I have just been re-reading the material I have written so far and realised that I promised some time ago that I would get to talking about Charley and Woody. When I wrote that I meant to do it soon, but as seems to happen in a busy life it got forgotten. The mental jog was good for me, as Charley and Woody are both worth writing about.
Let's start with Charley. Charley was more properly known as Charles Patrick Hay. I got to know him when he was an elderly neighbour living in what was at that time the senior's apartments, around the corner from where I live. He was about 5ft 7 inches tall, dapper, handsome and spoke with a disarming Irish accent from the northern province of Ulster, known to some as Northern Ireland. This was the soft accent of the countryside, not the harsh rasping accent of Belfast. I gather that at some time Charley had been married, as he often refered to "his daughter" and "his grandchildren", but I never saw them in years of neighbourly friendship. Charley lived alone and to a degree kept to himself, but if ever anyone took the time to really engage him in conversation, he had lots to offer and was willing to park somewhere or stroll and chat quite openly about his life.
It seemed that Charley (whom some people called Pat, though he seemed to prefer Charley) had had a very interesting life managing hotels and resorts in many different countries. He talked often of Spain, with a sense of reverence for the place and the people. He talked about how different life had been in Spain, about how time seemed to be dealt with differently there and about how the soul of that land had been ripped in two during the civil war and had somehow, even decades later, never properly healed, yet he had a reverence for the ways of the Spanish. He also talked a great deal about Asia and the time he had spent in hotels in several locations in Asia. I feel that he was not so impressed with Asia in general and as Vancouver became more and more of an Asian city (and as he aged) he seemed more and more willing to allow his feelings for Asia and Asians to rasp from his lips.
Charley was interesting. We would sit and discuss politics and politicians while perched on the low concrete wall beside the pathway. I would often find him sitting there, watching the world go by, staring into the park on the other side of the street. Many people would just pass him by, ignoring him. I always greeted him and it seemed to awaken him and a big welcoming smile and greeting emanated from his handsome face.
Charley had also managed hostelries in Vancouver and seemed to have a good grasp of the who-is-who of times past in local politics and business, both on the city level and the provincial level also. It seemed he counted many "names" as his personal friends over time, but was by this time beginning to miss them as they had passed on, one by one. He told many personal stories about these "names" which turned them into multi-fasceted people, rather than just characters in the news.
Charley never invited anyone inside his apartment. That was his own private retreat. I had no inkling of how he lived. As years went by his aging began to show. He limped more and more and he walked less and less distance. He moved more slowly and started to mutter aloud as he walked and he seemed less willing to sit on the wall, as I believe he was experiencing challenges getting up and moving again. He became more angry about life and soon whenever he spoke, there always seemed to be foamy spittle on his lower lip. People who had talked with him in the past started to avoid meeting him face to face and engaging him and soon it seemed he needed a companion. One day he suddenly had a small hound puppy who was so full of life. He would wander out with this small bundle of energy on the end of a leash and the dog would drag him around. He seemed to have no notion of training the dog to his needs and his perambulations became loud and incessant gesticulations and blaspheming at the poor innocent untrained dog.
I offered to help him with some basic training of the dog so that his experience of it wasn't such a battle, but he would have no part of that. I swear that he actually enjoyed cussing endlessly at the puppy. It quickly became harder and harder to engage Charley in conversation, and as time passed, the conversations that did happen seemed less and less reflective and somewhat more angry at life, Some days he would make it to the wall with the dog and just sit there cussing it out loud as it jerked on its leash, but he loved that small hound, clearly, as it was his constant companion.
We worried about the dog and we worried about Charley, but he would have none of our worry.
One day there was no more Charley. I came home to hear that the ambulance had been and taken away his corpse. His daughter, who indeed did exist, had been called to take the dog. His place was vacated.
But its funny, I still hear and see Charley in the park, cussing the dog on his walks around the neighbourhood and I sometimes sit on the wall and think about all the views of life, windows into strange places far away and near by he had shared with me.
Rest in peace Charley.
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