A Work of Art

I worked for several years with a man named Art.

He was a big, strapping guy, well over six feet tall. In fact, everything about him was big. His personality, his movements, his voice.

He was one of the therapists in my office. I often would tell him he needed to use his inside voice, for I could hear him through a closed door and down the hall.

He would laugh his big laugh, hug me from the side, and say, "All right, Mama. I'll try."

Although Art was old enough to be my daddy, he called me mama. He said he'd never had a boss like me. Said I knew exactly how to be a boss, and that was just like being a good mama. I knew when to love, I knew when to discipline, I knew when to say 'good job!', and I loved all the staff.

Now, those words were his, but it is true, I love(d) them all. I didn't think of them as my children, though, sometimes it was a little hard not too. They were professionals: nurses, therapists, doctors, secretaries, van drivers and techs. And every one one of them, for the most part, did an excellent, professional job.

Many of them are my fast friends, even today.

Art was a southerner, but not a southerner like me. He was a Mississippi bayou southerner.

His past was somewhat mysterious. I knew he'd been a minister in the church, that he had a really crazy wife (she tried to run him down with the car while their little children were with her), and that somehow because of her insanity and accusations directed toward him, he left the church - or was asked to leave.

We talked some about our spiritual, Christian beliefs. He told me once I was one of the deepest people he'd ever met, I knew more than I let on about spiritual life. That came from discussions I won't go into here.

We also shared books.

He was so proud when my first book, 'Falling', was published, he couldn't wait for them to arrive. So he ordered one off  Amazon. I think he was just tickled he could order a book by me off the Internet.

He came to the book signing, hugging every woman twice and more if  he could get away with it.

The day he died just about broke my heart. You see, Art also had a big vain streak. He was  not about to admit to his severe health problems, therefore he did nothing about them.

He was on his way to work and  had to pull over. He was able to call 9-1-1 from his cell phone so an ambulance could get him to a hospital.

He died very shortly afterward.

He had called me about two weeks before when he was in town. He wanted me to meet him for lunch, but I was not well that day, and was still in my pajamas. He had to get back somewhere fairly quickly and couldn't wait on me to get ready. I even suggested he could get us food and come out to the house, but he said he was too pushed for time. "Now, I love you, darlin', we have to get together soon, you  hear?"

I agreed. Made him promise to call me on his way in so I could get ready next time, not to spring it on me. He laughed and promised that's what he'd do.

That time never came, of course.

I went to his house for a memorial service by invitation of his family. I received a phone call from  one of his cousins who was going through his address book. She found my name, checked out my relationship to him through a person she and Art knew who also knew me, and told me she wanted me to attend.

He owned a little house that he was very proud of. He'd remarried late in life and loved her very much, but she had died just before I was introduced to Art. So his house, and all that was in it, was going to some family that really had no interest in most of his belongings.

They had his pictures everywhere. Man, he was a real looker in his youth! He was Mister this and Mister that in high school, and no wonder. Stories were told, most of them funny.

Neither of his children attended. He'd been estranged from them for many years.

Some of us sat around and pieced together parts of his mysterious life. He had shared a little piece with one person, another little piece with someone else. We ended knowing a lot more than we did, but nowhere near who he may have really been.

Towards the end of the evening, the family announced they wanted us to browse Art's bookshelves and take whatever we wanted.

I was looking for my own book, thinking I'd like to have it with what I had written to him on the inside cover. But his cousin said one of the young girls in the family had already chosen it, and I said for her to keep it by all means. She told me they had found the book on his bedside table.

For some reason, my eye was drawn to a particular book, and I pulled it from the shelf. On the inside cover, written in Art's large scrawl the words: "Recommended by Kathi Hill as a must read". I got chills all over my body, because there were  hundreds of books to choose from.

Leave it to Art to find a way to tell me good-bye.

Good old Art. I loved him so, and I miss  him still.

I hope I see him again someday.

I hope he's where he can use his big old laugh and outside voice all the time. I don't think God would mind.