Remembering Lenny

Digital art collage by Stella Kalaw

Some years ago, my young children and I were walking down our street when we saw a man squatting on the sidewalk, doing something to a fence. We'd been living in Cabbagetown for a couple of years, and I’d noticed this scruffy, friendly man and his beat-up car. Something about his face made me stop.

“Excuse me,” I said, “do you fix things?”

“I either fix things or I make ’em worse,” he growled. I told him our house was built in 1887 and things were always breaking and I'd been looking for a handyman. He gave me his phone number.

Little did I know my whole life had just changed for the better; that this brilliant problem solver would enable my family to survive where we were. Without Len Cunningham, we would have had to move to a condo in Mississauga. Instead, we were able to stay in our decrepit, badly renovated, totally impractical, falling down house in Cabbagetown. Because Lenny could fix things.

Lenny fixed everything. There was not an inch of my house he didn't tackle at some point in our years of friendship. He received a frantic message from me every week, sometimes every day. Did my phone calls say, Len, come over, have a beer, watch how well the sump pump works? No, I only called in times of desperation and disaster. Len, help, my basement’s filled with some horrible substance. Len, hurry, there's a skunk trapped in the window well, the front door won't open, the back door won't close, the kitchen ceiling is falling in the dinner. Eventually Lenny appeared and put everything right, and the old house was briefly functional once more.

As he worked, he talked about his other life, as an artist, traveller, industrial designer, and single father, about his kids and his birds. I admired his intelligence, creativity, and self-deprecating wit, his wide-ranging interests, enthusiasm for music, and great scores at garage sales, including a Mona Lisa painted by someone with more chutzpah than skill. He'd point to a step-stool or a post-box and say, “I designed that.” Lenny's thick fingers could do such delicate work.

And let's face it, the rest of him was pretty wonderful too, including that sturdy beer belly of which he was so proud. Len was an attractive man, invaluable to the single women of Cabbagetown. After my marriage broke up, I joked that my husband had been replaced by a heating pad and Len Cunningham. He gave advice about all kinds of things — cars, insurance, furnaces — and was like a kind, funny godfather to my children. We talked honestly and personally about being divorced, being parents. He'd boast about Chloe's teaching or Davey’s travels, and then complain that after their last visit, his stash of President's Choice frozen dinners had disappeared from the freezer. “Never have children,” he'd grumble.

“Waste of time,” I'd say.

“Bastards!” he'd say lovingly. “Bastards.” Such a vivid word, when it came from him.

Mind you, he became more of a curmudgeon as time went on, especially about politics. We argued violently about the NDP’s Jack Layton, for whom he had an irrational dislike. “Smarmy bastard,” he'd say. And then we’d jump in his wreck of a car, he'd push aside some junk on his front seat, put on Nina Simone or Ray Charles, and off we'd go to Ikea or Home Depot to poke around happily in door handles and Billy bookshelves and floor stains.

We all have stories about the times Lenny saved the day. Here's only one of mine: One August, on the afternoon of a big birthday party for me, the kids and I were preparing a grand outdoor barbecue for fifty or so people when suddenly thick storm clouds rolled in. My deck and garden were wide open to the black skies. Lenny was urgently summoned, and he came right over.

We dug out a tarp, and stringing bungee cords from fences, trees, and eavestroughs, he rigged the tarp elegantly over the deck. Soon we sat drinking beer in the pelting rain, sheltered in the deep blue of Lenny's tarp. The storm was so violent that a branch fell on nearby hydro lines, the power went out, and fire trucks closed off the street, but it didn't matter. My guests, when they finally got through, were safe and dry on the deck.

Lenny came that night as a guest. He brought me a pile of things he thought a midlife woman would need, including a magnifying glass and a long plastic container for pills. The funny thing is that though they were a joke at the time, they’re in use now.

How well he knew us. He knew about our love lives, our sex lives, our home lives. He saw the worst — the insides of our toilets and our closets, basements, fridges. He was in our homes as our marriages fell apart, along with the heating and the plumbing. He was right there. And we trusted him with our secrets. We trusted him because he loved us. And we loved him. A great affair was going on between Lenny and half of Cabbagetown, until it was cut short. 

Sometimes it seems to me that men, and manliness, are being devalued in our western world, to our detriment. I honour and pay tribute to what manliness, at its best, can mean — the decency and hard work, the thoughtfulness and patience, skill and strength with which good men struggle to take care of the world.

And chief among those good men, in our small world of Cabbagetown, was Len Cunningham.

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Thinking of writing about your life? Run, don’t walk to this free Zoom seminar Writing Memoir that Beth Kaplan is giving this Thursday.

Today’s story is the eulogy Beth delivered to the overflow crowd at Len’s funeral. It is excerpted from her latest book: Midlife Solo: writing through chaos to find my place in the world, a memoir-in-essays and a moving, engaging, and deeply personal collection on family responsibility, growing up, and growing older.