Where There's a Will, There's a Way
When we left North Carolina, we knew we were going to miss our tightly woven circle of friends. What we couldn't understand then was the extent to which they had moored our lives, providing love, guidance, and a vitally important sounding board for all sorts of hair-brained ideas.
In Alaska, we would be 4300 miles away from that close-knit group of friends.
When I first arrived in Anchorage, I had a total of around eight hours during my week of training to find an apartment. With no knowledge of the city, I chose a tiny, semi-subterranean apartment with a single porthole that allowed us an almost unrestricted view of the communal dumpster.
This holy mess of a hell hole felt like the Ramada compared to where I spent most of my time: 853 miles north, sleeping under a staircase for my first flying job. A fringe benefit of this job was that it almost entirely precluded me from meeting potential friends at work.
Aubrey worked in a small office at a massive hospital, which offered only marginally more opportunities to meet people.
After five months in the anthill of an apartment, and having given up on buying a home, Aubrey found us a place to rent in a small corner of Anchorage. The rental is the right half of a recently remodeled duplex. It sits in the middle of a yard that is almost big enough to store the snow from our on-street parking. With beautiful views of the surrounding mountains and no through traffic, the neighborhood is just the sort of place one might decide to raise a family.
Due to my two-week on, two-weeks off job, I was out of town for most of the move. So, for the third time in 2022, Aubrey moved us almost singlehandedly.
On my first day back in Anchorage, I was eager to settle in and make the place feel like home. Around eleven that morning, as I sorted through the eighteenth box of outdoor gear (that we were definitely going to use this year), there was a knock on the door. I opened it to an elderly gentleman standing on the steps. He was wearing slacks and a ConocoPhillips polo. His face was kind and bore an endearing smile while he held a plate of cookies.
"I'm Will," he said, "I live next door. I saw you guys moving in and brought you some cookies to welcome you."
"Aubrey mentioned you," I "said, "My name's Jon. Nice to meet you!"
"Nice to meet you. Let me know if I can help you guys with anything."
Though I appreciated this sentiment, the frivolity with which it is often repeated led me to lend it little credence.
The next day, I was outside attempting to clear two fresh feet of snow from the aforementioned parking spaces with a cheap shovel and an aching back when Will's garage door opened.
"Could you use this?" Will asked, lugging a snowblower towards me.
"Oh, wow. That would be amazing!" I said.
The snowblower dwarfed my paltry efforts and turned an afternoon's worth of work into a quick chore. That it was electric meant I could also listen to music as I worked.
An hour later, I had finished digging two car-sized holes and began to head towards the back to clear a path to the shed. When I turned the corner, I was surprised to find that a huge swath of snow had been moved; enough room to park a car, and most of the path to the shed. While I was working in front, Will had been clearing our backyard using his snowplow.
I returned the snowblower and gave Will my sincere thanks.
The next afternoon, Aubrey made some thank-you croissants for Will and sent me over with them.
"Hey Will," I said as he opened the door, "Aubrey made some croissants for y’all." ''Well geez, thank you!" Will said. "Would you like to come in?"
I stepped inside and slid off my boots. The house was a small, neatly cared-for home. My bare feet sank into the deep, green carpet. The wood-paneled walls were decorated with half a century's photographs and a five-foot strip of baleen (a fur-like filter that various whales use to catch their microscopic prey). The brown, overstuffed couch and matching loveseat completed the cozy aesthetic.
"Well, are y'all settling in alright over there?" Will asked.
"Oh yeah. It's nice to finally have some room," I said,
As we talked a lady emerged from the kitchen and stood at the far end of the living room from us. She stared fixedly at the floor in front of her.
"They're going to kill me!" she said.
Will turned to me with a weathered smile. "This is May," he said, "May has dementia."
"Will, I'm so sorry."
"Oh, don’t be," he said. "We've been married 57 years and I still love her." Will's eyes glistened as he smiled at me.
Will had dedicated no small amount of time to helping us yesterday; to making sure we felt welcome and had everything we needed. All the while he was going home to watch a ruthless disease slowly devour the mind of the woman he loved. I was blown away by the depth of Will's gesture.
Neither was this act of kindness unique. In the last year since we've been neighbors, Will has cared for us and checked in on us regularly. When Al, our beloved cat died, Will was there. When we became foster parents, Will was ecstatic to be able to offer guidance and help. All the while caring for May with a devoted touch and undying love.