In 1970, my mother's family adopted an intellectually disabled man named Horace. Horace was 56, and had been in an institution since 1921.
My uncle, who was 19, was working as an orderly at the institution where Horace lived. He only stayed a few months as the abuse he witnessed was too much for him. He had become friends with Horace and told him "I'll come back for you."
Horace replied "They all say that."
By that Christmas, Horace lived with my uncle and his family. My grandparents did the official adoption. Horace had never seen a Christmas tree, and that was his first real Christmas.
Horace died in 2010, at the age of 96. He laid down for a nap and just slipped away.
At least two generations of children grew up with him. He felt immortal to us. He loved Hot Wheels, pizza, cartoons and to talk to the portrait of my grandparents as he sat in his rocking chair.
He knew everyone's birthday. He loved unconditionally.
He had scars on his back from the institutions. If you asked him about that place, his face would screw up and he'd say "oh, it was a bad place. Bad place."
And for 40 years, he was safe, loved, and happy. He loved us in return.
No point to sharing this. But I still miss his laugh as he held a conversation with a portrait, whispering about his day to the people who had helped rescue him.
Memories of Horace:
He'd put anything in his pockets. This included pizza.
He would walk around the dining room table for hours, talking. The floor had shuffle marks.
I was forever called "the baby" because that's how he had met me.
We always joked that he would be the luckiest man in the world and would just die one day in his sleep. He did.
We also always joked that he had a free pass into heaven. He did.
Oh my god. đđđđ The response to this in so little time is wonderful.
Horace deserved the world and I'm so happy his story moves people. Thank you for remembering him with me.
