{"id":287,"date":"2019-02-18T15:59:22","date_gmt":"2019-02-18T20:59:22","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/?p=287"},"modified":"2019-02-18T15:59:29","modified_gmt":"2019-02-18T20:59:29","slug":"that-fellers-awful-old","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/donnadufresne.com\/~donnadu1\/that-fellers-awful-old\/","title":{"rendered":"THAT FELLER\u2019S AWFUL OLD"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

            Mr.\nBeaty is back!  His shack at the end of\nour road has been forlorn all summer in its emptiness.  The grass has grown tall around his rusty old\nFord Gremlin, and the cats have scattered to the barn across the street.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            In\nJune, he called Andrea Cunningham to say that he’d lost his legs and couldn’t\nwalk.  She brought him to the hospital\nand they in turn sent him all the way to Hartford where he had four disks\nremoved from his back.  In Hartford few\ncame to see him.  He was far from family\nand friends.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\nvisited him once in Hartford and brought him strawberries from my garden.  He was in a room on the fourth floor with\nthree other old men and by far, he was the most crotchety of them all.  In his stubborn way, he’d decided that this\nwas the end of the road for him.  He’d\nnever walk again, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to a nursing home!  He refused all therapy in the hospital, and\nhe cussed at the nurses with a twinkle in his eye.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            He\ndid go to his son’s home after three weeks, and we all thought that to be the\nend of Mr. Beaty.  He hates plumbing, and\ncivilization, and most of all dependency. \nLiving on the third floor of a house in the middle of Webster was enough\nto rile him to the point that he cussed at his son and threw shoes at his\ngrandchildren.  All he wanted was the\nshack.  He didn’t understand why they\nwouldn’t let him go back there to die.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Mr.\nBeaty is only 77 years old, but he thinks he\u2019s a hundred by the way he grumbles\nthrough life.  His daily uniform consists\nof a pair of blue denim overalls, plaid shirt and a farm visor cap.  Except for the skimpy hospital johnny, and\nhis red union suit long john’s, I’ve never seen him in any other attire.  Once I asked him why he only wears overalls,\nand he told me that twenty or thirty years ago he got dressed up in a suit to\ngo out.  His wife had made a jealous\nremark about him getting so dressed up, and he vowed from that day on to never\nwear anything but overalls.  So be it,\nthe decree was written in Stone by a stubborn Yankee.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            In\nspite of, or perhaps because of his crotchety old ways, he has endeared himself\nto our neighborhood, and our extended community.  One fall when he had cataracts removed from\nhis eyes, we rotated shifts of bringing him food, and putting eye drops in for\nhim.  We spent a Saturday morning, five\nfamilies, splitting and stacking wood for the winter.  (He has electricity, but no plumbing.  He heats and cooks on a wood\/gas combination\nstove.)<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Besides\nhaving a bad heart, cataracts, diabetes, and now back trouble, Mr. Beaty has\nParkinson\u2019s disease.  Over the years it\nhas progressed so that his right arm and hand shakes constantly.  Sometimes his head will set to knocking from\nside to side.  This gives him an almost\npuppet-like appearance, especially when the light catches his blue eyes which\nsparkle more since the cataract operation.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            One\nSolstice eve, I hired Sammy Rich and his Ox team to take us caroling.  We piled all the kids in a hay wagon and we\nwalked along side with lanterns and candles. \nThere was a gentle snow falling in very large flakes.  When we got to Mr. Beaty’s, one of the\nchildren ran to the door and knocked.  He\ncame to the door dressed in his red one-piece union suit and stood there like a\ncock-eyed Santa Clause while we sang “We Wish You A Merry Christmas”.  His mouth was ajar, and a tear streamed down\nhis cheek and glistened in the soft light. \nWe convinced him to get dressed and join us, and we lifted him onto the\nwagon with the kids.  That was the best\nChristmas ever.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            This\nsummer just wasn’t quite the same without Mr. Beaty around.  I kind of missed his un-welcomed comments on\nhow I ought to mow the blueberries, or the way we put our livestock fence up on\nthe wrong side of the posts.  He would\nmake his comments with great authority and indignation.  Sometimes I would get irritated (nosey old\nfart!).  But just the same, I’d pick him\nup on the way to the dump to come along for the ride.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Last\nThanksgiving we invited him to dinner with our parents.  We made a harvest feast.  My mother brought a turkey to make my father\nand Mr. Beaty happy, while we ate tofu. \nWe brought in the picnic table, which took up the whole length of our\nkitchen. I had recently been given a horse, which hadn’t arrived yet, so we all\nhad visited him earlier that day. Mr. Beaty sat there at the table, slurping\ngravy on his chin, and told everyone what a mistake that horse was.  “You see the way his eyes bulge out and\nhe lays back those ears?  Can’t trust a\nhorse like that…he’ll buck and spook at anything…”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\ncould see Michael’s very citified parents stiffen up.  They knew horses were evil, and that I must\nbe crazy.  My father, who knows horses\nwell, listened to Mr. Beaty, but trusted his daughter enough to be quiet.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\nwent to see Mr. Beaty last night after supper. \nI brought mashed potatoes, squash and brussel sprouts from our garden. Surprisingly,\nhe was in a t-shirt and cotton pajamas. \nHe hobbled to the door with a walker, down the narrow path in the front\nroom of his shack.  The shack has two\nrooms.  It is a long and narrow shanty,\nformerly a bunk house for the Cunningham farm, when Mr. Cunningham had\ncow-hands working at his cattle auctions. \nThe front room is mostly storage. \nIt is piled high on either side of the aisle, with cardboard, apple\ncrates, garden tools, boxes of nails, returnable cans and bottles and rags and\nstring.  At the end of the aisle is a\nrefrigerator.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            A\nheavy old curtain is hung in the doorway of the back room where Mr. Beaty\nlives.  One does not walk around this\nroom. There is very little floor space. \nThe linoleum is old and cracked, scattered with braided rugs.  To the right of the door is a narrow\nbed.  It is surrounded by photos of\ngrandchildren, birthday cards, Christmas cards and valentines.  There is a picture of him sitting on a park\nbench, framed in gold.  It is summer, and\nhis blue denim overalls stand out in the midst of the green backdrop.  There are ribbons won at County Fairs by his\nson’s Draft horses.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Above the head is a dominating\npicture of Jesus, looking very fair and Caucasian, staring off in the distance.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            There\nis so much stuff in this tiny space.  A\nman’s lifetime memories crammed into a closet. \nIn this sense, he reminds me of Claude MacDaniels, who has not removed a\nnewspaper from his house in thirty years.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            A\ndresser under the west window is piled high with papers and pictures.  A cupboard in the corner is covered with a\ncurtain, behind a colored TV. which rests upon a plastic stool.  A huge old wood\/gas stove dominates the south\nwall.  It is also a receptacle for pots\nand pans.  Beneath the east window there\nis a white enamel sink.  It has a plastic\npipe which leads to the outdoors.  There\nare plastic jugs of water everywhere. \nWood is drying in the oven which is gaping open.  A large easy chair is plunked down in the\nmiddle of the tiny room right in front of the TV.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            In\nthe corner to the left of the door is an oval kitchen table with a gray Formica\ntop and chrome legs.  There are two\nkitchen chairs usually littered with newspaper. \nThe table is absolutely covered with bottles of pills, old mail and\nnewspapers and always a box of doughnuts or cheap muffins or cookies.  There are boxes of cereal and bananas and\ncups and bowls…saucers…piles of paper plates, aluminum pie plates, paper\ncups, Styrofoam cups, plastic forks and napkins.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\ndon’t know how he keeps the pills he has to take straight.  They sit on his table lined up like soldiers\nin some unknown order, and he takes different ones at different times of the\nday.  Some have blue caps; some have\nwhite, some for morning, some for night.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            In\nthe fall, Mr. Beaty has always visited his old buddy Bob Joyce who has an apple\norchard and keeps a herd of miniature deer. \nHe returns with crates of apples he couldn’t possibly eat up\nhimself.  His house is then perfumed by\nwood smoke and apples.  It is incense\nwhich hides the mildew and the staleness of old age.  He has no way to take a bath, but does shave\nand wash up his face before leaving the house. \nI have waited to bring him to appointments while he meticulously shaves\nwith a trembling hand.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\nam glad Mr. Beaty is back.  I have missed\nseeing him sitting in his car, or plugging along the back roads in search of\nbeaver.  Sometimes he goes to the Hampton\nGeneral store, and gets a grinder and a cup of coffee, and then he drives to\nthe beaver lodge on Stedson Rd.  He parks\nthere and watches those beavers for hours, as they carefully place twigs down a\nvertical cone to block water from leaking through the culvert.  We have agreed it is the most artistic dam in\nN.E. Ct.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Once,\nthere was a beaver family on Faye Rd.  It\nwas right down the street from us.  Every\nnight folks in the neighborhood would gather on the edge of the flooded pond at\ndusk to watch the fat and brazen beavers at work.  They were used to the audience and would work\nwithin inches of human feet.  There was\nreverence in the air.  Holiness in our\nappreciation for the crepuscular beaver. Mr. Beaty religiously visited the pond\neach morning and night to pay homage. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

              Then, a grouchy neighbor down the road called\nup the town to complain that the pond was going to flood the road if those\nbeaver weren’t removed.  The highway\ndepartment came with picks and shovels daily to dismantle the dam.  At night we would watch triumphantly, rooting\nfor the beaver as they mended the hole. \nThis went on for weeks, the highway men getting more vehement in their destruction\nof the beaver dam, and the beaver more determined to do their instinctive\njob.  We expected the highway department\nto call in the National Guard, plant mines, or nuke the dam.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Instead,\nthey called Don Prussia, our local friendly Game Warden.  Don set up a “Have-A-Heart” trap to\ncatch the beaver and take them to a pond deep in the state forest.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            One\nevening after a dinner party, we walked our friends to the pond for the evening\nshow.  We stood in the twilight watching\nrings of water move with the v-shaped wake. \nDon Prussia came by and accused us of springing his trap.  He said that for several nights the trap had\nbeen sprung.  We told him it wasn’t\nus.  We understood he was doing the right\nthing, that if he didn’t trap the beaver and remove them, someone would shoot\nthem.  He was trying to save their lives.\n<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

             “Do you know who’d be springing my\ntrap?” He asked almost accusingly. <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

             We politely said no.  But I suspected Mr. Beaty might have\nsomething to do with it.  Experienced in\nhunting and trapping, he now prefers to watch animals, fascinated by their\nhabits.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            One\nday I stopped by to say hello, and Mr.Beaty was crying.  He was so upset with himself.  During the middle of the day he came down the\nhill on Faye Rd. and before he could stop at the bottom where the pond is, a\nbeaver ran out in front of him.  Of all\nthe people to run over a beaver, it had to be him.  He sat slumped and helpless in his car as if\nhe’d murdered a child.  The beaver’s mate\ncame and sniffed at the body in the road.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Now\nMr. Beaty says that his own days are finished. \nHe just wants to finish up in the shack. \nHe really is in terrible shape. \nHe can barely walk.  When I\narrived in the crisp cool darkness, and knocked on his door, there was a septic\nsmell from nearby.  I noticed a white\n5-gallon bucket full of human waste, uncovered next to the door.  He hasn’t even been able to make it to the\nouthouse.  I covered the bucket and\nwaited for him to hobble to the door with his walker.  He looks so powerless and feeble without his\noveralls. He sits on the bed with Parkinson gestures like a spastic marionette.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            He\nis saddened by the way his life has taken convoluted turns and made him dependent\nupon others.  In the past he has\nthreatened to blow his brains out if it should ever come to this.  If he hangs on, winter will be hard.  His wood is not split, and it will be\ndifficult for him to manage an arm-load of wood with stiff and weakened legs.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Sitting\nthere in the mustiness of the room which was closed up all summer, I had the sense\nthat his threadbare life was unraveling.   \nHis stubborn independence has kept him going, but now it may be a\nstumbling block.  I don’t respond when he\nsays it is the end.  It may well be.  He has been depressed before though, and I a\nsolemn listener have let it be.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            I\nhope he doesn’t blow his brains out, and that it won’t be me who finds him\nfrozen stiff when I drop by with coffee or a sandwich.  I am numbed by his incapacity.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Two\nyears ago, I brought Mr. Beaty to Claude MacDaniels to introduce them.  They hit it off fine. Being the same age,\nthey knew some of the same old timers dead and gone, and they gossiped about\nold Mr. Cunningham who ran a cattle auction right here in the Elliot section of\nAbington.  They talked of how the cows\nwere driven from the old train station. They came on stock cars all the way\nfrom Canada, and were driven in herds from the Elliot Station to the cattle\nbarns on Faye road.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            When\nwe left Claude in the barn, and got out of ear shot to the car, Mr. Beaty\ncommented on how old and feeble Claude was. \n“Poor old feller.\u201d he said, “It’s a shame an old feller like\nthat’s gotta live alone…he’s too old to do all that work.  Don’t he look awful!”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            A\nweek later, I visited Claude and he said to me as he leaned forward on his\npitchfork…”That feller Beaty sure is old ain’t he?  Never seen a man shake the way he does.  Poor old guy.”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            They\nwere both 75 at the time.  Not so\nold.  There are older grandmothers\nclimbing mountains in search of “Yellow Bellied Sap Suckers”, and\nsmooth skinned retired professors pushing their thoughts around with a\npen.  But they are of a different class,\nand they have aged differently.  Their\nfaces have not been hardened by the seasons, nor their bones forged and frozen\nby the cold into bent and crooked shapes. \nThey have not had to fight the weather to borne a calf, or save a crop\nfrom frost.  They have not been molded\ninto stubbornness, watching the world pass by with what they could not\nhave.  Perhaps more indicative of their\nagelessness, is the fact that they chose not to go it alone.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Claude\nand Mr. Beaty stand alone.  Their\nstruggle is their own struggle, un-shared. \nI’m not sure it was choice.  I\nthink life just slipped them a mickey and they woke up with it having passed\nthem by.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

            Claude\nwould not have chosen to end up alone, had he time to think about it between\nmilking.  And Mr. Beaty?  Well he has often confessed how he regrets\nthe path he fell into.  He could have had\nso much had he been able to stay with his family.  But there was a wild streak in him.  A rebel that makes him spit in the eye of\nauthority even now.  He asks forgiveness,\nand wonders why he let life escape him without his permission.  His loneliness is a dichotomy; a love\/hate\nrelationship with the world.  It has been\na down-hill spiral into old age.  It is\nthe sudden crash of the stock-market of virility and independence.            <\/strong>
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

            Mr. Beaty is back!  His shack at the end of our road has been forlorn all summer in its emptiness.  The grass has grown tall around his rusty old Ford Gremlin, and the cats have scattered to the barn across the street.             In June, he called Andrea Cunningham to say that he’d lost … <\/p>\n

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