We were in Waterville last week. Like robins and right whales, we migrate back to this place every summer. Genetic imprinting, circadian rhythm... whatever .I mean, Maine is the place where we were spawned and raised, where we raised our family, where nine generations of our family before us did the same. Everybody has someplace they call home and regardless of how far we travel or how long we linger away from here, there is a real comfort in coming home. I guess I will always consider myself a "Mainer".
As we drove down Cool Street by our first apartment, I remembered something that had happened thirty seven years before, something that I had not thought of in all these years. Here is the story:
We moved to Waterville shortly after we were married. I had secured a job at the high school as a biology and environmental science teacher and Connie a position at the elementary school as a reading specialist. We took a cute little second floor flat in an old house on the bank of the Messalonskee Stream within walking distance from my work. It had pink and lime green. wall to wall shag rugs that Connie used to rake. We furnished it with a nauga-hide couch, a beanbag chair and other furniture collected from family and yard sales. Money was tight, but we were comfortable and happy.
The French Canadian landlords, Louie and Madeline, lived downstairs and used to scream at each other late at night in a language we didn't understand. The neighborhood was working class poor, most people working in the local textile and paper mills. We soon discovered that most of the neighborhood was also French speaking.
The first winter it started snowing in October and didn't stop until April. Mountains of snow through which I would trudge to and from school and, each trip, I would pass the old shack at the top of the street. It had been decades since it had seen a new coat of paint and the wooden shingles were rotten, exposing the tar paper beneath. The roof sagged ominously and many of the windows were broken and patched with cardboard. The small yard was overtaken by sumac and hemlock which partially hid the piles of junk and trash. At first I thought the hovel was abandoned, but late at night we would see the faint glow of a kerosene lantern through the window and smoke curled from a rusty stovepipe.
One day, when a Nor'Easter had dumped 3 feet of snow overnight and school had been canceled, I strapped on my snowshoes and tromped up the yet to be plowed street. A very old man stood in front of the shack dressed against the bitter cold in many layers of worn clothes. His beard was long and gray, unkempt and his thin, wrinkled face peered out from under a tattered wool cap . He wore old socks on his hands for mittens, green wool pants and mucklucs on his feet. And he was laboring greatly to shovel a path from the road to his rickety steps.
My mom raised us to pitch in when someone was in need and the old timer was obviously struggling. I stopped and said good morning. He didn't respond, acted as if he didn't know I was there. So I took off my snowshoes and walked up beside him. He was startled. "Morning," I repeated. He started to bellow at me in what I assumed was French. The drool and snot from his nose had frozen in his beard. His eyes were rheumy behind thick, taped glasses. It didn't take long to figure out that the poor old guy was stone deaf and likely legally blind. I smiled, grabbed a shovel and started digging out. He watched me for a moment and then began shoveling again.
We cleared the path in around 30 minutes. He struggled up the stairs and motioned for me to follow him inside. The interior of his little house was more shocking than the exterior. Piles of newspapers were stacked against the walls for insulation and tattered filthy blankets covered the windows. The sink was filled with frozen piles of potato peels, egg shells and coffee grounds. There was no running water and no electricity. In the corner was a chair filled with a huge pile of blankets and dirty clothing. And under the pile was an ancient old woman. Only her expressionless face was visible. She watched me silently with sharp, suspicious eyes.
The old man stoked the little woodstove which was fighting a losing battle to keep the room above freezing. He shuffled to the single cupboard and pulled out a pint bottle of cheap whiskey. He poured some in a broken coffee cup and passed it to me. Then he poured one for himself. We didn't talk. We stood in the middle of that squalor and shared a drink. I finished and turned to leave. "Merci." he croaked.
I was troubled. I had never experienced such shocking poverty and destitution. Something needed to be done. I needed to get them some help. I called the city welfare office and relayed the situation to a person on the other end of the phone. He thanked me for the information and I was hopeful that someone would do something, anything to help the old couple.
I delivered hot food to their door a couple times, dropped off a pair of winter gloves, watched for the old man to help him shovel the next storm. And then one day they were gone. No more lantern light. No more smoke from the stack. I waited and watched. They seemed to have disappeared. I should have followed up. I didn't.
That spring the fire department burned the building. The rats scurried into the neighborhood and as we watched the fire, a neighbor recalled the day that she had seen the ambulance crew carry the old woman out of the house and lead the old man into the back of a waiting ambulance. Obviously someone had done something.
I was conflicted. My well intentioned report to the city had resulted in the destruction of this man's life. It wasn't a life that I would have wanted, but it was his life. I hoped his new life was cleaner, more comfortable, that they were warm and well fed, but I had a nagging fear that he was no longer free, locked in a nursing home, separated from his woman, frightened and confused. In hindsight... I don't know.
Thirty seven years later, I am still conflicted.
As we drove down Cool Street by our first apartment, I remembered something that had happened thirty seven years before, something that I had not thought of in all these years. Here is the story:
We moved to Waterville shortly after we were married. I had secured a job at the high school as a biology and environmental science teacher and Connie a position at the elementary school as a reading specialist. We took a cute little second floor flat in an old house on the bank of the Messalonskee Stream within walking distance from my work. It had pink and lime green. wall to wall shag rugs that Connie used to rake. We furnished it with a nauga-hide couch, a beanbag chair and other furniture collected from family and yard sales. Money was tight, but we were comfortable and happy.
The French Canadian landlords, Louie and Madeline, lived downstairs and used to scream at each other late at night in a language we didn't understand. The neighborhood was working class poor, most people working in the local textile and paper mills. We soon discovered that most of the neighborhood was also French speaking.
The first winter it started snowing in October and didn't stop until April. Mountains of snow through which I would trudge to and from school and, each trip, I would pass the old shack at the top of the street. It had been decades since it had seen a new coat of paint and the wooden shingles were rotten, exposing the tar paper beneath. The roof sagged ominously and many of the windows were broken and patched with cardboard. The small yard was overtaken by sumac and hemlock which partially hid the piles of junk and trash. At first I thought the hovel was abandoned, but late at night we would see the faint glow of a kerosene lantern through the window and smoke curled from a rusty stovepipe.
One day, when a Nor'Easter had dumped 3 feet of snow overnight and school had been canceled, I strapped on my snowshoes and tromped up the yet to be plowed street. A very old man stood in front of the shack dressed against the bitter cold in many layers of worn clothes. His beard was long and gray, unkempt and his thin, wrinkled face peered out from under a tattered wool cap . He wore old socks on his hands for mittens, green wool pants and mucklucs on his feet. And he was laboring greatly to shovel a path from the road to his rickety steps.
My mom raised us to pitch in when someone was in need and the old timer was obviously struggling. I stopped and said good morning. He didn't respond, acted as if he didn't know I was there. So I took off my snowshoes and walked up beside him. He was startled. "Morning," I repeated. He started to bellow at me in what I assumed was French. The drool and snot from his nose had frozen in his beard. His eyes were rheumy behind thick, taped glasses. It didn't take long to figure out that the poor old guy was stone deaf and likely legally blind. I smiled, grabbed a shovel and started digging out. He watched me for a moment and then began shoveling again.
We cleared the path in around 30 minutes. He struggled up the stairs and motioned for me to follow him inside. The interior of his little house was more shocking than the exterior. Piles of newspapers were stacked against the walls for insulation and tattered filthy blankets covered the windows. The sink was filled with frozen piles of potato peels, egg shells and coffee grounds. There was no running water and no electricity. In the corner was a chair filled with a huge pile of blankets and dirty clothing. And under the pile was an ancient old woman. Only her expressionless face was visible. She watched me silently with sharp, suspicious eyes.
The old man stoked the little woodstove which was fighting a losing battle to keep the room above freezing. He shuffled to the single cupboard and pulled out a pint bottle of cheap whiskey. He poured some in a broken coffee cup and passed it to me. Then he poured one for himself. We didn't talk. We stood in the middle of that squalor and shared a drink. I finished and turned to leave. "Merci." he croaked.
I was troubled. I had never experienced such shocking poverty and destitution. Something needed to be done. I needed to get them some help. I called the city welfare office and relayed the situation to a person on the other end of the phone. He thanked me for the information and I was hopeful that someone would do something, anything to help the old couple.
I delivered hot food to their door a couple times, dropped off a pair of winter gloves, watched for the old man to help him shovel the next storm. And then one day they were gone. No more lantern light. No more smoke from the stack. I waited and watched. They seemed to have disappeared. I should have followed up. I didn't.
That spring the fire department burned the building. The rats scurried into the neighborhood and as we watched the fire, a neighbor recalled the day that she had seen the ambulance crew carry the old woman out of the house and lead the old man into the back of a waiting ambulance. Obviously someone had done something.
I was conflicted. My well intentioned report to the city had resulted in the destruction of this man's life. It wasn't a life that I would have wanted, but it was his life. I hoped his new life was cleaner, more comfortable, that they were warm and well fed, but I had a nagging fear that he was no longer free, locked in a nursing home, separated from his woman, frightened and confused. In hindsight... I don't know.
Thirty seven years later, I am still conflicted.
