The Story is really about Polly...and Claire

Greg invited me to his home over the weekend. It was close to Easter, and to be totally honest, I really did not want to spend it with my brother for the entire weekend.

My brother, a sports fan of the highest degree, could tell you what a golfer was going to use to gain that extra feet in height on it's way to the hole. He could share with you how many field goals a player has hit before his or her appearance during the finals of the big basketball tournament. He could tell you from looking at the way the bowler stands if he's going to throw a strike or spare and if he or she is going to pick it up with the next ball.

Love him, love him, love him. Too much detailed information for me, though. I want to be surprised, not reaffirmed, when I watch or listen to a sports package via the media.

Greg, on the other hand, makes ME feel like I'm the expert, the fan with all of the stats, the guy who knows everything about a sport. Up in age, and his mental facilities failing from time to time, I'm grateful that a small group of his friends -- including me -- come and visit him at his home in Longview...the next hamlet over from Radcliff and annexed recently as part of the City. People still refer to living in Longview, including Greg.

Greg's home -- a one story brick building with a basement -- is designed in what I politely call "Early American Yard Sale". Everything in his home came from someone else's: the king sized poster bed, the end tables, the dining room table which seats eleven during holidays but normally seats six, the old stereo/radio/record storage thing "imported" from Germany and which he spent five times as much as it was worth to get it working to American standards and with American voltage, the plasma screened oversized TV which is now six generations behind techwise, but still works. He keeps things clean, almost clutter-free as an old man could (with assistance from MaryMaids, who come by twice a week to clean what he cannot or chooses not to) and tidy.

Except for the moldy, very much in need of cleaning, imitation toucan sitting on her perch. The first time I saw it, I thought like many -- it was either stuffed or real.

"That's Polly", Greg told me, pointing to her. "Say Hi Polly!"

The bird said nothing.

"Must not be in a talking mood today, huh?" Greg voiced back as he motioned for me to sit down in his living room. Greg has several things I coveted, among them his living room table. Like everything, he bought it at some kind of sale back in his earlier life and brought it back home in his truck with other things he bought or found that others did not want.

The table is a four-foot long one, matching the length of his couch. It has two drawers on the bottom and an open area for things to be placed there. Greg has stacks of photo albums there -- he used to be a professional photographer until after the death of his third wife took that interest away from him. Two of the albums are nothing more than images, page after page, of Claire and the places they went to together, with the photogenic woman striking pose after pose wearing mostly skirts, dresses and beach ware.

It is the top of the table which I really loved, and why I hope to find something like this for myself. The top has a glass cover and under the glass cover are memories of Greg's life: his children, all adult and have moved onward with their own lives. Photos of Claire, naturally; but also photos of him when he was younger, carrying around camera gear during Korea and the first part of Vietnam. Photos of his other two former spouses -- Marian and Debra, and Debra's child she had with another man while Greg was overseas. Greg adopted the boy and like his other two kids, he is now an adult and have established a life somewhere in South Carolina.

"Want something to drink? I've got the regular stuff, Mike..." Greg went back to the kitchen, stopping by Polly. "You look good today, Polly!"

Nothing was voiced back in response.

"Silly bird. You know you can talk..." Greg said. Overhearing the conversation, I giggled a little from the living room.

"I'll take a beer if you have one to spare," I said. I then paused and added, "That bird has never talked, has it?"

Greg came back into the living room carrying two beers and a bag of chips.

"That bird," he said, handing me one of the unopened beers, "hasn't talked in some 20 or 30 years!!"

I laughed as I asked, "then why do you still have it hanging there? Did it at one time?"

Greg sat down in his easy chair and motioned for me to pass over the chips while he opened his can of beer.

"That's the toy I'll never give up...and here's why...."

I sat there and listened.

"Polly used to talk. It was something really new at the time. You were probably overseas somewhere protecting the homeland when she and her friends came out," Greg started. "There's a microphone and a large speaker inside her, and some electronics too. When you say something in her direction; or when she picks up a conversation, she plays it back. You could also put one of those big computer cards -- like what I had in one of my new digital cameras back then -- in her butt and she will keep recording to it until there's no more space on the card."

"That bird sat in Claire's room the day she died. The entire conversation between her and me, her and her kids, and her doctors as they did everything to save her life -- it's all on a card I keep in a safe deposit box down at the Longview Bank -- oh, they gave it a new name now but to me it's still the Longview Bank and Trust." Greg said, stopping to take a drink from his beer can.

"I took the batteries out and never did put anymore in it. Same goes for the card too."

I sat there, drinking my beer, looking at this old man in his beat-up lounge chair, in his beaten-down home.

Not a word was spoken for a few minutes, but the crunching of chips and swallowing of beer consumed the sound.

"So what are you going to do with the recording, Greg?" I finally asked.

"Well," Greg took a swallow from his beer and then looked at me, "I have it in my will that whoever handles my affairs will put it on whatever stuff is out there to hear it...right now, it's CDs..."

"Well, really, there are DVDs...." I corrected him.

"Whatever. I don't care, as long as everyone gets a copy of the tape or string or whatever the hell it's called...I wanted them all to know that Claire loved them, loved me, loved life, and didn't want to go when she had to go."

"What about you -- would you like to have someone to record your final moments and memories, Greg?" I was thinking more for myself than to hear his answer. He had a good idea -- even it if was accidental.

"Nah. They heard me. They know that I loved them all. Having them hear my voice isn't going to make them feel any more different about me than they already do. But I wanted the kids to hear Claire's voice. Remember it...she was really the one, Mike, I've been waiting for."

"Know what you mean there..." I said.

"Let's watch some TV...there's a good baseball game on...." Greg said. He found the remote beside the chair, hit the power button and found the channel broadcasting a baseball game.