Familiarity breeds comfort

The Boston Herald

BEVERLY BECKHAM

I saw my neighbor, Al, sitting in his driveway, propped up against his wheelbarrow, still as stone. I thought he was dead. Who sits in a driveway? Who puts down his rake or climbs off a ladder or stops mowing his lawn to rest for 10 minutes, to close his eyes and drop his head and let his body go limp and do absolutely nothing?

Al does. And he's taught his big black dog Dante to do the same. In cold weather Al sits just inside his garage on a lawn chair with Dante at his feet and in warm weather he sits closer to the street with Dante at his feet. Location is the only change in this ritual. That and the bulk of the jacket Al wears.

The first time I saw Al slumped in his driveway I raced across the street, cell phone in hand, all set to do CPR while waiting for EMTs. But since then, I always smile when I see him. There he is one minute a man in motion raking leaves or chipping ice or on the roof sweeping. And then when I look again, there he is, his head down, asleep in a chair.

From my office window I get an unobstructed view of Al and his driveway. I'm certain God made it this way so that I can keep an eye on him. That's what I told Al one day and that's what I kind of believed - until the other day, when I looked over and Al was doing his still-as-a-lawn-ornament thing. And this normal, wonderful, comforting sight made me think that maybe somebody was watching over me.

The rhythm of Al's life is soothing. Al raking the leaves and walking the dog and resting in the driveway. Katherine coming out of the house, looking pretty even when she's only going to the store. Something always cooking on their stove. Homemade cookies always in their freezer. Al, can I borrow your clippers. Katherine, do you have any baking powder?

Always I have sought out ritual and tradition and habit. Now I find myself needing them more.

I had a Hershey bar the other night, Halloween candy that I bought and couldn't resist. Milk chocolate Hershey with almonds. I hadn't had one in years. My aunt used to eat them. Before she was married she'd buy them at the Five and Ten, the big 25-cent bars which were thick enough to last anyone else a week. They didn't last Lorraine a night.

She'd sit in front of the TV and before "What's My Line?" was over, the candy would be gone. After she was married, she bought them at the grocery store, sometimes plain Hershey bars but mostly the ones with almonds. These were her favorite. She had them in her pantry, a pile of them, right up until the day she died. In a world full of Cadbury and Kit Kats, she stuck with Hershey's. When I would ask her why, she'd say, "Because I like them."

But there was another reason that maybe she didn't know or maybe she didn't want to talk about: Hershey bars, except for their price, have never changed. They've had the same taste, shape, even the same wrappers forever. And there is comfort in this, and even more comfort now, because so many things in our world and in our lives are changing so fast.

And so we seek the familiar.

I watch as Al drives Katherine to the grocery store and I know that's where they're going because this is where they go every week at this time. And I love that this small ritual continues. I watch Al come home and rake, then rest and Katherine work in her garden and the afternoon fade and evening begin and their kitchen light go on as it does every night.

Ritual. Routine. It's what we want. What we seek. What comforts us and what we hold dear in these difficult times.