After Hurricane Sandy's Pass, A Passing

With the passing of Hurricane Sandy, and a subsequent first snow of the season, we've had our share of climatic drama. My wife and I were very happy the agita the storms generated was beginning to fade away. Today was the first day I felt confident in weather and gasoline supply to venture about eight miles from our residence. My destination was a place my spouse and I call the "egg farm."

It's not really a farm, but the owners do sell eggs from the chickens they keep on the property. The land itself borders a river that's more akin to a stream as it meanders through the owners' land. A waterfall forms a visual boundary on the other side of the road from the egg farm. Some plain leafy trees shade the property and old house in the warmer months. A couple of those fell, along with some conifers, during Sandy.

Seeing the fallen trees saddened me, as I had considered the egg farm something of a paradise all too rare in suburban central New Jersey. I concluded the place would feel more gathered once the fallen trees were removed.

I wasn't certain eggs would be available for sale in the wake of Sandy. The scattered remains of trees and branches didn't inspire much hope. However, I pulled up by the egg box. I didn't see the handwritten note attached above it until I got out of the car. The document noted, in remarkably calm prose, that the husband of the spousal team that owned the egg farm had passed away "suddenly" six days ago.

I had seen him about a month ago, and he appeared vigorous and without any outward manifestation of illness. That was the last time we saw him alive.

In the midst of this recollection, two gray haired, somewhat stout men approached me. One of them turned out to be the brother of the deceased. Although we had never met before today, he openly talked with me about the circumstances surrounding his sibling's death. He kept his composure as he relayed how a "simple surgery" had tragic consequences, including sepsis, kidney failure, and relatively sudden death. The train of events seemed incredible, yet I was aware they are a daily occurrence in hospitals. My wife once told me "there's no such thing as a simple surgery"; I didn't believe her until today.

The dead man's brother told me briefly about the wake and burial. At the cemetery, "I put my hand on his coffin and I saluted him," and then the box went into the earth. As the story ended, the man began to cry; I put my hand on his shoulder and offered condolences as best as I could.

Later, my wife and I read the obit from the newspaper. The deceased had married his childhood sweetheart, he worked for Ma Bell, he was active in the local fire department, and he belonged to a state beekeeper organization. The story didn't relate the deeply tragic circumstances that ended his life, or his warmth when he would meet my wife and me during one of our egg purchases. It didn't talk about his evident affinity for the land, his obvious love for his wife, and his wry sense of humor. Those qualities are something for those who knew him, including my spouse and me, to honor and cherish.

I only wish my wife and I could have said good-bye to him.