The Way Life Should Have Been

The Way Life Should Have Been 

“Anything you can imagine is real.”  - Pablo Picasso 

Henry’s night ended in the usual fashion. Turn off a movie he had little interest in, struggle to get out of his recliner, shuffle across the worn linoleum kitchen floor, and slowly make his way down the rickety wood stairs to the basement rec room he never got around to finishing. It was Henry’s time, a therapeutic dose of melancholy minutes to enjoy life the way the Creator must have intended. 

He had installed paneling on just one wall before he realized there was no point to the enterprise. Some empty nights, Henry would sit on a chair staring at that barren wall and contemplate its similarity to his own life. It seemed that both brought nothing to this world. 

Henry had once dreamed of becoming a famous photographer. His work would grace the pages of Life Magazine and his books would be found on coffee tables in living rooms across the country. The dream never made it out of the dream stage, perhaps due to a lack of funds for expensive equipment or possibly the result of an unfortunate lack of talent, but taking and developing pictures would always be a part of Henry’s life. 

Empty wall and lots of photos. The two came together as fast Henry could sort, enlarge, frame, and affix the photos to the wall in a colorful array of wistful memories. Spatial considerations required that Henry limit his selections to 8 photographs that represented the best that life had to offer. He enlarged the photos, carefully placed them in matching frames, and hung them on the wall with the artistic eye of the curator of the Louvre.

Henry moved along the wall with the reverence of a priest visiting the Stations of the Cross at a Good Friday service, stopping at each picture and viewing the scene within the frame, sometimes with a smile, sometimes a tear. 

It wasn’t a walk down memory lane but rather a fanciful look at what could have been, should have been. For many the tour could have elicited a feeling of bitterness, but Henry had the rare ability to insert himself into the pictures and recall events that never happened. He could conjure up memories of happy times that had escaped him during his journey through this world and enjoy the events just as though he had been on the other side of the camera, the joyful side, full of life and feeling.

The first stop always brought a smile. As the little boy on the swing set at City Park laughed, Henry could feel the wind in his hair as Dad sent his son to daring heights. The smiling Dad looked like a good guy, probably a non-drinker who never hit the child. 

 Henry’s mind moved outside the photo to playing T-Ball with the Dad and a Mom he could make look any way he wanted to, in a yard surrounded by blooming lilac bushes, with hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. The day ended with Dad delivering an animated rendition of “The Tortoise and the Hare” as Henry drifted off into peaceful sleep. Just two visits in, Henry loved that Dad, and he knew as sure as anything that Dad loved him. 

Timing is everything. The kid, probably around 12 years old, had his arms raised in the air as the basketball in the background slipped through the net. Some of the other players had the same celebratory look, while others exhibited the “agony of defeat” made famous by ABC’s “Wide World of Sports”. Whatever the reaction, Henry knew they were all friends, and it wasn’t long before they became his friends. He even gave them names and their own special personality traits. 

Henry never made a team in any sport, but during those special moments in the basement looking at that photo, he was that kid, swishing basket after basket. Henry liked being that kid, shaggy brown hair, torn jeans, and a stained T-Shirt. After the game, he’d go home for a nice dinner or waste away a little time at a friend’s house. 

He was particularly fond of the tall boy with the jet-black hair. Henry smiled as he envisioned that boy at his house, watching TV, shooting some hoops in his backyard, perhaps even there for a sleepover. Those were the best of times. 

The girl in photo #3 was drop-dead gorgeous (Think Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.) while the young man looked woefully out of place stuffed into a dark blue suit. (Henry had hoped to snap at few pics outside the High School Prom with the hope of peddling them to prideful parents, but that too was a bust.) He named the girl Marcie, and the handsome fellow, of course, was Henry. 

The evening far surpassed the Prince and Cinderella at the ball. They were the envy of all as they glided, twisted and turned across the gym floor. Henry could feel her arm on his shoulder and her hand in his, and he felt the exhilaration of a teenage boy as he held a beautiful girl close to him. Henry wrapped himself in the warmth of Marcie’s touch as he always lingered a little longer at picture #3 before two-stepping off to the next photo on the wall. 

Photo #4 had a slight lean to it. That was ok as it seemed appropriate for those carefree, out-of-tilt college days. Henry was on his way to a UW football game when he caught a group of frat boys on their front lawn, music blaring and the beer flowing. And the girls! Henry didn’t have the opportunity to go to college, but he fit right in with the pre-game revelry. 

The girls flocked to him as he led the assembled crowd in an off-key rendition of On Wisconsin. His Uncle had season tickets and often took him to the games, so Henry knew every word to the Badgers’ fight song. The stop at #4 always ended with Henry softly mouthing the words to Varsity, including the time-honored wave to the fans across the way. It was always a good visit. Besides the fun-filled atmosphere of the wild and crazy college crowd, in 1,452 visits, the Badgers never lost a game. Henry could make it all just the way he wanted. 

It was the halfway point through a time that never was. Henry grabbed a Miller Lite from the mini-fridge and sat down on the rusting sailor’s trunk that came with the house all those years ago. He thought of Dad and all the great times they had together. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and became the Celtics’ Bob Cousy, tossing in shot after shot with ease. His smile was reverent, nearly transcending the bonds of human mortality, as he held Marcie in his arms as he gently kissed her at her front door. He nearly jumped to his feet as the Badgers scored again as history became clay in the hands of a dreamer. 

Time to move on. 

The limo almost didn’t fit in the frame. The distinguished looking man exiting the vehicle was clutching a briefcase and must have spent more on his suit than Henry laid out for his car. It seemed unlikely the man had ever spent a moment in a motor casting foundry or cleaned soot out of his eyes, ears, and nose at the end of a workday. Henry cloaked himself in the garb of the important, entered the 40 story building, and rode the elevator to the top floor. 

“Good morning, Henry. Here’s your schedule for the day. And don’t forget, you have a 3:00 P.M. tee time with the Mayor.” 

It was a corner office with large windows overlooking the little people scurrying about below. 

“Miss Barnes, cancel my appointments for the day. I believe I will spend the day sailing on my yacht. Tell the Mayor maybe another time.” 

A quick change and Henry was headed for the ocean. If he had to say so himself, Henry looked downright dapper in bright white pants, shirt open at the collar, a red kerchief, and a captain’s cap to top it off.

Photo #6. It wasn’t Marcie. It was Marcie+. As the low bidder, Henry had landed a gig at a low budget wedding. The trappings may have screamed cheap, but the bride and groom were made for the movies. He was handsome beyond description, and her face could have launched 10,000 ships. She didn’t need a name for she was inherently unique, his everything. Henry pushed Lou Gehrig's legacy aside as the luckiest man on earth as he walked down those church steps holding her hand. 

Their love surpassed their good looks, and their commitment to each other made Wesley and Buttercup look like a passing fling. Love, true love, the sacred gift sought by all but found by few. Instant, persistent happiness for life. It was the best part of Henry’s basement tour. Sometimes Henry would drag that old trunk over and sit and watch himself tenderly assist the love of his life down those stairs. The picture would have been all Henry needed to convert his dingy basement into a shrine dedicated to a happy life. 

Photo #7, a Dad. Henry became the Dad. Same park, same day, same kid, same guy, but the roles were reversed. Henry was waiting at the bottom of the side as a little boy sought the necessary courage for takeoff. Dad understood and stood in patient anticipation for the big event. A closer look may have revealed a hint of frustration, but none of the details mattered as the scene overflowed with the love of a parent for their child. 

Child? It was children! Henry had 5 of them! One stranded at the top of a slide and 4 more in the background surrounding a picnic table laden with all the things kids love at a picnic... hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob, chocolate brownies, apple pie, and watermelon. Henry could smell the charcoal burning as he flipped the burgers with tender loving care and the artistry of a Vegas magician performing card tricks. The 4 kids dug right in while Henry considered he might have to make a Meals-on-Wheels style run for the poor kid at the top of the slide. 

 Last night Henry had a hamburger, 2 brownies and a remarkably large slice of apple pie. Tonight he went with 2 hot dogs, 2 ears of corn, 3 brownies, and the pie. Henry was so engulfed in these late-night basement visits he thought he might be putting on weight. 

Joy. There was no other word for it. Henry became part of that family, and nothing else seemed to matter. The laughter of the children would stay with him until sleep arrived, and the purpose found in caring for them gave meaning to his life. 

Henry often considered skipping the last photo. It was hung in the corner of the room, with little light, and spoke to the frailty of the human existence. He never did bypass it though, recognizing the depiction was inevitable, just as it is for all of us. 

The narrow, winding blacktop road led through a grove of birch trees to his final resting place. It was all so bittersweet, sad to face the final curtain, but he was encouraged by the large turnout. Henry found solace knowing people must have thought he was a pretty good guy. 

Henry couldn't see the faces of the mourners, but he knew his loving wife and beautiful children were there. He felt worse for them than he did for himself. A priest stood at the head of the grave giving Henry hope of a hereafter, a time and place to again enjoy the people and places in photos #1 through #7. 

Maybe, maybe not. Henry was not a religious person, and declaring to be a believer at this late stage of the game seemed hypocritical and unlikely to fool God. 

 Henry always felt a ripple of sadness creeping in at that last stop, but tonight the feeling was stronger. For the first time in all of his visits to his basement sanctuary, a little tear was forming in the corner of Henry’s eye. He walked toward the stairs with a heavy heart but stopped at that first step. 

He remembered. Henry turned toward the wall, walked to the beginning of the gallery of cherished photos, and revisited the little boy on the swing. All was again well in Henry’s world.