RICH: The Summer leaves

Published 12:06 pm Sunday, June 29, 2025

It’s the first two weeks of summer when the world is awhirl with different shades of green, blackberry winter has passed and the days are warmed to perfection, which are particularly enchanting. The trees are fully filled out and the kudzu has begun its annual take over of telephone poles and shacks long abandoned.

Always, I have said that autumn is my favorite season and it is for all the beautiful colors with which it adorns the earth in the colder parts of the country. Early last fall, I walked outside and felt that crystal clear snap that brings to mind what the national anthem and prayer signal: High school football season has arrived.

Having been a sports writer, that’s a special feeling that takes me tumbling back in time and memories. I stopped and absorbed the moment. One of the schools I covered had a linebacker who was enormous and always successful at taking down his prey and, by God’s mercy, he never killed anyone. He was always jolly with teeth that flashed brilliantly white against his ebony-colored skin. Joseph was loved by his teammates for his ability and loved by his coaches and parents for his manners and kindness.

A few years ago, I was visiting a friend in a nursing home. Looking for her room, I was reading each name as I walked the hall. I stopped. Joseph Randolph. 

“What a coincidence,” I thought then my mind fluttered over the night his team won district and he picked up the sizeable head coach, throwing him over his shoulder. He picked him up as easy as picking up a Coke bottle.

Later, when I was leaving, I passed his room and came to a slow stop. He sure looked like Joseph. I walked to the door. “Are you Joseph Randolph who was the best linebacker that this county has ever seen?”

His laugh gave him away. 

“Well, ma’am, I don’t rightly know about that but I surely hope I’m ‘membered that way.”

“May I come in?”

“Yes, siree. I’s been wantin’ me some company. Gets awful lonesome sometimes.”

I gave him my name and reminded him how we had known each other. He threw back his head and laughed. “I knowed you. All us boys had a crush on you.”

“Well, I wish someone had told me that,” I said, laughing then turned serious. “What are you doing here?”

A sadness covered his face. “A stroke. I can talk OK but it’s my walkin’ that ain’t no good. Ain’t nobody to take care of me so here I is.”

My eyes brimmed. “You’re too young for a stroke.”

“I’ll be 36 in two weeks. This happened about six months ago but they say I ain’t likely to go home again.”

I pulled up a chair and sat down. He was so happy to have company that I made it a weekly habit to stop by because his nursing home was on the drive to my house. Two weeks later, I brought him a cake and party hats. He was a favorite of staff and patients so they all piled in and sang to him.

When Christmas came, I took him a present wrapped in foiled paper. “My, my. Now, ain’t this purdy? I hate to open it.”

I smiled. “I’ll wrap another box in this paper and bring it to you.”

Our renewed friendship lasted two years. It was the beginning of summer where the different shades of green was fresh and pretty and the kudzu had already grown two feet. Joseph’s room was empty, his blanket turned back and the pillow fresh with the imprint of his head.

A nurse, who knew me, walked by. “Is Joseph in therapy?” I asked, holding his favorite milkshake.

The look in her eyes told me. I began sniffling. “When?”

“A few hours ago. A massive stroke”.

So, it is that I always think of Joseph Randolph in the fall and early summer days. And, always, my heart aches.

—Ronda Rich is the best-selling of the Stella Bankwell mystery series. Please visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.