I first met Harvey by phone, when I was moving to Commerce from San Francisco. He and my dad were fellow Kiwanians, and Harvey, who worked in the field of human resources, had offered to help me think about my job-search. When that issue was resolved by the offer of a job in the library here, he was beyond pleased. “The lib’ry?” he said, in a voice as bright as the brass section of an orchestra. “Well, isn’t that grand! I couldn’t be more delighted, darlin’!”
I was touched. We hadn’t even met yet! But he and his wife Priss were library people. He was in and out of there regularly, usually in coveralls, often adding a deerstalker cap in the cooler weather. (I hasten to add that as far as I know, the only time he stalked deer was when he was putting out food for them.) Meanwhile, Harvey’s and my dad’s friendship deepened after a Kiwanis tournament made them golfing buddies. They began calling each other “Senator,” and having mock-serious conversations that were usually about playing “some golf,” an activity for which they had their own rules and kept score in what you might call an unorthodox way. They particularly enjoyed summers, when young women from the University staffed the drink cart and laughed at their jokes. You could hear that laugh of Harvey’s right across the course.
But for a man with a voice as bright as brass, he managed to be remarkably quiet about all the good he did for people. In fact, he somehow made it seem he wasn’t doing anything, even when he was doing it right in front of you! He was there immediately to see about Dad after his hand surgery, and when a series of brain-stem strokes weakened Dad’s legs, they went right on with their outings. But now Harvey was picking Dad up for Kiwanis each week, and arranging for golf games that gradually dwindled down to just a few holes.
If the pleasure was diminished for Harvey — if those Kiwanis meetings became more and more difficult (and I know they did) — my dad never knew, or never let on that he knew. I can still see Harvey standing at the door, and hear him calling, “Senator? Are you ready?” And I can still see my dad hustling down the hallway on his walker, wearing his portable oxygen tank, ready for some fun at their notoriously rowdy table of Kiwanians.
I thought it would rain after Harvey died. I imagined all nature in mourning for this lost sun. But instead, during his memorial service the sun pierced the clouds and scattered them. I learned later that Boeing’s Dreamliner had taken off for its first passenger flight. And I figured that somewhere green and lovely, Dad and Harvey were laughing about the coincidence as they teed off.
Susan Harper is retired, lives in Commerce and volunteers with the Commerce Public Library and the Jackson County Literacy Program.
