I was not prepared. More than 15 years had passed since we moved away from the house that sat across from Jack and Juanita Sasser’s brick bungalow on Mitchell Avenue. Jack Sasser passed away a decade ago, and when Juanita died this summer at the age of 82, she had been sick a long time. Her daughters, JoAngela and Jackie, took comfort in knowing that she was no longer in pain. The people at the funeral celebrated her long, full life and cheerful spirit.
I was there to do the same. But the mind and heart don’t always follow logic at moments like this. Soon I was blinking back unexpected tears.
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As we sat in the chapel, my mind was going back more than 20 years to our house on Mitchell Avenue. In December 1983, Ed and I moved into that old house when we were just about finished fixing it up. Two-year-old Emily was in tow and Mary was on the way, to be born about a week after the move. Ginny came nearly four years later. We were definitely a work in progress.
And all this expansion took place under the watchful eyes of Jack and Juanita ó Mr. and Mrs. Sasser, to us. They were neighbors in the best sense of the word, sharing tomatoes and jokes, fussing over the children, cajoling us through some hectic times. Mrs. Sasser even took care of the older two while we went to the hospital for Ginny’s birth.
He had retired as a stonecutter with Matthews International and was working some at Rolling Hills Golf Course, mowing. Mrs. Sasser had retired from her hair-styling days and turned the Fulton Street Beauty Salon over to daughter Jackie. By the time we moved in, Mrs. Sasser was spending a lot of time in her den, working on crafts, watching TV and glancing out the picture window at the passing traffic and the house across the street ó ours.
We were too self-absorbed to look out our own windows much. Diapers, feedings, jobs and children’s activities kept us on the run.
But as the years went by, if the weather was any good at all, we could count on seeing the Sassers’ grandson, Javus, playing outside. The Sassers took care of Javus while Jackie ran the salon and her husband, Chris Crane, worked at the Sheriff’s Office. Watching Javus was a full-time job. He climbed trees, ran around the yard, rode a motorized toy down the sidewalk ó a dynamo, in other words. And an absolute delight to his grandparents and parents.
So when I think of the Sassers, I think of the days when our girls and Javus were young, crossing the street to play with each other and exulting in the freedoms of childhood.
He was all boy, whipping a play sword through a vine, going farther and farther on his vehicle of the moment, tumbling to the ground after his latest daredevil feat and declaring that it did not hurt.
Meanwhile, our girls were doing their girly things ó coloring, swinging, playing with dolls and dollhouses, riding bikes. Now and then I’d have to walk down the street calling out for our middle daughter, “Mary! Mary!” who liked to explore. Ginny was perfectly happy being carried on my hip well past toddlerhood. And Emily, the oldest, liked reading and singing. And singing some more.It was a lifetime ago.
Our girls are grown ó 26, 24 and 20. And Javus is gone, killed in a one-vehicle crash when the car he was riding in skidded on wet pavement. He was 15.
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How precious life is. Remembering Javus brought into focus how unpredictably and unfairly it can end. Yet others live long, full lives. I sat there thinking about people we’ve lost and life stages we’ve passed. Where do the years go? It didn’t take long to get a lump in my throat.
The girls’ growth and activities propelled me forward so forcefully as a young mother that I assumed it would always be that way. Life went in one direction ó up, up, up ó and there seemed to be no limit.
Now, the girls’ forward trajectory continues in other places like Arkansas, Wilmington and Raleigh. We watch from afar, fixed in this spot, older and wiser about how quickly life moves along.
That particular stage ó the living-across-from-the-Sassers period of our lives ó is set in my mind like a idealized tableau. I know life was not perfect then. But it was full and sweet.
The trick is to cherish memories and continue looking ahead. Mrs. Sasser sure kept going ó getting a computer for her 80th birthday and reading Harry Potter books so she could talk about them with her young neighbor, Andrew Poe.
One trait that drew a chuckle at the funeral was Mrs. Sasser’s readiness to eat out. It was likened to the commercial in which a disheveled woman says the beauty parlor has ruined her hair, but when her husband mentions a restaurant, she says, “I’ll get my purse.”
Mrs. Sasser was always ready to get her purse.
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When I look out the window at our neighbors and their children now, it’s almost as if I’ve stepped into the Sassers’ shoes.
The teen-ager on one side of us got his learner’s permit this spring. I wonder if his parents’ knuckles get as white as mine did at that spot on West Innes where the telephone poles close in on the street.
The children across the street shoot hoops at a portable basketball goal that is under regulation height. They’ll outgrow that soon.
And, oh, the family that lives behind us. The baby has turned into a little man already, toddling around and calling out to the dog. The bright, self-sufficient older sister has a certain glow; I think it’s her determination.
This sounds like another tableau, more memories in the making. I’m looking forward to seeing what comes next.
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Elizabeth Cook is editor of the Salisbury Post.