"...as she watches the third man in her life slip away."

Mornings with Larry is available through:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07HNQKB1

     I'll introduce the following book excerpt by explaining my writing strategy for Mornings with Larry. I began most chapters with a short, present-tense segment about an experience I had as Larry's caregiver. These segments are the memoir parts of the book. These day-in-the-life intros took up the first page or two of most chapters. They would be followed by the longer biographical sections describing Larry's life. The following excerpt is from chapter two, Days of Youth. It contains a memoir segment, followed by a bit of biography. I hope it speaks to you.

* * *

DAYS OF YOUTH

     It’s late in the morning and Larry asks me to check his emails before I leave for the day. The computer is in his bedroom. He directs me to delete most messages, but as usual has me read all prayer requests from his former flock at Valley Hills Community Church. I stifle a yawn and read the requests. To me, they’re just names. But Larry listens intently. A young man has lost his job and Larry responds with a “Hmm.” A child is very ill and Larry sighs, “Oh.” This is Larry’s spiritual family. I’m glad I held back that yawn.
     I hear the back door open and close. Footsteps echo from the kitchen, then across the hardwood living room floor.
     “Hello,” says a woman’s voice. “Anybody in there?” She speaks in a slow, southern drawl.
     Larry’s mother, Agatha (pronounced a-GAY-tha) Morse, is here for her weekly visit. I greet her as she enters the bedroom. She smiles at me and turns to her son. “How you doing, hon?”
     “Fine, Mom,” says Larry. “We’re about done.”
     Though eighty years old, Agatha looks and carries herself like she’s fifteen years younger. She’s a retired nurse and lives about twenty miles away, in Springfield. A widow twice, her first husband, James William Browning, died in a logging accident in 1970. Her second husband of over thirty years, Lynn Morse, suffered from pancreatic cancer and died in 2008.
     We finish with the emails and I wheel Larry into the living room. I adjust the tilt of his wheelchair so he’s more reclined. Agatha extends her hands as if she wants to help. It’s not the first time she’s tried to assist me in my job. One time she inspected Larry’s weekly pill organizers to make sure I filled them correctly.
     She dotes over her son. The strenuous morning work of getting Larry started is done. Agatha can now spend the afternoon just being with him, performing only a few light-duty tasks to help with his comfort.
     “Anything else, boss?” I ask.
     “Nope,” says Larry. “I’ll see you in the morning, brother.”
     I smile and nod at his mother. “Bye now.”
     “Bye Tom.” She moves close to him.
     I leave the living room and head to the kitchen for my keys. Mother and son begin to catch up on news about friends and family. The atmosphere is upbeat and their mutual affection is evident.
     I exit the back door and walk toward my pickup. Melancholy thoughts enter my mind—about Larry’s frustration at not being able to care for his aging mother, and the heartbreak Agatha must feel as she watches the third man in her life slip away.

* * *

     A small black and white photograph sits on a shelf in the Browning bathroom. In it, Larry, about age four, leans against the right knee of his dad, James Browning. They pose in front of an open garage door. The father, wearing a white shirt and black tie, is dark-haired, slender and handsome. He allows a hint of a smile. Squinty-eyed little Larry appears bold and energetic, not unlike Dennis the Menace. James’ right arm reaches across Larry’s back as if to steady his son. A cigarette is visible between the dad’s fingers.
     Larry remembers an incident that occurred about a year after the photo was taken. He had snuck one of his dad’s cigarettes and lit up. James caught him and asked, “What are you doing?” Young Larry answered, “You smoke. Why can’t I?”
     Larry suspects this was the incident that spurred his father to quit smoking.
     Agatha recalls a similar event that occurred in the mid-1950’s when Larry was about six. James, or “Jay,” as she refers to her late husband, would attend church off and on, but had yet to make a commitment to Christ. One Sunday, Jay decided to skip church. As Larry’s older sister Brenda and their mother prepared to leave, Larry pointed at his daddy and said, “If he’s not going to church, then I’m not going either.” From then on, the father attended church regularly. The next Easter Sunday, Jay invited Jesus Christ to be his Lord and Savior.
     Although Larry tested his father at times, he also revered him and loved being around him. Jay’s happy-go-lucky personality drew Larry like a magnet. The six year old got a scare once while shadowing his dad. Jay was on the back porch, moving a large ceramic crock of Agatha’s homemade pickle relish. The heavy container slipped out of his hands. He tried grabbing it to break the fall, but the crock shattered on the concrete. Jay gashed his hand and blood flowed freely. He passed out before his son’s wide eyes.
     Larry remembers panicking. “So I go running down the road hollering, ‘My daddy’s dead! My daddy’s dead!’ And all the neighbors came back and when they got there, he’s sitting in a chair, alive and well.”