Mr. Write's Page

September 12, 1997.

If you pay attention, you learn things.

For years, my daily commute from my home in Lawrenceville to my job in Conyers was a long, relatively pleasant ride the length of Gwinnett County. The most direct route turned out to be along Rosebud Road, which runs from Grayson to Georgia 20 north of Conyers. Bear with me; I’ll get to the point directly.

Today, Rosebud Road is a typical suburban thoroughfare, heavily traveled and lined with housing developments. You see more cyclists in spandex than farmers in pickups.

But through the 1980s and 90s, that route was a winding, two-lane, county-maintained road that few people used.

I drove down Rosebud Road twice a day, 10 times a week, 40 times a month – give or take. And, like most of us, I noticed things.

I remember, for example, when a young couple in one house had their first baby. For a long time, I had seen the mother outside, gardening and whatnot, so I knew she was expecting. Then a pink bow appeared on the mailbox, and the relatives all came. I could tell by all the extra people and cars.

Before long, I saw Mom and Dad and the grandparents pushing the stroller. And soon, there was the kid herself, out toddling around the yard.

Then a couple of seasons went by, and one day, she was standing at the curb, waiting for the school bus. She had a little sister by then.

I gathered a lot of passive intelligence during those long commutes. But of all the people I got to know in passing, so to speak, none stay on my mind like the two old couples, probably in their 70s, who lived across Rosebud Road from each other in Rosebud Community.

Although I never knew their names, I need names to describe them, so I’ll call them the Smiths and the Joneses.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith lived in a big white house that commanded a fine corner lot. It was an older place, probably built in the 1940s. It was handsome and well-tended and surrounded by flowers and fruit trees and useful outbuildings.

These were prosperous country folk. Mr. Smith had a giant lawn tractor and a new truck with a stretch cab. Mrs. Smith drove an Oldsmobile sedan.

Diagonally across the road, in another place of ancient vintage, lived Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Their home was an old, unpainted wooden structure with a tin roof. It was situated so close to the road that the front yard barely existed.

These folks were far from prosperous. They had little grass to mow. The family vehicle was a battered truck of indeterminate age.

In spite of the differences, both homes were fiercely neat and clean. I often saw all four of the residents out working on their lawns and shrubbery and vegetable patches. They worked relentlessly and took obvious pride in the results.

Clearly, they were friends. I commonly saw two, or three, or four of them, standing and talking or helping each other with some chore. I would see the two women leaving together in the car, or see the two men drive off somewhere in one truck or the other.

Their favorite spot seemed to be the green metal lawn chairs in the side yard at the Jones house, where they would sit and enjoy the shade in the early evening. They seemed comfortable together. Fond of each other. No doubt I am romanticizing the situation, but they looked content. To see them was gratifying.

If you know anything about country people, you know a funeral wreath when you see one. And one day in the spring, a wreath appeared on the door of the Jones home.

It turned out to be Mr. Jones who died, although at first, I didn’t know for certain. The relatives came, and then were gone, and then one morning as I drove past, I saw Mrs. Jones out in her yard in slippers and a housecoat.

The weeks went on, and life got back to normal. The Smiths were extra supportive. They seemed to be around the Jones house more often, seemed to spend more time visiting and helping out. Mr. Smith never let either yard go unattended.

Many mornings, I saw Mrs. Smith slowly walking in the direction of the Jones place. A few times, I saw her taking down laundry from Mrs. Jones’s clothesline. Sometimes on my way home in the evening, I would see the two women sitting in the green lawn chairs talking, as the old guy worked in the yard. Mrs. Jones appeared to be well cared for.

A year or so later, Mr. Smith died, too. It seemed unexpected, considering how active and busy he was.

Only a few relatives came to pay their respects. After that, the two women appeared to be alone.

More seasons passed. My kids were in middle and high school by then, so my attention was on family matters of my own. Still, as I drove to and from work, I could tell that both women had declined. I saw less and less of Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Jones began a ritual that lasted for months: as I drove by, morning and evening, I would see her trudging along the side of the road, on her way to and from the Smith house. She walked slowly and laboriously. Each step seemed to take all the energy she had. It was a compelling sight.

I never saw Mrs. Smith again. Mrs. Jones continued to make her long daily walks, apparently to care for her friend, until the need was no longer there.

This time I didn’t see signs of a funeral. I just knew, because the Smith place took on a vacant look, and no one came any more. Soon, the old white house was for sale.

After that, I saw Mrs. Jones only twice more. The first time, she was crossing her yard using an aluminum walker. She was potting some plants at a work table. The second time, she was in her side yard, in one of the big green metal lawn chairs, just sitting.

That was in late summer. I recall that she died sometime around Thanksgiving or Christmas. The holiday season is difficult for older people who end up alone, they say.

If you ever drive from Conyers to Lawrenceville, take Rosebud Road. The turnoff is just inside Walton County on Georgia 20 North. Turn left there, and go about a mile to the four-way stop at Rosebud Community.

The big house where the Smiths lived is on the far corner on the left. The Joneses’ place is on the right about 50 yards ahead.

The Jones house burned a few years ago. I expect the developers will get all that land soon.