For decades Mr. and Mrs. Fitzsimons lived next-door to my grand folks in an aging, 1950s-era track home suburban neighborhood in Northern California. Both homes were of simple three to four bedroom/two bath, single story construction with large living rooms, large backyards, and large two car garages, fronted by single-piece wooden doors that tipped up and out when opened; remote controls not necessary. Sweet oleander, thick bougainvillea, colossal royal palms, and galvanized metal clotheslines sprouted from the earth in this baby boom-era suburbia. These were homes that Mr. and Mrs. Fitzsimons and my grand folks purchased with the intent to raise children in… to exist in.
In the summer months they’d hold co-op barbeques in their backyards, complete with badminton, checkered tablecloths, and three different potato salads adorned with paprika and deviled eggs. They’d drink black cherry soda from bottles and eat watermelon while lounging on sun-warmed metal lawn chairs as their Coppertone-scented children danced and shouted under the fan of a large lawn sprinkler. During the holidays the two families would place jack-o-lanterns on their porches or tape paper turkeys in their windows or affix strands of large-bulb colored lights to the eaves of their roofs. They’d hold cocktails parties to talk about JFK, possibilities of a conflict Vietnam, and the NASA lunar landings over records whispering Stan Getz’s “The Girl from Impanema” and Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five.”
The Fitzsimons were wonderful people. They were the type of people who would secure your newspapers when you were out-of-town in an effort to deter robbers who might be casing your home; they were sincere and polite; and, they were simply the neighbors that people with bad neighbors wished they had. Growing up, we were obligated to knock on their door in order to exchange pleasantries during the holidays or while simply visiting the grand folks while on vacation. My grand folks enjoyed the Fitzsimons’ company as neighbors. However, Mr. Fitzsimons was, above all, the source of amity remembered.
My grand folks’ front yard, of thick, rich crabgrass, adjoined that of the Fitzsimons’. Divided neither by fence nor shrub line, Mr. Fitzsimons would frequently mow the entire grassed expanse of the two residents. He recognized no property line, and he would often rake the fallen leaves from both his and my grand folk’s properties in a corresponding manner. As I aged and was tasked to mow the lawn of my grand folk’s house I was expected to do the same. He was an incredible mechanic and would dedicate long Saturdays to assisting my grandfather, a man of slightly limited mechanical proficiency, in addressing the complexities associated with the German’s Volkswagen engine or with Sear’s carbureted lawnmower. Mr. Fitzsimons built airplanes in his garage… real flyable airplanes… right there in his garage. I spent many-a-childhood night staring into the darkness of my bedroom ceiling envisioning a gloved and goggled Mr. Fitzsimons negotiating the clouds with the tail of his white scarf dancing behind his head.
Mr. Fitzsimons, a slender, tall man, surpassing perhaps 6’, served in the Pacific theater during World War II as a crew member on a PBY Catalina flying boat. I recall stories that soon after the Japanese attack on the Pearl Harbor Naval Station, Mr. Fitzsimons’ crew was charged with the task of searching the U.S. area of operations surrounding the Midway Islands for the Japanese fleet. Opting to search several hours past their fixed flight window, Mr. Fitzsimons’ PBY crew spotted the infamous fleet on-course for Midway. Accordingly, they made radio contact with the U.S. forces at Midway, preparing them for the imminent Japanese attack. History, of course, tells us that the U.S. was triumphant in the legendary battle due to this forewarning.
Growing up, I never knew this tale of Mr. Fitzsimons’ intrepidness and secured place within the history books. I only knew him as the nice gentleman who raised doves next door or as thoughtful neighbor who always tossed our ball or Frisbee back over the fence when we carelessly played in the grand folks’ yard. It wasn’t until I was a young man, home on leave between Army boot camp and deployment overseas, did I learn of his great adventures within the Navy during the Second World War. During a customary “stop in and say hello” my grandfather asked him to show me the books he was recorded in and to tell me his of his accounts. I was awestruck; I was in the presence of a ledged; and, I will never forget the moment.
Mr. Fitzsimons, survived by his wife and his children and family, passed-on recently; yet, he simply does not vanish to the mere confines of dusty history books or narratives by this failed author. Rather, Mr. Fitzsimons resides among the sweet oleander, thick bougainvillea, colossal royal palms, and galvanized metal clotheslines; he rests lazily upon a sun-warmed metal lawn chair along with his comrades from the PBY Catalina flying boat; and he awaits the moment of my opportunity to tell him of my intrepidness while Stan Getz’s “The Girl from Impanema” and Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” whisper in the backdrop.
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