“I have moments when Iwould say I think it’s time,
maybeoneofthedayswhenIwasatalowpoint,”he
said.“Enoughisenough,youknow?Iwouldbadgermy
Shelley.Iwouldsay,youknowinAfrica,whenyougot
oldandyoucouldn’tproduceanymore,theyusedtotake
yououtinthejungleandleaveyoutobeeatenbywild
animals.ShethoughtIwasnuts.‘No,’Isaid.‘I’m not
producinganythinganymore.I’mcostingthegovernment
money.’
“I gothrough that everyoncein a while.Then Isay,
‘Hey,itiswhatitis.Gowiththeflow.Iftheywantyou
around, so what?’”
Wehadbeentalkinginasittingroomoffthekitchenwith
ceiling-high windows on two sides. The summer was
turningtofall.Thelightwaswhiteandwarm.Wecould
seethetownofChelseabelowus,BostonHarbor’sBroad
Sound in the distance, the ocean-blue sky all around.
We’dbeentalkingaboutthestoryofhislifeforalmost
twohourswhenitstruckmethat,forthefirsttimeIcan
remember,Ididnotfearreachinghisphaseoflife.Lou
wasninety-fouryearsoldandtherewascertainlynothing
glamorousaboutit.Histeethwereliketoppledstones.He
hadachesineveryjoint.He’dlostasonandawife,and
hecouldnolongergetaroundwithoutawalkerthathada
yellowtennisballjammedontoeachofitsfrontfeet.He
sometimes got confused and lost the thread of our
conversation.Butitwasalsoapparentthathewasableto
liveinawaythatmadehimfeelthathestillhadaplace
in this world.They stillwanted himaround. Andthat
raisedthepossibilitythatthesamecouldbethecasefor
any of us.