Art, and a Life Well Lived, Part Three
Hello again! Remember me? After a long hiatus of summer shenanigans + getting settled into our new school year/work rhythm, I’ve returned to finish the series on everybody’s favorite neighbor - Arthur. Read earlier installments about Art by clicking here (part 1) and here (part 2).
Photo by Jen Theodore
Today’s installment will be short and sweet - pun intended - because now we get to talk about cake.
Our first Christmas in the neighborhood of the little gray house, I thought it might be neighborly to gift the houses surrounding us with little baskets of holiday goodies.
I filled them with the usual vittles of Christmas cookies, crackers, cured meats, and some local cheeses. They were small baskets, and each had a card signed by our family. The kids and I delivered them to our sweet neighbors who were all sufficiently grateful.
Art’s response, as you might now predict, was unique. He thanked us far too many times and gently but firmly stated, “Rachel, now I owe you.”
I laughed and told him that was nonsense. Then we wished him “Merry Christmas” and left.
After the New Year's festivities passed, there was a knock at the door.
When we opened it, Art was standing there with a small bundt cake in his hands. He said, “Rachel, your Christmas basket was too much. Now I’m indebted to you and plan to bake you a cake every month this year.”
I laughed again at what I assumed must be hyperbole because my gift basket cost minimal dollars, and took a whopping ten minutes to assemble. The time and effort to make even just one cake was more than I had previously gifted him. And lest we forget, he was 99 years of age. The thought of him baking anyone any number of cakes in that little yellow kitchen seemed suspect to me.
In true form, however, Art surprised us when he knocked on our door in February.
“Last month’s cake was chocolate, and this month’s is lemon. I hope you like lemon, Rachel.”
He made another bundt cake.
And another.
And another.
And another.
Despite all my begging and pleading that he had more than paid off his “debt,” Art wouldn’t have any of it.
We got a couple lemon bundt cakes with lemon drizzle, one strawberry, several chocolates, and I particularly remember one tasty orange cake - made with a can of orange soda.
This madness didn’t end until, of course, December when he brought our 12th cake to the doorstep and simply smiled and said, “my debt is paid.”
The hours spent alone in his kitchen that year
Those long hours spent standing, and mixing, and bending, and lifting
Those unknown hours spent by an aging man who grew in his mother’s womb a full century before
Those hours are nothing short of grace upon grace for me.
To try to succinctly unpack what his cake delivery or repetitive gesture of service taught me would reduce it to something less than it truly is.
So I will not.
Thank you, Art.
[This short story is an installment of a miniseries that I’m writing about the lessons I learned from my friend and neighbor, Arthur. Stay tuned for the final chapter about Art - the one about the most epic birthday celebration of all time. And if Art’s stories have impacted you in ways big or small, please share in the comments! Peace + Love]