[Uh, I just realised I never finished that post! It's been sitting in the draft folder for a year and a half! Well anyway, pretend I mentioned it and someday I'll straighten it out.]
I met John in 1996, two years after my father had passed away. He was in his mid-50s, about 30 years older than me, and while I never really thought of him as a father figure, he probably thought of me as a son. He never had kids of his own.
I was looking at buying the house next door, and thought it a good idea to meet the neighbours first. I did not expect the neighbour to tell me that he built the house! He even took me on a tour of the house, told me why he had sold it, and told me stories about miserable the previous owners were. However, what I'll always remember from that first meeting was him folding his 6-foot frame through a 2-foot window -- he was always remarkably lithe and flexible.
We got on like a house on fire, which is coincidentally what happened to his original house, and why he ended up building the new one. He'd just finished building a wooden bathtub (which was popular in the 70s) and his niece gave him a candle, so he decided to burn it in a little cage from the ceiling. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what happened next, but when he discovered his bathroom was on fire, rather than a try to put it out, he ran to the backyard to destroy his marijuana plants before the fire department arrived! Needless to say, he lost everything. (He also later learned the plants were all males, and useless for smoking.)
When the new house was built, two things happened: he quit his job in mental health services and became a full-time builder, and one weekend he was not it of town he lent the the keys to a gay friend who threw a party on the back deck. The neighbours, who were deeply religious, were so appalled by what they saw that they put their house up for sale! John decided he wanted to determine who his neighbours were, so he bought their house and rented it out.
A few years later, John's family moved to Oregon. Being Irish, family was everything to him so he sold his main house, left the little house rented, and moved to Oregon. However, he couldn't find enough work and eventually ran out of money. He moved back to LA, kicked out his renter, and lived in the tiny 1000-square foot house next to the beautiful 2600-square foot house he'd built.
17 years later, I arrived. We put in a new fence, two skylights, a hot tub, restored the back deck (although my wildest parties involved carving pumpkins) and a koi pond--indoors. It was a wild ride.
The door was always open for John, and he was part of the furniture, as they say. He also helped me make a couple of pieces of furniture; although I was never particularly deft at woodworking, he showed me the basics and gave me the tools. The most important advice he gave to me was this: "Never put your fingers anyplace you wouldn't put your d---." 20 years later, every time I touch a power tool, I think about those sage words.
In 1998, I wanted to go on a cruise around the Canary Islands to see the Leonid meteor shower, and I jokingly asked John if he wanted to go with us. When he said yes, my the-girlfriend and I exchanged glances of horror! We'd never travelled with someone else before, but we couldn't rescind an invitation, could we? In the end, he went with us and we had an amazing time. My girlfriend got seasick and would go to sleep straight after dinner, but John and I stayed up to the early hours listening to a fantastic jazz band. (I particularly remember him requesting "Little Brown Jug" and me asking for "Paper Moon" and on subsequent nights they would play those as soon as we arrived.)
There were many memorable events from that trip: One day we decided to hire a car but all they had were manual, which I never learned how to drive, so John took over. Towards the end of the evening he was getting nervous about getting back (the ship disembarked at sunset) but I wanted to see the black sand beaches. He was driving but I had the map, so we returned to the ship via a circuitous and completely unnecessary route, but I got to see the beach and he never knew any better.
Five years later, my ex-girlfriend and I were toying with the idea of restoring her grandparents' house and turning it into a bed and breakfast, and John gave me the second most-important advice: "Do it while you're young." He was referring to his failure in Oregon, of course, but I knew he was right; it was a risky venture and nobody knew if it would be successful, and if we waited for retirement we would be stuck. Fortunately some serendipitous events at work meant we could afford to start when I was 35. Two years later, the place opened for business (and was wildly successful) but my girlfriend and I ended up splitting and I was left with nothing at all.
I moved back to LA, but sold the house and moved to downtown, which was an adventure in its own right. John's eyesight had deteriorated and he wasn't driving very much, so he didn't visit me and I only saw him about every other month. Around the same time, another set of neighbours that he was close to moved (ironically) to Oregan and he was left alone in Lomita.
A year later, I got my UK visa and headed off on another adventure, not sure where that would end. John was not "technologically sophisticated" -- he didn't have a computer or even a cell phone -- and I was terrible about keeping in touch, but I'd see him every time I visited LA. Unfortunately as his eyesight deteriorated, so did the rest of him. He no longer had his zeal for life, and once he officially retired it was only a matter of time.
He actually lasted longer than I thought he might, no doubt buoyed by the stream of rescue dogs he always had. But I knew from friends that he wasn't taking care of himself, wasn't engaged with anything, and of course that's the real killer.
When he died he was 78 or so -- still 30 years older than me -- and I still think of him often and fondly. My stepson and I are currently constructing a hut in the yard, and although I'd be ashamed to show it to John (there isn't a square angle on it!) I still know that without John I wouldn't have even attempted it. And my stepson is having a blast playing with power tools. Pretty soon I'll have to share with him John's greatest advice.
(As my girlfriend had to point out, that old man is me.)
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