Remembering Paul

MIronworks was a beginning and an ending for me (see The Interview at my diary contents. It was an ending in the sense that my marriage was over and a beginning because this job would provide the income I needed in order to move on to the next phase of my life. I was to spend many happy days within those walls and make friendships which would last a lifetime.

I never knew for certain, but I think it was polio which crippled Paul. His left leg would drag along behind him as he pulled himself forward with his right. He would stop often, grabbing hold of a table, chair or anything handy, to rest for a moment before continuing on. He never gave a voice to his affliction and neither did anyone else as far as I knew. It was just part of who he was.

Paul was a mainstay at MIronworks and had been hired many years ago by JB’s father. He was highly respected, very capable, never missed work, and was completely devoted. I learned much about the business from Paul and he was always eager to teach me more. In spite of our difference in ages (he was at least old enough to be my grandfather), we became fast friends and I rather enjoyed his obvious delight in being in my company.

Paul’s physical handicap never impacted his interest in women and his ability to appreciate a pretty face. He never tried to mask his great pleasure at locking eyes with you across the room, but there was never an indiscreet word spoken, nor was there ever a remark which could be interpreted as anything other than a sheer appreciation of feminine beauty. Very simply put…he loved women and experienced unabashed pleasure at being in their company.

I lived at White’s Landing, a small village nestled on the banks of Lake Erie and located in the countryside quite a few miles out of town. The drive into work was long and picturesque, but very deserted in spots. Paul lived about midway between my house and the office and his lovely old house sat at the end of a long winding lane. I would often see him on the road going to or coming from work.

Somehow we graduated into driving together on cold and wintry Ohio days when the winds were high and the ice and snow especially hazardous. We didn’t ride together in the same car, but we met up and drove in together. My phone would ring very early on a stormy morning and Paul would tell me to call him as I was leaving the house. After my call, he would go to the end of his lane and wait there for me to come down the road and I’d slow enough for him to pull out in front of me.

This was always an enormous relief to me and I felt perfectly safe letting my tires roll along in the tracks left by his as he led the way along those stretches of country road. In the evening, he’d stop by my desk after leaving his and we’d make our trip in reverse, with Paul leading the way and honking his horn as he turned into his winding drive. I’d continue on home in the semi-darkness still feeling Paul with me because I knew he would be waiting for my call to say I was safely home

It never occurred to me to wonder how Paul could have helped should I have slid into a ditch or careened off into a pasture somewhere. With his bad leg, he’d have never been able to take even so much as a step across an icy road or snowy field. I think we were just comfort – each to the other. Somehow that was enough.

Paul and his wife went on vacation one summer and he returned with snapshots of the courthouse and post office in my little hometown in Alabama. I had told him stories of growing up there and some delightful tales concerning the clocks on the courthouse. The picture of the post office sported the name of the city in big concrete letters. It was Paul’s way of telling me that I was important and that my life mattered to him. He was my friend.