I realize now, in the days and long hours since his passing, that the last time I drove off from visiting my pal Mike's house, I waved goodbye to him about three times more than I usually did after a visit. I couldn't tell you why; I just did. And each time I waved, he yelled, "Goodbye." He never did say much. There was a litany of questions he'd ask me, every visit: What are you going to cook? No work? When are you going home? When are you coming back? And he'd also open his mouth wide, his way of asking when he'd next be going to the dentist. I've never known anyone who loved going to the dentist as much as Mike. "April," I answered. "How come?" I'd tell him, "Because they only want to see you twice a year." He'd laugh. He knew our routine. It was always the same, and I suppose that may be why it seemed like he'd always be there for it.

Michael Kutschmende passed away quietly, in his sleep, the night of December 12 to 13. No illness. He was here, his usual self, and that night his wonderful caregivers tucked him in his bed and said goodnight, and he slept, and then he left, quietly. He was born on the 5th of November, 1937. My mother was just a kid herself when she met Michael as he entered this world. Her parents––my grandparents––were neighbors to Michael's parents, Tessie and Frank. This was in Brooklyn, New York, in a neighborhood known as "Pigtown," because they once raised hogs there. They all lived on East New York Avenue, my grandparents, Mike's parents, and all the cast of characters in the stories I've heard all my life about the place. As a kid, Michael liked to be outside, all day long, summer or winter. This never did change. That last visit we had we were outside, too. The weather was beautiful, but the weather didn't matter much to Mike. If you said, "It's hot today," he'd usually respond, "Not for me."

It took a while to get accustomed to Michael's speech patterns. He was born with cerebral palsy, and so it was difficult upon first meeting him, no matter who you were, to understand his questions. But eventually, if you spent enough time with him, patterns emerged and it became easier to communicate. He could be pretty bossy. He didn't want lights on and he wanted doors shut. And if anything was not quite right––like the position of a flower pot or a decorative statue on his porch––he'd tell you about it. He loved York Peppermint Patties and my mom's lentil soup and my sister's chocolate chip cookies.

He was an active guy in his younger years. He worked at the Boca Hab Center for years in one of their excellent programs. When his sister had a beauty shop in Boca Raton on East Palmetto Park Road, he'd spend hours each day in his wheelchair at the South Beach Pavilion. He participated in Special Olympics games and went to summer camp in Central Florida. He wanted to see the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. Knowing how much he loved country music, I'd get Mike out on musical excursions every now and then. In the past couple of years, we got him to live concerts with The Lubben Brothers (who bill themselves as South Florida's Folk Band) and with Gaelynn Lea, the disabled fiddler/singer-songwriter who won NPR's Tiny Desk Concert Contest in 2016. I think it made a big impression on him, to see and hear a wheelchair-bound woman sing and play violin so beautifully.

Mike taught me that you never know how a person you meet might change your life. I never knew Michael or his family until about 1979, far from where he was born. My family had a card shop in Boca Raton and one day my sister was looking out the window of the shop, watching a guy with a disability put a letter in the mailbox. She recognized him; it was Michael. She hadn't seen him for years and years. Our families had lost track of each other but both ended up in Florida, not far from each other. Michael reunited us. We'd get together for visits: Mom and Grandma and Tessie would make homemade pizza while Grandpa played the mandolin as we laughed and chatted the nights away, all of us, with Mike and his younger sister, Maryann. And in the mysterious way that things happen, after all his family were gone, it turned out that my sister Marietta and I became his guardians. It was no easy decision. Maryann died, leaving Michael in the care of Catholic Charities, and of course, the practical thing to do for a case like Michael's is to place him in a group home. But "practical" is not necessarily what is best. Michael only wanted one thing: to live out the rest of his days in his own home, the same family home he'd loved since coming to Florida. We became his guardians to help him do that. And it wasn't just my sister and I; it truly was a community effort: my mom, my dad, my husband Seth, many friends, and all his caregivers… but we can all be happy knowing that we gave Michael his wish to be home. Michael had a proclamation to make any time we had a visitor from any agency: it did not matter if it was someone from Catholic Charities or one of his support coordinators who made sure Michael had the supplies and services he needed. As soon as they drove away, he was always sure to remind us: "My house," and we would reassure him that yes, it was his house, and he was not going anywhere.

He loved home and he loved, too, the family who came to live with him, the Augustins. Rose and her daughter Rebecca were his main caregivers, but all of their family lived there with Mike. He loved the activity in the house. In turn, they learned to love the other things Michael loved: Classic country music, like Patsy Cline ("Cowboy music," he'd call it), and old-time Polish polka music. I don't know if they ever learned to love the TV shows Michael watched over and over again, but God bless them for putting up with the constant reruns of I Love Lucy and Gunsmoke and Bonanza and The Golden Girls.

Now that he is gone, I see clearly that they loved Michael as much as he loved them. They were a family, and they are heartbroken, as are we. Michael was a good guy with a pretty miraculous way of bringing people together and inspiring the best in all of us. A pure heart and a good neighbor. The kind of person we all should aspire to.

A Visitation will be held on Sunday, December 22, 2019, from 1:00 pm to 4:00 pm, at Boynton Memorial Chapel.

A Funeral Mass will be held on Monday, December 23, 2019, at 11:00 am, at St. Mark Catholic Church.

A Graveside Service will follow the Funeral Mass at Boynton Beach Memorial Park Cemetery.