The Lighthouse Keeper
BY DANIEL W. DRAKE
"It's very cold," Hawkeye said from his perch high in the pine tree by the back door. "I don't like this weather. It's hard to find dinner. Everything hunkers down when it's this cold."

"You are right," I said. "Good morning to you, too. It's not so much that they hunker down. They - some of your prospective dinners - are like us humans; they stay in the house in cold weather. Believe me, I know they are there."

"You have had a great week." Hawkeye changed the subject abruptly.

"I have," I replied. "It has been pretty special. "Two new grandchildren in two days go a long way towards relieving the midwinter gloom. But it has also been a sad week."

"How so?" The red tail fixed me with his eye and cocked his head just enough to let me know that he was listening.

"Well, first of all, Phil Murray died," I responded. "He had been sick for quite a long time, but still it's a shock."

"Who was Phil Murray?" Hawkeye said. "Did I know him?

"Phil ran Murray's Toggery Shop for many years. He was one of the fixtures of the island business community."

"What does "toggery" mean? "Hawkeye interrupted.

"It's kind of a fancy word for clothing," I answered. "If you wore clothing, you would have been a good customer of Mr. Murray's establishment. It was - and still is - a classy place."

"Did he sell feathers? Mine get pretty scruffy from time to time. It would be great to be able just to get some new ones."

"Only metaphorically," I said, "but he sold some pretty nice ones. And he was the image of the haberdasher - don't ask - greeting you when you walked in the door, tape measure draped around his neck and an uncanny knack for knowing what you might want.

"Beyond that, he was a kind and generous man. When my father was unable to get to the island much in his last years, the first thing Phil would say to me when I walked in the store was 'How's Tom?' and he always sent along a greeting to my dad as I left."

"Sounds like quite a fellow," Hawkeye said, thoughtfully, "the kind they don't make anymore."

"That he was."

I went on. "As if that wasn't enough sadness for one week, there was the tragedy, over the weekend, of the young man who took his own life. Death is always hard to cope with, but when the person is young it is more difficult to understand. And when a young man commits suicide it wracks a small community like this."

"You humans are different that way, aren't you," Hawkeye said firmly, but not unkindly. "You take something like this so much to heart. I guess that's good."

"I didn't know the young man, but I still feel a real anguish about it," I said. "Someone said to me that his mom, who is, I am told, a wonderful woman, did everything she could. I can't begin to relate to the pain she feels at the loss of her child - perhaps the greatest bereavement a woman can endure. However, I can relate to the helplessness and doubt that someone in her position is probably going through at such a difficult time."

"What are you talking about?" Hawkeye asked brusquely.

"When someone you love commits suicide, your grief is compounded by guilt; by a feeling that you could have prevented it. You think about what you did, or really, in terms of what you didn't do, and you always wonder whether you somehow held the key which could have unlocked the door through which the demons would flee.

"At the end of the day, no one knows if a specific instance of suicide could have been prevented. It's funny; my wife went to church in Colorado on Sunday and the minister commented on how teen suicides in the Vail Valley had increased markedly and how no one is talking about it. Would talking about it prevent more? Maybe and maybe not. But what talking about it will do, perhaps, is help the survivors realize that they are not at fault."

"Wow," interjected Hawkeye. "You sound like you know something about this."

"I don't know anything about it," I answered, "but I have been through it. After thirty-five years, I still sometimes wonder if I could have done anything to save my brother."

"Tell me about the new grandchildren," Hawkeye said kindly.

"I thought you would never ask," I said with a smile. "They are great.

"The first one came last Monday, about a week early, in Colorado; our younger daughter's first. He is a cute little kid, six pounds something, with a thin face and, they say, a modest fringe of red hair. (You sure can't tell from the pictures, though). His mom had a bit of a rough go and ending up having a c-section, but now mother, son - and father - are all doing well.

"The second one was born almost four weeks ago, but joined the family last Wednesday when our older daughter and son-in-law picked her up from her great foster home, after a bit of a roller coaster waiting for the birth parents to sign the papers. She is now over ten pounds with brown hair and blond eyebrows. She has chubby cheeks and a wonderful disposition. The family is staying with us until the paperwork gets done, enabling them to take her back to North Carolina. The house is busy."

"That's great," Hawkeye said. "I thought you had company, but, the only way I can tell is by how much the furnace is running. What a great thing for all of you. Congratulations!"

"Thank you, yes, we are blessed, indeed.

"Ooops. It's been great talking to you and I am sorry to have to end this but I have to go back to my duties as a grandfather."

"Keep up the good work," Hawkeye said as he prepared to fly. "And, by the way, if you stumble over any dinner for me in that nice warm house, I

would be most grateful." I

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The "Lighthouse Keeper" reflects the views of the author and does not necessarily represent the editorial position of The Nantucket Independent. Please send any comments to drake@nantucketindependent.com.