Visiting Mr. Fitzwilliam: A True Intergenerational Story of Friendship and Legacy

Speaker 1:
0:07

While we aim for an uninterrupted listening experience, we'd like to take a moment to recognize a remarkable listener, vitality UK in the United Kingdom. Thank you so much for leaving our first review and rating. For all of our other listeners who enjoy the stories, please take a moment to follow, rate and review the podcast. Your feedback enhances the podcast algorithm, expanding its reach to more listeners. Again, special thanks to Vitality UK for the fantastic 5-star review. Now let's get into today's episode.

Speaker 1:
0:45

Welcome to another episode of Pan2Pen. When a private chef leaves the kitchen to write a story, each episode serves a fresh literary treat crafted by Tate Basildon, a private chef and memoir author. In this episode we'll be taken on a journey of innocence, curiosity and intergenerational bonding with a young Tate as he sets out to explore a new neighborhood. As he wanders the streets, he finds himself in an unexpected encounter that leads to an unlikely friendship. So sit back, relax and prepare to be transported into the heartwarming tale of visiting Mr Fitzwilliam.

Speaker 1:
1:31

When I was a boy, my family and I relocated to a serene residential area on the northern edge of the city limits. The community was renowned for its stunning Victorian mansions that bordered a vast park serving as a boundary for the city. Towards the north of this magnificent park lay the city's botanical garden constructed at the base of a mountain. Our house, a modest yet ornate Victorian building, sat just a block from the beautiful mansions. Dotted within our neighborhood were homes as stunning as those on the park's perimeter, but they did not receive the same notoriety. The neighborhood transformed as businesses bought up old mansions for offices. Elderly British expats mainly occupied the remaining houses. So no children my age were in the neighborhood. My two brothers were five and seven years older than me and did their own thing. My best friend lived around the block, but his parents were strict and only allowed him to come out to play at certain times. Therefore I had a lot of free time for myself. Despite this, I never considered myself a lonely child, as I enjoyed being alone. I preferred the company of adults over children, as I was always fascinated by the stories adults told rather than the games children wanted to play. So this neighborhood was perfect for a child like me. I made daily rounds to talk to almost all the older adults in the area.

Speaker 1:
2:53

During the Easter holidays I explored my neighborhood daily. I usually stayed within our street, but one day I decided to go to the end of the block, turned left and walk towards the house at the end, I noticed the house was very small. The house was always empty when we drove past that street. All the other houses on that block were converted into businesses, except for one old mansion which was obliquely opposite, operated as a boarding house. Mrs Ho ran it. She was a short, elderly Chinese woman with a bob style haircut dyed bright red and always wore a short mini skirt and knee length red leather high heeled boots. She would walk past our house every day at precisely 10 in the morning and return at noon. We could set our clocks to her schedule. I never spoke with her, but she always smiled and waved when she saw me in our yard.

Speaker 1:
3:44

The house at the end of the block was unlike all the other Victorian style houses surrounding it. It was a World War II era home made of brick and stucco, which was flat and plain, with huge bay windows surrounded by a wide covered porch. It was noticeable compared to everything else around us. Hello, a voice said from within the hedges. I peered into the yard but I couldn't see anyone. I wondered if I was hearing ghosts, so I remained silent. Suddenly, the hedges started moving and a tall, slim man with a long white beard appeared. He was wearing a straw hat and gloves and holding garden shears.

Speaker 2:
4:22

What's your name?

Speaker 1:
4:23

He asked his accent noticeably different from the other expats in the neighborhood. He wasn't British and sounded American Tate, I said. Studying him closely, his eyes were the bluest and most captivating I had ever seen. My stepfather's eyes were blue, but they paled. Compared to this man's, I found his eyes both fascinating and sorrowful. I once asked my stepfather why his eyes were blue. He told me it was a beautiful day when he was born without clouds. When he opened his eyes and looked up, he saw the blue sky first and that's why his eyes became that color. He also said his hair was blonde because it was the color of the sun that shone in the cloudless sky. I gazed at the stranger with silver hair and deep blue eyes, wondering what he saw at birth. What did you first see when you were born? I asked what when you were first born? What did you first see? I have no idea why. Never mind, do you have children, I asked. Not that I felt the need to play with any.

Speaker 2:
5:28

Yes, one son, but he lives far from here and I don't see him much.

Speaker 1:
5:31

He replied, his eyes betraying his deep sadness at that thought. We chatted for a long while. He leaned against his low brick wall and I tried to imitate his stance to appear more mature. We talked about the neighborhood, the people who lived there and what he did for a living. He worked as the clay court expert at the tennis club around the corner, although I wasn't sure what that meant, he said he only went to the club for an hour or two after lunch and spent the rest of his time in his garden. We finished our conversation and I left to continue speaking with the other elderly neighbors.

Speaker 1:
6:05

When I went home I told my stepfather about meeting Mr Fitzwilliam and I asked if I could return to visit with the older man. My stepfather said it was fine so long as I was not becoming a pest to the man. During our meetings we would often engage in lengthy conversations about his life. He always had fascinating stories about his experiences as a US Air Force pilot during World War II. He had seen many battles, flying bombing missions over Europe. He told me he never knew if he was ever coming home with every mission he flew. He was already in his forties when he flew those expeditions and learned to fly on a biplane in his teens in the Great War, as he called it. He shared about his time in England, meeting his wife and having one son, although his wife had passed away. He didn't elaborate on when or how and I did not pry. I loved listening to his stories, as my stepfather, who also served in World War II, in retrospect suffered from PTSD and didn't ever speak of his time there.

Speaker 1:
7:06

After the war, mr Fitzwilliam was given a new assignment in the Caribbean, where he flew missions over the Caribbean Sea in search of German U-boats. He fell in love with the tropical weather and decided to stay there permanently, never returning to the US or England. His son lived in England and rarely visited him in the Caribbean, so he did not see much of his grandchildren. He carried a deep sadness when he spoke of his family, a loneliness that spanned oceans. I wondered why he never went to England to visit his grandchildren, but I realized there was an unspoken story about his relationship with his son, and it was none of my business. There was a parallel between Mr Fitzwilliam and my stepfather. My stepfather also had a grown son from his previous marriage, with whom he had a strained relationship. Looking at Mr Fitzwilliam was like looking at my stepfather in years to come.

Speaker 1:
7:58

I went to see Mr Fitzwilliam almost daily during the Easter holidays. On returning to school I only saw him occasionally on weekends. When the August holidays rolled around, I anxiously visited him every day around 10 to talk. While we were conversing one morning outside, a dark rain cloud suddenly formed over the mountain, as it sometimes did, and it began to rain. I was about to run back home when a lightning bolt struck down in the nearby park, followed immediately by a terrifying crack of thunder. Come on in. He swung the gate open and gestured for me to follow him to his porch.

Speaker 1:
8:33

As we approached the front steps, I couldn't help but admire the well-manicured lawn and the colorful flower beds that lined the path to the entrance. His garden was by far the most beautiful in the neighborhood. As I stepped onto his porch, I looked inside his house through the enormous bay window and was struck by the vibrant and modern decor With its bright orange and yellow hues. The furniture almost seemed to glow in the natural light that filtered through the windows. The clean lines and futuristic designs of everything from the couches to the lamps made it feel like I was looking into the set of a sci-fi film. In stark contrast to my home, which was filled with heavy, ornate pieces of Victorian furniture, his house was a refreshing and energizing change of pace.

Speaker 1:
9:17

A shelving unit with a stack of toys was in one corner of the huge porch. A particular box that caught my attention was a construction set. I had seen it in a store previously. Unlike LEGO, this set consisted of wooden floor panels with holes where you could insert thin, rigid metal poles. These poles acted as the support like wood beams in a wall, and you could slide panels onto the poles to create walls. They were the perfect toy for a child to have fun with and simultaneously dangerous enough to poke both of your eyes out. I desperately wanted to play with it, but didn't say anything, since my mother had always taught me to look and never touch anything at someone's home. Mr Fitzwilliam saw me staring at the set and asked with a kind smile would you like to play with that construction kit? I eagerly nodded in response and swiftly got down on the floor, excited to explore the contents. With a swift motion, I opened it up and poured all the pieces onto the ground, relishing the chance to start building and creating.

Speaker 2:
10:18

I bought all these toys the last time my grandchildren visited, but I think I overdid it. They weren't here long enough to play with them all.

Speaker 1:
10:27

As he spoke, I again noticed the sadness in his eyes and a slight tremble in his voice. He admitted that he barely saw his grandchildren and was not the best father, dedicating himself to his job and barely ever being at home. His son wanted less to do with him as an adult, so he rarely saw him or his grandchildren. His son in turn became a pilot in the British armed forces and said he never had time to come to the Caribbean to visit. He explained that he was too old now to handle the lengthy flight to England so he had to depend on his son coming to see him. Despite his apparent emptiness, we engaged in a friendly conversation about our lives. As we talked, I watched him closely and it seemed like he was trying to avoid dwelling too much on his loneliness. The downpour had ceased, prompting me to dismantle the structure I had been constructing and carefully store it away.

Speaker 2:
11:18

No, leave it. You can continue when you return next time, if you want to.

Speaker 1:
11:22

I wanted to, so I carefully pushed my half-completed structure to the side out of his way. After a while, mr Fitzwilliam mentioned that he had to go into the club and we said our goodbyes. I returned the next day and almost every day after that for the entire August holiday, building and dismantling structure after structure, all while we chatted about his life as a pilot. I asked him more questions than he could answer and he fascinated me with the thought of becoming a pilot. On weekends I would beg my stepfather to take us to the airport to watch the jets depart and arrive, dreaming of the day I could fly one of those massive metal tubes. It was a dream I held on to until I was a teenager where, for reasons I will give in another story, I learned I could never become a pilot. I was becoming a substitute grandchild and for me he was becoming a substitute father figure. Although my stepfather was in my life and loved me, he mostly kept to himself and we never spoke the way Mr Fitzwilliam and I did. As much as I listened to Mr Fitzwilliam's stories, he listened to a precocious boy's dreams of the future and his little problems, something no one ever asked me about. He always had very sage advice when I complained about some issue with my brothers or parents, prompting me to see the problem from their side also.

Speaker 1:
12:39

The August holidays ended and I returned to school again, seeing Mr Fitzwilliam infrequently when the Christmas holidays rolled around, I did not get to visit him as often as I wanted and when I did it was only to talk in his garden or on the sidewalk, without ever getting to play with the construction set. I would glance up at the porch and see the half-complete structure. I left there in August sitting on the ground waiting for my return. As we spoke, I noticed he was less active in his garden than when I first met him. He seemed to age many years before my eyes.

Speaker 1:
13:14

On Christmas Eve night, I was helping my mother prepare dinner when my stepfather suddenly called out from the front of the house that I had a visitor. My mother and I exchanged curious looks and made our way to the front porch to see who it could be. As we stepped outside, we were greeted by Mr Fitzwilliam holding onto a significantly wrapped gift. The porch light cast a unique glow on his face with its white beard and red shirt, making him look like a thin Santa Claus, despite the brightness of his expression I could tell that he was sad and that this was a difficult time for him. He was alone and had no family around him. His eyes betrayed his sadness and I suspected that he was crying. I stared at him and he caught me looking into his glassy sad eyes, reading him.

Speaker 2:
13:59

I was making the neighborhood rounds, I am afraid I had too much punch to cram at all the other neighbors I visited first, but I saved my visit to my best friend for last.

Speaker 1:
14:08

He said, giving me an excuse for the redness of his eyes, but I knew he was not drunk. This is for you, tate, he said as he handed me the package. I knew what it was the instant I took it from his hand. It was the construction set, like the one I played with in his house, but the box size told me it was the Deluxe Edition. Is this what I think it is? I asked excitedly. Yes, it is. I bought you your own.

Speaker 1:
14:33

My mother invited Mr Fitzwilliam to have a seat. It was apparent that she and my stepfather knew Mr Fitzwilliam somehow. She offered him more punch to cram, a milk punch similar to egg nog, made with rum and Angostura aromatic bitters, which he happily accepted, and a pastel, a traditional pork and beef pie with olives and capers wrapped in a cornmeal shell that is then wrapped in a banana leaf and steamed. The banana leaves impart a unique taste. You can never eat just one. Mr Fitzwilliam gobbled the pastel as if he had not eaten in days. My mother offered him another, which he eagerly took, along with a slice of my aunt's superb black Christmas cake, much like English plum pudding but drenched in rum.

Speaker 1:
15:16

My stepfather, although younger than Mr Fitzwilliam, was in the Canadian army during the war and they swapped war stories as they were both stationed in England. My stepfather opened up to the older man and spoke about things he had never told me. He was a person my stepfather could talk to, about things he kept inside. They wondered how often they may have crossed paths to only now meet a quarter of a century after the war's end. My mother allowed me to open the gift and I sat on the ground playing with it while my parents and Mr Fitzwilliam laughed and shared stories. After what seemed like hours, mr Fitzwilliam said he should go before he fell asleep on our porch. He stood, shook my mother's hand and then shook my stepfather's hand before pulling him in for a hug, which my stepfather eagerly embraced. The gesture not only shocked me but also fascinated me, and my stepfather reciprocated. It was as if each became a substitute for what the other was missing in their lives.

Speaker 2:
16:15

He's a new light in my life. He is great company for an older man. I hope you don't mind that he visits me".

Speaker 1:
16:21

Not at all, so long as he minds his manners. After he left I asked my mother if we could invite Mr Fitzwilliam for Christmas and she said that my stepfather had already done so when they were talking, but he declined. He told them he preferred to be alone on Christmas Day. I didn't see Mr Fitzwilliam again until New Year's Day, when I went to wish him a happy New Year and bring a slice of the black Christmas cake he said he loved. I again returned to school and saw Mr Fitzwilliam a few times after New Year's.

Speaker 1:
16:51

A month before Easter holidays I became very ill, which happened often. It seemed the warm, humid weather of the Caribbean disagreed with me. I frequently developed bronchitis with severe ear infections. I was down for a few weeks and never visited Mr Fitzwilliam. As I lay in bed, my stepfather brought a new comic book for me to read. He said it was a gift from Mr Fitzwilliam. He came to see me when I was sleeping. I thought of all the places Mr Fitzwilliam described in the US and decided that maybe that was where I needed to live to escape the heat and humidity that disagreed with me. When Easter holidays came around, I went to his house to wish him a happy Easter. He wasn't in his yard and I assumed he already left for the club. I returned home when I passed in front of Mrs Ho's guest house, he's gone boy.

Speaker 1:
17:39

I heard a voice come from the porch of the guest house. I saw Mrs Ho smoking a pipe and reading a paper in a rocking chair. Excuse me, I asked, not knowing what she was talking about. She continued to rock, puffing on the pipe and never took her eyes off the paper. I never noticed her there before, but from where she sat she had a direct view into Mr Fitzwilliam's yard and porch and could see everything that went on there. Your old friend, is gone.

Speaker 1:
18:06

She said never looking at me, Gone where he passed away a couple of weeks ago.

Speaker 2:
18:12

His family buried him last week.

Speaker 1:
18:15

I stood motionless on the sidewalk, completely taken aback by the news. Despite being aware of his age, I had never truly prepared myself for the reality of his passing. The thought of never having the chance to bid him farewell left me feeling numb and helpless. As I glanced around at the house, the walls seemed to echo with the deafening silence of my old friend no longer in his yard. His absence was an irreplaceable loss that had left a void in my heart. It was as if the house had lost its soul and the memories we had shared were now just ghosts of the past. With an aching heart and a heavy step, I left and returned home. As I lay in bed, memories of our conversations and his beautiful stories flooded my mind and I could feel my heart breaking into a million pieces. The tears streamed down my face and with each sob I felt a little bit of my old friend's presence slipping away Sitting in the living room. My stepfather heard me and walked straight to my room. I sobbed as I told him about the sudden death of Mr Fitzwilliam, my old friend. I was devastated that his family didn't let me know about his passing. All I wanted was to attend his funeral and bid him a final farewell. My stepfather was visibly shaken by either the news or my devastation, but tried to console me, explaining that it was possible that Mr Fitzwilliam's family didn't know about me, hence the lack of notification. It was a tough pill, but I knew he was right. I saw tears form in my stepfather's eyes as he quickly turned away and left my room.

Speaker 1:
19:53

It took a while for me to get over Mr Fitzwilliam's passing and I could never return to that part of the neighborhood. I stopped visiting the other older adults in the neighborhood for fear of the same devastation I felt. With time I eventually blocked Mr Fitzwilliam from my mind until I recalled the friendship. In adulthood I asked my mother if she recalled Mr Fitzwilliam during her latter years and, to my surprise, she did. However, I never knew until then that after that unforgettable moment, my stepfather and Mr Fitzwilliam met a few times at our home. During those meetings, mr Fitzwilliam lent an ear to listen to my stepfather's stories, something he had never been able to share with anyone before. They both filled a void in each other's lives. I realized there was something so special about Mr Fitzwilliam. Maybe he was an angel in disguise.

Speaker 1:
20:43

Reflecting on my childhood, I empathized with the little boy I once was, despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise. I was struggling with loneliness, but amidst this struggle, I found solace in an older man missing his grandchildren. The bond we shared was heartwarming and inspiring. I provided him with a much needed source of company and attention, and he would share a treasure trove of captivating stories that would spark my imagination and give me a glimpse into a world beyond my own, listening to me as no one else in my life could. I was able to make a living by listening to my own, listening to me as no one else in my life did.

Speaker 1:
21:16

At that time, the bond between my stepfather and Mr Fitzwilliam was one of the most remarkable things that came out of all this. It was our friendship that brought them together, allowing them to form a connection that went beyond just casual acquaintances. I imagine they talked and laughed together, sharing stories and experiences like old friends. Reflecting upon those moments, I am filled with profound gratitude for our shared exceptional kindness and understanding. It was a remarkable experience that was a powerful reminder of how crucial human connection can be, even in the most unexpected and challenging circumstances. The empathy and compassion that we demonstrated towards one another was a testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirit, and it is a memory that I will always cherish.

Speaker 1:
22:05

As we come to the end of this week's story, let us take a moment to reflect on the small yet significant connections we make through our natural curiosity and innocent nature. These brief moments of interaction often impact our minds, emphasizing the relationships that transcend the limitations of time and age. Have you ever thought about how our past experiences shape who we are today? Is there a childhood relationship that forged the person you are today in ways you never realized? Even the memories we don't discuss can significantly impact how we view the world, make decisions and build relationships. These intangible connections from our past linger in our memories, influencing us in ways we may not even realize.

Speaker 1:
22:49

Thank you for joining us on another episode of Pan2Pen, where a chef puts aside his saute pan and picks up a pen to share his stories. This is our final episode for the year, as we take a short break for the season, but we'll be back in the new year with fresh tales. Tate would like to take this opportunity to express his gratitude to his fantastic wife for her unwavering support and invaluable input in creating this podcast. We wish our listeners a joyful holiday season of love, laughter and happiness. May the new year bring you prosperity and many happy memories.

Speaker 1:
23:24

We're committed to keeping this podcast ad-free to ensure your listening experience remains uninterrupted. However, producing a podcast like this demands significant resources. If you enjoy what you hear and want to support us, please consider visiting the link in the show notes. Your contributions will help us continue to bring you captivating stories free of interruptions. Thank you for being a part of the Pan2Pen community. If you haven't done so already, please subscribe, rate and follow us. Also, share this podcast with your friends and family. If you enjoyed this story or have any comments, you can find us on social media and Tate's website, which are listed in the show notes. We would love to hear from you. Thanks for tuning in, Wishing you all the best until we meet again. And remember. Stories never end. They just take a break. Until next time, keep the tales alive. Pan2pen, where a chef explores storytelling beyond the kitchen, is written, produced and edited by Tate Basildon, who holds the copyright here in.