in memorium: LEYB

I'm not sure i ever knew Leyb's last name. Usually, we created a swear word and i would call him Leyb, you *&^$-jack@$$. As i got older and less volitile, i said Leyb more like a lullaby word. It rolled off my tongue a little more gently, dripped with a honey that i wish could have surrounded him with love and forced him to eat. Sadly, all my Haifa pictures are in Alaska. So, i am going to do my best to write you a word picture of a soul who i only recently found out took flight from this earth a few months ago.

Leyb was Russian wrapped in Chicago Art critic. I was never certain just how old he was--time had not been kind and his leathery skin betrayed his old soul. The truth i suspect is younger than we would have guessed. His fingers were always stained with dirt--the brown earth he loved caked on his tanned hands with big knuckles. Usually the fingers clutched Noblesse cigarettes, a brand made-of-the-scraps-from the-floor-of-other-cigarettes-kind of cigarrette--strong, ashtray like, and filter-useless.

Leyb was the gruff and scary man you see on the corner only to realize he's selling the most exquisite artwork. His stories came in fits and spurts--always adventures filled with beautiful things and poetry or rants about the universe and all its wrongs. In my imagination, he had an epic library where books and plants wove their way around each other. Flowers and greenery were always called by their proper names, given love and respect, and treated as precious cargo. He handled them the way you would a Chagall or O'Keefe, with tenderness and awe. He was in the garden for the love of the art. The lucky few of us who got to spend time with him were treated the same. Everyone had a pet name and a small glance that you knew was yours. I truly believe he thought of each of us as his children. He rejoiced in our small triumphs and pushed us through failures (usually involving epic plant killing disasters or personal heartbreak). Leyb had an epic sense of humor--always in the midst of our practical jokes and devising ways to improve them. When directed at him--even involving singed eyebrows--Leyb never failed to find the humor in the joke or appreciate that it had been concoted just for him. As a friend pointed out yesterday, his immortal words "kissem tukus" will live with us all our days.

In the end, stalwart and independant as always, he refused to accept weakness or infirmity, refused help, and refused food. The last time i hugged him--over a year ago, he was so thin i was scared he was brittle. My heart aches wishing that one of us had been there to hold his hand in the end and laugh with him one last time.

A dear friend asked last night what i learned from him. My answer came without reflection--i learned that you cannot judge the strength of one's soul based on an exterior or a first impression. Still waters run deep.