remembering simple wisdom

I don’t know why I remember his name was Jeffrey Schumacher but the name has never escaped me. It was a simple quiet afternoon we spent together, nothing of the excitement or the drama of my other childhood memories. It was an afternoon of gray rain, a Maurice Sendak storytelling, and paper puppets made with lunch bags, yarn, and Elmer’s glue.

You see, when I visited my grandma in Buffalo, NY she was still employed at AM&A’s department store and on the days she could not take time off work she’d find activities for me to do. On this particular day a stormy weather pattern had settled atop western NY and my plan to visit Fort Niagara with the McDonald family was canceled. And since two of the eight McDonald kids were sick with the flu, I also could not go over to their house and hang out with my best friend Mokey McDonald.

My grandma called around the evening before and found her neighbor Mrs. Merlahan could keep me for the day. Mrs. Merlahan was a sweet quirky retired librarian who kept Mr. Merlahan and a pond of turtles as her two favorite pets. She proposed a plan to take me to a storytelling and art class at the library and my grandma agreed. Yipee, I remember thinking it all sounded so very baby-ish and way below my sophisticated ten-year old taste. I was consoled by the thought of being surrounded by books and that Mrs. Merlahan would surely allow me to check some out with her library card.

And so the day seemed quietly planned out as I helped Mrs. Merlahan clean up after our brunch, served TV tray style in front of “The Price in Right” with the Mr. M; though the plans changed wildly in my mind when Mrs. Merlahan hung up the telephone after speaking with Mrs. Schumacher and announced “We will pick Jeffrey up since it is raining and he should not walk down there.”

Jeffrey Schumacher, the neighborhood retard. I don’t mean retard in the ugly way kids label other kids who are different. I mean retard as an ugly label assigned to this boy who really was developmentally and physically challenged. I knew little of this boy with leg braces and a goofy expression except what I could gather from a distance. The time I had waved back to his greeting from across the street I was admonished by the other neighborhood kids, “don’t wave at him or he’ll want to come over and that will ruin the game.”

Now I sat in the back seat of a car waiting for this boy assisted by two umbrella’ed women to take his place on the seat right next to me. I don’t remember why this scared me the way that it did, perhaps it was the fear of the unknown. Or youthful ignorance from not knowing what was wrong with Jeffrey and a concern I could “catch” it. I mustered my courage and when he was seated I was the first to speak.

“Hi.” I said.

“Hello” he replied with his characteristic grin, “you look… dry.”

“Yes” I agreed.

“I’m wet!” he said and giggled.

“And we are off.” chimed in Mrs. Merlahan who had just planted herself in the driver’s seat and put the car into reverse. She turned on the radio and began humming as she drove swiftly through the wet streets.

There was no more conversation in the back seat although Jeffrey seemed to babble a bit as he looked out the window, flicking his fingers in delight as he recognized and named things. I noticed how tall Jeffrey was, how high he sat on the car bench seat. I had thought him to be about my age but that was probably due to the stoop of his walk. When I asked my grandma later that evening I found out that Jeffrey was nearly fifteen years old.

We were dropped off at the library front door and instructed by Mrs. Merlahan to scoot in quickly and quietly to the children’s section while she parked the car. Jeffrey did not have a sense of quietly as he rambled on about all his Superman comic books and how Clark Kent was the greatest super hero of all time. I remember feeling acutely embarrassed walking slowly next to him noisily struggling with his walker and gabbing. A librarian rushed towards us but instead of scolding us she greeted Jeffrey by name and escorted us to the reading room where another librarian was directing kids to sit down. Again, another warm reception for Jeffrey and ‘his friend’ then we settled in for an animated reading of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.” The room was filled with squeals of fright and delight from all the little children, and Jeffrey. I’d read this book to my younger brothers, but they never enjoyed the story the way Jeffrey did, hiding his eyes, grabbing my arm, and saying the next line.

After the story we all sat down at a long table filled with art supplies. In front of each chair was a brown paper sack and Mrs. Merlahan and the librarians instructed the children on how to create their own monster. I was all over this part of the exercise and threw myself into my paper puppet creation.

Jeffrey was all compliments for my puppetry work: “That’s good,” “Nice colors,” “I like the hair.”

As I was finishing the last of the yarn cuttings for my monster’s head I noticed that Jeffrey had only used the precut paper scraps on his puppet and it occurred to me that he might have trouble handling the small scissors.

“Do you want me to cut hair for you?”

“I don’t think my monster needs hair.” he said.

“Alright. But I’ll cut some extra since I’m cutting already.”

“Okay” he agreed and then added, “and maybe cut fangs for them!” Jeffrey added emphasis by making an absurd face mimicking fangs on his already protruding upper mouth. The other kids watching snickered. He made another fang face, and another, adding noises, until he finally made me laugh.

In the end, my puppet had monster-like qualities that were softened by perfect hair and dimples, and Jeffrey’s puppet was uneven, silly, and roguishly charming like himself. Before we left the library Mrs. Merlahan happily agreed to my checking out a book and disappeared herself into the stacks to look on her own. When I selected my book I stood waiting by the front desk and Jeffrey brought me a copy of a worn paperback with the title “The Adventures of Superman.”

“Here read this - it is the greatest book ever!” he said.

“Okay.” I agreed disbelievingly and handed the selections to Mrs. Merlahan. After each book was stamped I picked up the stack and Jeffrey did the most surprising thing.

“Let me carry those.” he said placing the pile on the corner hinge of his walker and struggled with balance and boyhood bravado all the way to the car.

“Thank you Jeffrey,” Mrs. Merlahan said, “you are quite the young gentleman.”

I think Jeffrey stood straighter and puffed with pride. Though the moment of maturity passed quickly after we were inside the car and he placed the puppet on his hand. We began a series of silly monster conversations. Foolishness and the absurd ruled the back seat, until Jeffrey exited the car at his house and turned back to me to say, “come over and tell me what you think of my book after you finish.”

Although I agreed, I did not read that book. I don’t know why. Perhaps I was too busy, perhaps I skimmed it and was not interested. I do know why I did not go over to his house. I did not want anyone to know I had spent an afternoon with the retard. I had spent an afternoon with him and enjoyed myself. So the book sat idle until the last evening before I left Buffalo. Then I felt a bit of guilt, or remorse, and I picked up the book, read enough to comment on, pulled out my stationary and wrote Jeffrey a letter. The next morning I handed the letter to my grandma on our ride to the airport and asked her to drop it off for Jeffrey Schumacher. She looked surprised, but agreed.

Over the next couple of years, I received a few notes from Jeffrey and a few invites to the Schumacher’s, but Jeffrey became confined to the house. Mostly when I’d see him, he would be at the window in the front parlor watching the road. In high school when I visited it always seemed the news on Jeffrey was about his latest hospitalizations. And I recall one evening during my college years that my mom hung up the phone after speaking with grandma and she was weepy because the Schumacher’s had lost their son to illness and he was just a few years older than my brother James.

Then I remembered how Jeffrey delighted in the simple adventures of life. I thought of how he had reminded me about the fun of childhood at an age when I was willing to throw it away prematurely. And I still probably always remember that his name was Jeffrey Schumacher.