By Eleanor Kazdan, May 21, 2020 — A few months ago before the pandemic, the lyrics, “You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone,” popped into my brain and became an earworm. It happened when Anthony died.
Anthony lived across the street from us and was our contractor, Mr. Fix-It, and go-to person for anything that went wrong in the house. When we moved in fourteen years ago, we quickly met Anthony and found out that he had been the contractor for the total renovation of our house over a period of years. He was familiar with every nook and cranny. At times, he brought potential customers over to see his work. For us, he did big and small jobs, ranging from building a patio and installing flooring to fixing a leaky faucet. When anything went wrong, our mantra was “Call Anthony.” But he was also maddening. Anthony would often show up hours late, or even the next day. He would do half of a job and then take months to come back and finish it. He preferred dealing with my husband and dubbed me “The Boss.” Many times, we swore never to hire him again, but like an addiction, we kept coming back.
Anthony cared. He called after a rainstorm to make sure the roof was no longer leaking. He was clever and meticulous. He once told me that he was a graduate of the Arts Institute of Philadelphia. About six months ago, Anthony didn’t answer repeated texts. Nervously, I went to his house and rang the bell. His brother answered and told me the terrible news. Anthony had suffered a massive stroke at age 59. He died a few days later. I can still see Anthony riding around the neighborhood in his truck, a big grin on his face, and hear his booming friendly, “Hi!” So many things in the house remind me of him. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone. Anthony had also become a friend.
