week of 1/22/03
 
 
 

A life lived on the bright side
By Jay Hardwig

I blinked twice and swallowed hard when I saw the e-mail in my inbox. Subject line: Mike Smith. I did not want to open it.

Mike Smith was a friend and comrade from Austin. He had been my mentor at the Texas School for the Blind and Visually Impaired, where we both taught. More than that, he had been a friend, generous and caring and kind, always ready to share a meal or a beer or a baseball game. But the news, I knew, wasn’t about baseball. Mike Smith had spent the last year fighting the ravages of cancer. He fought valiantly, so hard. If optimism and effort was all it required, he’d have had it licked. It wasn’t. I opened the e-mail.

Mike Smith, dead at age 54.

When Nita got home, I shared the terrible news. Her face fell, our knees grew weak, and soon we were both sobbing on the floor.

Eli did not know what to make of this. A moment before, he had been digging in his toy box for a plastic helicopter; now his parents were red-eyed and crying. We hadn’t fallen. We weren’t sick. No one had taken a toy from us. It was a mystery.

He did not get upset, or sad, or quiet. He did not ask us why we were crying. He simply gathered a few dolls, laid out a blanket, and said, “I know. We’ll have a picnic and you’ll feel better!”

“It’ll be OK,” he added. “Let’s have a picnic!”

We did not tell him why we were sad. It would make no sense to him. He didn’t need that news. But we weren’t quite ready to play, either. Eli offered us a few of his favorite toys, to no avail. Still baffled, he took a few steps, shrugged, and started banging happily on his tambourine.

At 2, Eli has his reflective moods. He’s capable of a sober thought and a pregnant silence both. This was not one of those times. His valves were wide-open. And so he played through our tears, with exuberance and energy, and soon our tears were mixed with laughter. The moment passed.

Mike Smith was a huge Bob Marley fan. He owned every album, even the worthless obscure lost-track compilations. He used to tell me that he’d read seven books in his life, and six of them were about Marley. When he learned he had cancer, he told me he wanted Bob Marley played at his memorial service. The service is Friday. I don’t know if they’ll play Marley.

But I did.

I went to the basement, dug through my cassette tapes, and pulled out my old copy of Legend. I planned a spirited hour of listening to Bob and remembering Mike; it was to be a celebration and not a wake. The music did not agree. It hit me like a ton of bricks, particularly the opening organ strains of “No Woman, No Cry.” Immediately, my tears started to flow again; before long, I was back on the floor, choking back sobs. Eli, playing in the next room, never had a clue.

Eli knew Mike Smith, but he doesn’t know him now. He was too young when we left Texas — just over a year — to remember him. If he did know him, this is what he would have known:

Mike Smith loved cold beer and Longhorn baseball. He loved children, he loved his friends, he loved his friends’ children. He and his wife Katy took Eli to his first baseball game, and gave us a dozen photos just to prove it. I will show those to Eli sometime.

Mike Smith gave his life to others. He loved teaching. The first conversation I ever had with Mike was in an office at the school where we both worked. Our students were blind, and many carried the label of mentally retarded. I was new at the game; he was a vet. I asked him, out of curiosity, what our students’ IQs were. He wouldn’t answer the question. “I don’t want to talk about what these kids can’t do,” he said. “I want to talk about what they can do.” Seven years later, I’m still in Special Education, and his words are still my guide.

A former student of ours once told me Mike was “young at heart,” and he was. He had good days and bad days, but most days you could find him with a smile. He never had a bad word for anyone. He was a kind soul. Fifteen months ago, when Mike had just gotten sick, a friend and I were talking about the news. I said what I’d thought for many years: “If everyone in this world was like Mike Smith, we’d be living in a much better world.” I don’t say this of everyone; I wouldn’t say it of myself. But I will say it of Mike.

I hoisted a pint in my kitchen, and drank a shot of whiskey in his memory. I went outside and poured libations to the ground, a cold bottle of cheap American beer, just as Mike would have it. I looked at the stars and said farewell.

My private ceremony over, I went back into the living room to be with Eli. Bob Marley was still playing on the stereo. Eli looked up, smiled, and started singing to me, doing his best to match the melody coming from our speakers. He didn’t know the words, but the message was the same:

“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna be allright.”

We played Marley all night.

Later, at bedtime, I turned off the reggae and took Eli upstairs. We read a few books and turned out the light. When the lights go out, I often tell Eli a story. On this night, Jan. 13, 2003, I told him the story of Mike Smith. It was a good story, although it didn’t have a happy ending. It was a good story.

We won’t forget you, Mike.


(Jay Hardwig can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)