from first to last

This title looks like a poor race showing, or perhaps, a rocket countdown or something like that, but….

Sometime in the fall of 1977, just before I turned 5, I witnessed a human interaction along with a lesson that I have taken with me until today: THE FIRST IMPRESSION.

Here’s the scene: I’m outside on a blustery fall day in New England with my old man. We are both raking leaves. Some months earlier, our family moved to Salem and we did not know anyone well on the street. Diagonally across our quiet road among the ranch style houses, our neighbor Brian Regan is also raking leaves and, like us, not making much progress. Well, maybe we all were, but I was 5, so it seemed like a lot of work without a lot of result. My dad looked over at Brian’s yard and told me to “sit tight for a minute” as he went inside. He returned a few moments later with both back pockets of his jeans bulging out with a full bottle of beer stuffed into each one. He bent over and picked up a big, perfect bright orange New Hampshire maple leaf. If you live in the area you know what I mean. Concentrate and you can smell them while hearing them crunch.

Anyway, dad says “Follow me”, and we cross the street without our rakes, but with the big orange leaf in hand and two full beers in back pockets (yes, my father looked pretty silly, but that’s a whole different blog). What I didn’t know then was that this first impression was the beginning of a relationship that started out with 2 guys who barely knew each other and grew into what I now consider family.

My father, who passed on to me his warped sense of humor walked onto Mr. Regan’s big flat beautiful lawn and gently dropped the orange maple leaf near his raked up pile. Note: not ON the pile….NEAR the pile. He then pulls out a beer and an opener and casually says “This leaf blew into my yard from over here somewhere, so I’m not raking it, but I’m here to give it back. The wind is blowing west, so I would appreciate you keeping your own leaves in your own yard.” These words were accompanied by a shit eating grin while cracking one beer for Brian and the other for himself. It was hilarious because Brian calmly responded “Thanks Mr. Moeschen, I was wondering when you and I would finally discuss all the problems of our little neighborhood. Welcome to the club.” I quickly began running through leaf piles on the Regan’s lawn while my dad and Mr. Regan chatted for at least an hour. I do not remember if any more leaves left the ground that autumn day to be put in bags or carried into the woods, but I do remember this story being told through the years of how my dad and Mr. Regan began their friendship.

The years went by, Mr. Regan’s kids grew up and moved out, as did we, and my father passed from cancer in 1993, but I landed a teaching job in my hometown and came back to the street in 1995. As an adult, I continued to visit Mr. Regan and his wife often as he enjoyed sitting on his front porch looking at his perfect lawn (Brian was one of those guys who was maniacal about his lawn appearance). In 1998, our families began to gather at the Regan’s house for Christmas Eve, the Regans came to my wedding, were close by when both of my kids were born, and have been close-as-you-can-be-family-without-blood ever since. On Christmas Eve 2019, just before Covid, we gathered at the Regans among his now grandchildren and great grandchildren and I said to him “Man, Brian, we’ve been doing Christmas Eve for more than 20 years. One of the best times of the year, and some of the best times of my life.” He agreed and I thanked him for his friendship, laughter, and we shared a short comfortable silence that men can share as we sat in his living room. That same night, Brian, who was now in his 80’s, and had been having health problems for many years, told me that he also had been diagnosed with cancer. The look in his eyes said all there was to say, and as I grasped his hand and gave him a hug, I again told him to hang in there, and that we all loved him very much. I told him he had to stick around since my oldest son Tim was now 5 and we NEEDED to reenact the “leaf story for the next generation.” I wished him a Merry Christmas.

Two weeks later, I took my wife and kids over to see Mr. and Mrs. Regan to thank them for the Christmas Eve gifts. I knew this was an unusual visit, as I called first to see if Brian was feeling up to seeing anyone. The kids thanked him and I made sure that they shook his hand, each of them, one at a time. Sometime, when they are older, I will tell them that the last impression you leave with someone should be as strong as the first. The difference is that you never know when the last impression will come.

Mr. Regan passed a few days later, and when I told my oldest son that he had died, I prepared myself to explain death to a 5-year old. Yeah, that’s not in the parenting book anywhere. He asked me only 2 questions, both through some tears. I’m going to keep those private, but what impressed my was that neither question was really about death, but instead what happens now. I told him simply that life goes on for all of us who are still here.

The first impression is easy.

The last impression can come at anytime.

Make all your impressions count. It matters.

Stay safe, stay awesome, and stay tuned.