NOVI, Mich. -- A sign outside Ernie Harwell's apartment door politely asks would-be visitors, in so many words, to give an old man and his wife some peace and quiet. Ernie didn't hang it himself; he's far too nice for that. When times were better and cancer wasn't invading his body, Harwell tried to answer just about every card and letter. Now he has 10,000 of them piling up, along with a freezer full of casseroles and cookies and other good intentions.
It's a cold, gray December day on the outskirts of Detroit, and Harwell has taken a late-morning nap to gather his strength. There is so much to do. Dodgers broadcaster Vin Scully's people called. They want to give Harwell, the beloved voice of the Detroit Tigers for 42 years, a lifetime achievement award. There's a stack of e-mails to go through, a one-man play based on his life to finish, guests to entertain. Today, two well-dressed TV personalities have stopped by to give him a 5-foot-wide card covered in signatures. Ernie, thanks for responding to the letter I wrote you in third grade. Made the summer of 1987 awesome to me. Harwell smiles at that one.
The TV folks say their goodbyes, and one of the men shakes Harwell's hand and says he'll see him on Opening Day.
"I hope so," Harwell says.
He closes the door. He knows he probably won't be around by then.
How do you say goodbye to Ernie Harwell? Jose Feliciano sent a massive bouquet and a note signed with love, then sent another bunch of flowers four days later. The devout women of the Ames United Methodist Church in Saginaw, Mich., knitted a shawl and prayed over it. Harwell is dying, which means the childhoods of roughly four generations are dying.
And all of them seem a lot more troubled by it than Harwell is.
There's an old joke that Lulu Harwell might be responsible for the only man on this planet who ever disliked Harwell.
When the couple were in college in Georgia, Lulu was dating a boy who was a fraternity brother of Ernie's. He introduced them at a dance, and then Lulu, smitten with Ernie, dumped the other guy and asked Harwell to the next gathering. She was from Kentucky; he was from Atlanta. Neither knew then that first glances would melt into 68 years.
"That's when she was a hillbilly," Ernie says, laughing, and then shifts into more politically correct-speak. "Now she's … what do we call it, Appalachian American."
They had four kids together and still occasionally finish each other's sentences. He makes her breakfast; she sleeps in when he gets up at 6 a.m. to do his exercises. Want to see how much fight Harwell has left in him? Watch him exercise. He drops to the floor and does sit-ups and stomach crunches. He swings his arms back and forth in a workout he calls a whirling dervish.
Until about four months ago, he jumped rope 300 times a day. Now, with his balance a little off-kilter, he runs in place 300 times. He hasn't thought about quitting the exercises now that he's dying. "You can't skip," he says. The nurse tells him if he keeps it up, it might ward off some of the pains that come along. It might help him last a little longer.
It's obvious he wants to stay longer for Lulu. He calls her his biggest supporter. She puts up with him daily, he says, and will be beside him until the inevitable.
"He never missed a game," Lulu says, emphasizing the long and healthy life he's enjoyed. She's had Ernie to herself for seven years now -- he officially retired in 2002 -- but in some ways, she's always shared him. They open packages filled with bread and cakes and quilts.
They listen to goodbyes but rarely shed tears.
"I have great faith that heaven's there and I'll see my brothers and my mom and dad when I get there," Harwell says. "I think it's better than here. I think God always has the best for us.
"I just have faith. It's just there. It's not any big deal."
It's a cold, gray December day on the outskirts of Detroit, and Harwell has taken a late-morning nap to gather his strength. There is so much to do. Dodgers broadcaster Vin Scully's people called. They want to give Harwell, the beloved voice of the Detroit Tigers for 42 years, a lifetime achievement award. There's a stack of e-mails to go through, a one-man play based on his life to finish, guests to entertain. Today, two well-dressed TV personalities have stopped by to give him a 5-foot-wide card covered in signatures. Ernie, thanks for responding to the letter I wrote you in third grade. Made the summer of 1987 awesome to me. Harwell smiles at that one.
The TV folks say their goodbyes, and one of the men shakes Harwell's hand and says he'll see him on Opening Day.
"I hope so," Harwell says.
He closes the door. He knows he probably won't be around by then.
How do you say goodbye to Ernie Harwell? Jose Feliciano sent a massive bouquet and a note signed with love, then sent another bunch of flowers four days later. The devout women of the Ames United Methodist Church in Saginaw, Mich., knitted a shawl and prayed over it. Harwell is dying, which means the childhoods of roughly four generations are dying.
And all of them seem a lot more troubled by it than Harwell is.
There's an old joke that Lulu Harwell might be responsible for the only man on this planet who ever disliked Harwell.
When the couple were in college in Georgia, Lulu was dating a boy who was a fraternity brother of Ernie's. He introduced them at a dance, and then Lulu, smitten with Ernie, dumped the other guy and asked Harwell to the next gathering. She was from Kentucky; he was from Atlanta. Neither knew then that first glances would melt into 68 years.
"That's when she was a hillbilly," Ernie says, laughing, and then shifts into more politically correct-speak. "Now she's … what do we call it, Appalachian American."
They had four kids together and still occasionally finish each other's sentences. He makes her breakfast; she sleeps in when he gets up at 6 a.m. to do his exercises. Want to see how much fight Harwell has left in him? Watch him exercise. He drops to the floor and does sit-ups and stomach crunches. He swings his arms back and forth in a workout he calls a whirling dervish.
Until about four months ago, he jumped rope 300 times a day. Now, with his balance a little off-kilter, he runs in place 300 times. He hasn't thought about quitting the exercises now that he's dying. "You can't skip," he says. The nurse tells him if he keeps it up, it might ward off some of the pains that come along. It might help him last a little longer.
It's obvious he wants to stay longer for Lulu. He calls her his biggest supporter. She puts up with him daily, he says, and will be beside him until the inevitable.
"He never missed a game," Lulu says, emphasizing the long and healthy life he's enjoyed. She's had Ernie to herself for seven years now -- he officially retired in 2002 -- but in some ways, she's always shared him. They open packages filled with bread and cakes and quilts.
They listen to goodbyes but rarely shed tears.
"I have great faith that heaven's there and I'll see my brothers and my mom and dad when I get there," Harwell says. "I think it's better than here. I think God always has the best for us.
"I just have faith. It's just there. It's not any big deal."
