ocean. But God will notice. Either welcoming me to share an Eternity in Heaven or a more unpleasant one in Hell (and I’m fervently pray for the former rather than the latter), He’ll know.

Like Mr. Raglan’s obituary, mine will probably be bare bones, too. If I was cynical- and I’m never that- I’d say it’s because they won’t find anything I did worth noting to print. Truthfully, though, there's really no adequate way to sum up 72 years of living (or however many) within the three paragraph confines of a newspaper obit. So I’m sure they’ll just cover the high pints- doing their due diligence to find any- and be done with it. Those we leave behind, the ones that loved and knew us best, they know the impact, value and meaning of our lives. If I made a difference to them, good or bad, they won't forget. That’ll be all that really matters.

Unfortunately I don’t have a treasure trove of deep insights or conclusions to draw from this story; no brilliant points to make, either. A man I never knew, died. End of story. But that would be the cynical me speaking again. Which I said I wasn’t. Fooled you. No, what drew my attention that day, was simply the yin and the yang of it all. 

To paraphrase Thoreau, while the mass of men were out there leading lives of quiet- or not so quiet-desperation, for one individual, that day was his last. 

But like any other ordinary Saturday in the course of a million ordinary lives, we were each just out there doing what we do; we played soccer, ate lunch, got married, washed a car, bought groceries, gave birth, played golf or were drawn into a thousand other arbitrary pursuits. We did life. Yet as the rest of us scurried to and fro like ants on an ant hill that afternoon, most of us were completely unaware that one of the ants had ceased to exist. However, Mr. Raglan's passing didn't go completely ignored or unnoticed.

I noticed, the EMT's, cop, coroner and guys from the mortuary noticed too. Most of all, the one he'd shared his life with, Mrs. Raglan noticed, and was with her husband until the end. He didn't live here alone. He didn’t leave here alone. Although I'm sure when he got up that morning, Mr. Raglan wasn't planning to be leaving at all; he had no idea he’d be dead before noon. But he was. That's life. Ours continued. His didn’t.

Mrs. Raglan's life went on, too, unalterably changed forever, but it went on. It had to, for in the natural order of things there's no other outcome. We're here and then we're not; but till then, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, we keep going. Whether young, old, or in-between, we live.  It's what we do.

It was another ordinary Saturday evening, one of a thousand Saturday evenings I've seen. As I reflected on the day's events, though, I wondered how many more I might have?  How many more Saturdays were left to me on this side of Heaven? Pretty heavy stuff. And while I don't often stop and think about such ridiculously unknowable issues, I can’t deny the query briefly crossed my mind.

But then Amy and I made plans to go out to a movie that night, and maybe some ice cream, as life went on.....