My Friend Hubert

I miss my friend Hubert. Hubert Faulk. We were neighbors. That’s why I sometimes texted him as “2101” and he might text back as “317.” Every day Hubert texted his cadre of relatives and friends, each an individualized message. Once in the morning and again at night before he dozed off.

I’ve only ever known 2 Huberts, both of whom have lived within a block of my parents in Lumberton. And both of whom I inherited from my parents, whose friends they were first.

I’m especially missing Hubert Faulk today. With tropical storm Isaias headed our way, I walked down to his house to check for items that needed to be secured. Garbage containers, folding chairs, and the like. I took down his bird feeders after moving the trash and recycling bins into the carport.

Early this spring, Hubert’s daughter Jane installed a shepherd’s crook and 2 bird feeders as close to his big back windows as she could put them. So he could see them from his recliner. At my home, watching birds out the den picture window has become our primary daytime entertainment, and I’d strongly encouraged Hubert to join in with our hobby. He gave in after weeks of badgering.

Until about a year ago, Hubert was an outdoorsy man who took care of his own yard. He planted annuals and collards and turnips in little garden plots around his red brick ranch house. Twice he’d literally lost the skin on the top of his bald head by riding the lawnmower too close to the bar of his heavy concrete clothesline poles.

But Hubert didn’t mow his own lawn this year. Over the past couple of years, he’d been noticeably “slowing down,” as we politely say. Then, soon after 2019 became 2020, his engine was barely sputtering along. He hired a yard guy. And Jane shoveled in the soil to plant the wildflower seeds that her dad had bought.

A few months ago, Hubert became bed- and chair-bound. The social restrictions of covid-19 made his lack of mobility especially challenging. We’d wear our masks and yell at each other from across his den or in the shade of his carport.

With his old ears and ineffective hearing aids, Hubert might not hear what I said, but we’d talk at each other. We’d shake our heads at politics we didn’t like. We’d try to understand each other’s perspectives on social issues that we didn’t agree on.

Over the years, Hubert and I talked and talked. About NASCAR and Godwin Heights Baptist Church and racism and the news. About how to repair bicycles and lawnmowers. About the good that my parents brought to their world, and how hard it was to watch them literally lose their minds. Since 2012, both Huberts had come to our rescue when Dad or Mom needed to be distracted from whichever worrisome places their minds had taken them to that day.

As you’d expect, Hubert talked about his daughters Jane and Priscilla and sons Alan and Sam, and his grandchildren and great-grands, and his sisters and their parents. And about my son’s family; Hubert would sometimes print Bastion’s sweet baby photos that I’d texted him.

Often Hubert talked about Rose, his Tootsie, whom he loved and lived with for nearly 60 years. And he’d cry as his love for her spilled out beyond what he could hold inside himself. During their marriage, he took care of her heart and she took care of his. Until, one day, no one could fix Rose’s heart. Then in July 2020, no one could fix Hubert’s heart either.

And I miss those sweet hearts. Especially today. And probably tomorrow, too.