People

Here in the PEOPLE room today, I want to share a story about Lillian.  

In December, 1963, we were in school at the University of Cincinnati, and we were looking to find a job managing apartments in exchange for one of the units, rent free.  Through the Providence of God, we were able to find such a job on Elberon Avenue in Price Hill.  This was a twenty-unit complex of five, four-plex buildings, large, luxury apartments unlike anything we had looked at before.  In this upscale area the rents were high for mostly older tenants, well-established, no young children, some professionals, some retired, very small amount of management issues. 

Ms Lillian had lived alone in unit B-2 for several years, ever since her husband had passed.  Somewhere in her sixties, fighting to keep her blond hair blond, pushing back on the evidences of experience lining her face, Lilly never had any real problems that the building manager could do anything about.  Mostly, what she wanted was conversation, someone to listen to her.  She never went anywhere, and I never saw any visitors. 

She had a cold, strained relationship with her daughter who brought her food and other supplies once a week.  I understood why their relationship never thawed.  Lilly had one constant companion then: Jack Daniels.  After she was gone we found him scattered throughout her apartment, always close at hand. 

Over the ten months that I knew Ms Lilly we became friends, and I think for most of that time I was her only friend.  She could be colorful and hilarious, sharing her experiences with me.  She could also be difficult at times, and it was a challenge to hold a conversation mixed with hard liquor.  Lilly had a good heart, never said anything negative about anyone.  She missed her late husband, and often would remind me that I was her friend, her very good friend.

She had just a few issues, but occasionally she would call me to complain, lightly, about her upstairs neighbor.  Seems Mr. Gene was practicing his piano again when she was trying to sleep.  To answer her, I would have to visit her apartment and repeat the same routine: Mr. Gene was a professional piano player who played in clubs downtown every night, and he practiced during the day.  Her objection was always the same:  he was disrupting her daytime naps.

About once a week she would stroll around to the garage area at the back of the buildings to check on her parking space.  Each apartment had its own parking space in a four-car garage.  She did not own a car but she wanted to make sure no one was using her parking space.  On rare occasions, her neighbor would park a little over the line separating the spaces.  She didn’t get really angry about it, but she wanted me to look at it and take it up with her neighbor.  I always assured her I would take care of it, and she need not worry.  I never mentioned it to her neighbor, and Lilly would never remember talking to me about it.

The first time I was in her apartment I noticed the framed picture hanging above her sofa.  It was an original oil on canvas which she remembered buying right after her husband passed.  She asked me if I liked it, and I said I thought it was nice, and she said she paid a big price for it.

One day when she was only half intoxicated, I asked her if she ever went to church at some time in her life.  By then I knew she was Catholic from birth; but I knew most Catholics prayed, and I wanted to know if she ever prayed, at all.  She said when her husband was still with her they went to mass pretty often, but she hadn’t been in years.  When it seemed right to do so, I asked her if she would allow me to say a prayer with her.  She was very pleased to do that, and she listened to the prayer I prayed for two or three minutes.  I got a little choked up as I finished, knowing this would probably be the final chance I would have to share such a moment with her.  I don’t know if she prayed that day, or just listened to me.  But I prayed for forgiveness for both of us, and that we would be ready to stand before Him when it came our time.

That turned out to be the last chance I would have to pray with Ms Lilly.  A short time later, her daughter came to me with news that she was taking her mother to the hospital.  Lilly died a few days later. 

A couple of weeks went by, and her daughter came to gather up her mother’s belongings.  I went to see how the move was going, and, her daughter wanted to share with me how much her mother had appreciated my visits with her.  She took the picture off the wall and handed it to me.  She said her mother left her instructions that she give that painting to me, as I was her only friend for the last several months of her life. 

Ms Lilly was a unique, interesting personality, someone never to be forgotten.

That was in the fall of 1964: we have that painting yet today, hanging on a wall in our home.