The Story… of Louie
From: James Algiers
Subject: Fwd: Letters to Louie Who is Louie
Date: June 23, 2012, at 8:10:12 AM CDT
To: Louis Frey
Yearbook picture of Louis Frey… “Louie.”
Begin forwarded message:
Abbey,
You asked, “Who is Louie? Does he exist?"
One September afternoon in 1940, I was in the line receiving shoulder pads, pants, and a shirt, gear used for the freshmen football team. A guy smaller than I, glasses thicker than mine, issued shoes sloppier and bigger than any others, stood behind me and introduced himself as "Louie" from Slinger Road, east of the Magos, on a farm, graduated from the South Side School, or rather the North Side School in town. He was no athlete, nor was I, but at least I knew a few things about football; all he wanted was to belong.
He had a sister, at least 15 years older than him; a nurse, and no other siblings. His Father was a short, heavy-set man who drank beer and ate Bratwurst for lunch. Louie, it turned out, became my friend, and has remained my friend.
He was never a football player, but was a student of the game and memorized the playbook, twenty plays, over one night.
Louie became the original "water boy".
The war came along; Louie had really bad eyes and went to Wisconsin, eventually to Law School.
He graduated with honors, became an employee of a law publishing firm in Minneapolis, and has remained in Minnesota since then.
He became a partner in the publishing house, retired, and now resides in a nursing home. His eyes remain bad, his mind sharp; he resents the personal care of the nursing home, but realizes the necessity of cleanliness, but "damn it, keep away from me.”
Louie married the daughter of the last of the Irish seamen of the Great Lakes, a Sullivan girl. They lived well; he knows of Shakespeare and Beowulf, he regales the outhouse description by Beowulf to the nursing home, and resents both, but believes the English version is more descriptive. At this time, he lives with his wife in the care facility; his eyesight declines, his Patty has an open leg and ulceration; he is confined to the home, and he states, "life is hell.”
I do write to him as the spirit moves, and "Letters to Louie" are answered with brief, concise, lawyer-cutting remarks of recognition and true gratitude.
Gratitude that someone else, who needs "water at times," remembers those hot September days on the dry West Park football field of the first generation of the "Boys of 44."
So Abbey, Louie does exist, in Minnesota, in memory, on the Email pages, and in the desire of his and my memory of the past, and in the mind of his and my reflective moments; one in support, the other in need of support. This symbiotic relationship has no code number for Medicare, but serves a better purpose than mind-altering drugs, sedatives, or urinary catheters; it cleanses the mind, stimulates the juices, and reignites relationships of old and moves feelings into the present, gives catharsis to bad dreams of the night, and points to the coming days.
This is why I write to Louie.
This is why he reads the mundane articles, laughs, smirks, and remains the lawyer of old, with the cutting mind for incisive analysis and simple, knife-like responses.
He should have been a Judge.
Louie is indeed real.
JLA
Yearbook picture of Jim Algiers.
