Wearing my psychologist hat:
To recap briefly, we followed up a lead on Model “A”s which led us to southeast Ohio in hill country. There we found, using the most humane adjectives I can muster to describe a person, a hoarder who lived in little more than a tar paper shack. As a psychologist in Mental Health I confess to have always found these people to be delightful, probably why I spent my working life specializing in disconcerting diagnoses. The objective was/is trying to make their lives more meaningful, them more acceptable in this world we live in. While their lifestyles are disturbing to us, they are reasonably comfortable with it. That being said, as a writer, Model “A” enthusiast, and otherwise retired person who has to function in what we consider a normal world, I am frequently confronted with the gaps between what they consider normal and what I have found to be normal in the world that I live in. I have to wear different hats to different games! The least troubling issue to me is what Henry values his Model “A”s to be worth—why we went there in the first place. OK, he’s a little delusional, who cares? In the scheme of things, these cars are objects, replaceable. The more disturbing issue to me is how do I deal with this poor, nice human being living in squalor, living out his last few days, months, whatever time he has left, in this situation. This is what tears my heart out!
Now I need to change hats, try to put back on the journalist hat:
John led us to the, and I use the word loosely……… living quarters, house. A 40 foot long ramp led to the porch and door of the house; obviously someone needs to be wheeled in and out. The porch is stacked to the ceiling with piles of, I don’t know what. There are things hanging from all the rafters. I reach the door and John motions to me. I go in. A blast of hot air hits me. A glowing hot wood stove is sitting within reach of the man sitting in an electric recliner just outside the actual arc of the door’s opening and closing. He is connected to oxygen; this is his command center. He sits there, sleeps there, eats and drinks there. The bathroom is directly across from his chair. The kitchen table is directly next to his chair and is piled two feet high with dirty dishes, newspapers, junk, junk and more junk. Oh, and yes, a package of opened fig newtons is placed within his reach. This tugs at my heart. Some of us love cookies. Because my mobility is also hindered, my command center is very similar in that many of the things that I need are stationed around me—coffee tables computer table, my magazine rack, phone, television, weather station (barometer, electric inside/outside thermometer etc.), cookies. And, yes, my command center is probably a little messy, if you ask my obsessive-compulsive mate who absolutely HAS to have a spotlessly clean house……. But mine is thankfully on a different planet compared to what has unfolded before me at Henry’s house.
The back half of Henry’s house is maybe 18 x 20. It contains the kitchen area, dining room, the bathroom, and the parlor/ living space all without walls except the bathroom which is an obvious afterthought to this room and house. There is clutter to the absolute maximum. It is impossible for me to step over him to a chair where Henry wants me to sit. He needs to see my face, I know this. They need to be able to read your expressions—read between the lines—paranoia! I get it. I long ago learned this from my patients and admit I do the same, not from paranoia but for reaction gathering. I very much always read between the lines.
I stay within the space just large enough for the door to swing open and shut. This is as far as I can navigate into this house. There is a front room to the house about the same size as the back room. It is virtually impossible to get into, being packed to the ceilings with piles of …..what? Henry is sitting in his recliner. To the left, just outside the arc is a stack of firewood maybe 4 feet high. Directly adjacent to the stack of wood is the glowing hot woodstove with a covered saucepan of steaming chicken and noodles—lunch, obviously not from a can. There is little to no open floor space. There are stacks of who knows what piled to the ceiling everywhere. The sink, counters and kitchen table are piled two to three feet high with dirty pans and dishes, paraphernalia and rubbish. The walls are covered with nails holding up everything conceivable—hammers, kitchen implements, loops of wire. Who supervises this? Likely the other fellow in the room with the laptop computer. Another relative? His name is Dennis. They are on very friendly terms; must be a relative.
Henry lifts the saucepan off the stove, tries to put it on his lap on top of a sheet of newspaper. “No Henry, you’ll burn yourself”! Dennis brings a dirty dish over and places it under the saucepan. Whew, I think; disaster averted! Henry proceeds to eat his lunch from the pan with the dirty spoon. Again, I feel the tug at my heart. How can I make this man’s life just a little bit better? Not my role! Stay out of it! There are obviously at least two younger men involved at some level in caring for this man. Then I notice the four bottles of oxygen standing up directly across from the hot wood stove and the transparent plastic hose leading to his chair, hooked around his ears, and then to his nose. Oh boy; open the stove door to feed the fire, oxygen dangles right near the fire. I think half aloud, “Jerry we need to get out of here soon or we’re all gonna go up in a ball of fire!” Jerry indicates that he first has to go upstairs with John to see the large boxes of Model “A” horns, starters and generators purportedly up there—the barrels and barrels of parts?? Is this another delusion, time warp mixed up with 50 years ago when the barrels might have been there? Jerry and John rummage around upstairs. It sounds as though they will fall through the ceiling; these Sears and Roebuck houses were sold as kits and often not very well built by people who cut corners. Finally, they come down with a fruit basket of parts—two horns, a speedometer in a rusted dash plate, a starter and a generator. Henry looks them over. “I don’t want to sell them horns; one is a 12 volt and I’m gonna put it on the coupe in the shed (that is now a hulk rusted into the ground) and the other one is for the ‘31 two-door out front (that has not, and will likely not, ever run again in our lifetimes). Jerry doesn’t argue—”You can’t mess with a guy’s dignity even if things are a good bit mixed up in his head”, he says. He offers $65 for the other parts. Henry slowly considers the offer, repeats it, and finally agrees. Money is exchanged. We thank him and say we need to go. Actually, we’re extremely worried about the fire and oxygen. If this place goes up there will be car and tractor parts raining down as far away as Pittsburg.
These situations trouble me when I run across them. I have to keep my roles straight, the right hat on. I get by, but that doesn’t mean I won’t think about Henry for days afterwards. We did get a little basket of parts, not exactly what we had hoped for. As we leave, we thank the gentlemen for their hospitality. I then say to John, “Smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em!” If you’ve been in the military, you will recognize that saying. It’s often uttered after a harrowing marching or battle experience by the officer in charge. I have also noticed it being said by clients at centers where I have worked, the ones that incessantly picked up the cigarette butts and re-rolled them.
Skip can always be reached at
Skipstaxidermy@yahoo.com
