The elderly neighbor we hardly knew

Rounding the corner atop Cloverhill, we saw a line of cars parked along the road’s north side, including a police car. An officer spoke with a middle-aged man (his son, I believe) in the yard while others milled near the door. This was not what we anticipated upon returning from a short Chattanooga trip.

We knew what the scene spelled out but we didn’t want to say it. Mr. Hardy had passed away. We could not confirm his death till Sunday night, but every activity at the house screamed that its occupant was gone. Saturday night, the house lights glowed brighter and later than normal. People came and went from the house at rates not previously witnessed.

First, let me stress I never had a conversation with Mr. Hardy, nothing more than a wave in passing. Waving is the best you can hope from 21st century neighbors. We were the new renters on Cloverhill. Who knew how many people moved in and out throughout his time there? Even on a short street, it could have been scores.

Those who lived on Cloverhill respected him. Every neighbor I’ve spoken to always referred to him as Mr. Hardy. Until seeing his obituary, we didn’t know his first name (Roy), only that of his late wife (Ann, more on her later). He lived on our street for 60 years and looked a decade younger than his age (92 – we pegged him as early 80s).

Returning from walks – and he walked every day - he used to wave to Nancy as she left for work. Perhaps that should have been the sign something was wrong – Nancy didn’t see him as often this summer. I know how high-90-degree temperatures and stifling humidity affect me, so I can only guess how they would affect someone at that age.

During my broken-arm imprisonment in the house, he would wave at me too, on the few occasions we reached our mailboxes simultaneously. When I was stuck in the house, any human contact is a blessing.

At Christmastime, Mr. Hardy’s Christmas display delivered a gut-punch, a public display of what he felt for his lost wife. The light strands were arranged to honor “Ann Hardy in Heaven”. It was easily the most emotion light display on Cloverhill, Donelson and maybe all of Nashville. Those lights were a public display of long-lasting love – it didn’t matter that our street gets little traffic, only that Mr. Hardy had his say. It spoke of his desire to see her again. We can only hope the latter came true.

For not knowing him, he cast a long shadow on Clover Hill. Of him I always think of a singular moment. On Easter Sunday I witnessed something I shouldn’t have seen, something private and personal. I was in the front yard and a car arrived to pick up Mr. Hardy. The same middle-aged man I would later see talking to the cop met Mr. Hardy at the end of the front walk. He hugged his father and kissed him gently on the cheek before helping him into the car. No one could have known it would be their last Easter, but the father-son embrace recognized the joy of one more family celebration.