Not a Bad Way to Go

My across-the-street neighbor Duncan MacLeod died last Sunday. He was 83, a quirky, funny, friendly and sometimes grumpy old Scotsman, a former CIA covert agent and WWII veteran who earned a purple heart and a bronze star at a battle on the Anzio beachhead in Italy.

He'd had a debilitating illness a few years ago and worked really hard to come back from being almost bedridden. He faithfully did his physical therapy, walked and puttered around in his yard -- which he was passionately devoted to -- and eventually worked his way up to riding a bike down on the W & OD Trail at the foot of our street. I used to get a kick out of seeing him go off each morning. He seemed much older and more frail but just as happy as could be, riding along on his big, blue old-fashioned bike. It was one of those ones with the thick tires and wide brown leather seat. He sat completely upright, which I'm sure was easier on his back, and wore his helmet -- most of the time.

But he never carried any ID or a cell phone, and last Friday he apparently had a massive heart attack while riding. It was a beautiful day, cool and clear with perfect blue skies. Our friend Tom Carter was riding his bike to work and saw the police gathered near Bluemont Park, and more officers searching further along on the side of the trail. Even though he'd be late for a meeting, he turned around to see what had happened. I'd seen Tom earlier that morning when we were all out doing our usual Friday run. After a while you get to know many of the people who use the trail on a regular basis, so he stopped to see if anyone he knew was hurt.

The police couldn't identify Duncan, so Tom called me. I went across the street and asked his wife of 58 years, Marcy, if he was home. She cheerfully reported that he was still out on his daily ride. The police came to talk to her, and took her to the hospital where Duncan had unfortunately been put on a ventilator because they didn't know he had a "do not rescuscitate" order. The only good thing about that was it gave his three daughters time to get here from Boston, Connecticut and London. They gathered at the hospital with all their kids and quietly let him go.

Duncan's daughter Wendy MacLeod is a well-known playwright, and playwright-in-residence at Kenyon College in Ohio. She wrote The House of Yes, which was made into a great movie starring Parker Posy that won an award at Sundance. She is an amazing writer, and gave the most wonderful eulogy at Duncan's service. She said that during the past several years, he would occasionally report on an old friend who had died and would say, "He dropped dead of a heart attack -- lucky bastard!"

As our good Samaritan Tom commented later, "Duncan had a great life, and he died at 83 doing something he loved on a beautiful fall morning. There are a lot worse ways to go."

Completely unrelated sidenote: During his last week of life, Duncan had the pleasure of seeing our big silver maple tree covered in a festive display of toilet paper each day as he went about his business. The deed was done over Labor Day weekend while we were out of town. The culprits: young boys on bikes who also drew giant whimsical pictures of penises in the street and on my driveway with shaving cream. According to my next-door neighbor Steve, they set off firecrackers and shouted "I love you!" at the house as they rode off into the night, full of piss and vinegar no doubt, as we used to say in Rhode Island.

One can only assume these sweet declarations were directed at our darling Maddie. Eric, my other across-the-street neighbor who lives next to Duncan, kindly sent me the photo for posterity, and we all had a good laugh about the curious thinking processes of 15-year-old boys -- truly a wonder and a mystery.