Batter up! After we unloaded two antique swinging
doors from my friend’s truck, he drove away. I stayed to talk to the owner of
the antique repair shop. He worked in an old building filled with piles of pieces
of antiques as if all had been dropped off for recycling.
“Lee?”
“Come on back,” Lee responded. Although I knew, from the
sound of his voice, that he was only ten or fifteen feet ahead of me, I
couldn’t see that far. Tools and glue pots and pieces of wood leaning against
partially restored tables and whatnots blocked all but a trail about fifteen
inches wide.
I pulled one of the doors, about seven feet tall and twenty
inches wide, in Lee’s direction. Seconds later, his smile greeted me as he
peeked out from behind a piece he was finishing.
“Nice,” he said, despite noting the chipped white paint.
“That stained glass is beautiful.”
Lee was referring to the diamond shaped panes in the upper
half of the top panel. He asked how much I’d paid.
I asked if he could dip the pair to remove the paint. In the
years since we’d last talked, I knew a lot had changed. The city had shut him
down for a while; they claimed his building was a fire hazard although he’d
been doing the same work there for more than twenty-five years. Added to that,
the auctions that had welcomed his reworked antiques no longer brought decent
prices. “That’s why my truck and vans are for sale,” he told me. “And my wife
divorced me. I’m living here now,” he said, and pointed to the far side of the
building. “In a camper.”
We talked a while longer before I left. In an interesting
way, being with Lee was like the old simple days when we’d done business
together. I knew he’d do what I needed and would do it right. But I also
remembered that, long ago, I had to wait months for him to finish and deliver.
That’s why I was surprised to see him this afternoon, only a
week after dropping off the doors. “They’re ready,” he said. “Gotta be 100 to
150 years old. Just beautiful.”
Minutes later, he and I studied the craftsmanship.
Impeccable. “Thanks,” I said, as I paid him a little more than what he’d asked.
I was eager to do my work, hand sanding then applying tung
oil. Indeed, I would have started it this evening, but I’d promised to go to
services at our Temple. We were having guests from Martinsville; their Jewish
congregation includes only twenty-two families. I knew many of them.
At the oneg afterwards, I saw D., a man I’d befriended
decades before; he and his family had owned a department store then. Now, at
seventy, he’s a consultant.
“And I play softball,” he said.
“Softball?”
“Yeh, it’s the over sixty-five league. Wanna play?”
“Love to,” I said. “I pitch.”
“Terrific! We have a few men from Danville. Practice starts
in February.”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d wanted to play for years but
couldn’t think of a team that would have me. As I listened to D.’s story about
his recent heart operation (stints for blockages), I tried to picture what the
games would be like.
“What position do you play?” I asked.
“Centerfield. All the fastest guys are in the outfield,” he
said. I tried to imagine that too.
“I’d better start to get back into shape,” I said to D. For
the first time in years, that thought excited me. Even so, I wasn’t sure what
to do first.
What I did know was that, before I could begin, I had to
restore an old set of doors and make them look new.
B. Koplen 11/9/12
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