Welcome to the neighborhood

unexpected conversations with a hermit

“I like your black cat patch”, he said motioning to the front pocket of my too-sizes-too-big discolored Levi denim jacket. Before I could say thanks he kept talking. And then he didn’t stop talking.

He was a weathered man. A decade-past-half-a-century man with crusty fingers that combed his facial hair. His face was framed by a wiry pepper beard with a narrow streak of salt and a West Virginia University winter pom hat. He sat alone but I could tell he was in good company of the conversation that bounced off the walls around him. Not contributing. Just observing. His dog laid, mopey face in paws against his feet. The color of his curly hair was an indistinguishable gray under a layer of dried mud. 

His large steel-toe boots blocked the way to the only empty chair left in the coffee shop. I sensed his attention turn towards me as my feet tip-toed around his. 

I didn’t want to talk. I suck at small talk. Like jumping into icy water, my body freezes into rigidity. Riffing in conversation is a distant skill. The line between too short and too long-winded gets blurred. And I never know when it’s appropriate to kindly retreat into my self-cave.

He asked if I was from around here. And when I told him I had just moved here, his wrinkly cheeks - tanned leather brown from years of sun reflecting at him off the water - lifted in lined creases up towards his ears. His lips curled into a crooked, merry smile. 

I softened. He patted the bench next to him, making himself smaller to accommodate me. And so I spent an hour with him. Him talking more than me, melting the small-talk-suck out of my bones. 

His right pointer finger dressed in a Navajo-style silver ring with an asymmetric turquoise stone, rested steadily on his kneecap as he spoke. He talked the way one would march on foot across the country, with long strides and calculated rests. The cadence of someone with nowhere to be but everywhere to go. His words were precise like narrow ridgelines. Windy but purposefully directed. 

With his head cocked slightly for his stormy blue eyes to meet my eyes, he wandered through his years of life. He told me how lucky he is to call this place home. How he has traveled the world and finds himself right back here. He told me about the modest home he built right on the New River Gorge. He called it the shanty shack. He spoke of his fascination for architecture and design but his demise towards commercialized extravagance. The shanty shack is made of soft plywood siding as cheap as cheap gets, recycled metal, and Bombay Sapphire gin bottles positioned to catch the morning sun. For one year, he lived in his shack without plumbing or electricity. That morning, as he watched ducks race the rapids over and over again, he turned a light switch on for the first time. He told me about the other folks who live up and down the river. Rough looking but the kindest people you’ll ever meet. Tell them their property is beautiful and they will smile as bright as bright gets. He told me to judge no one before spending an hour with them. There will be million-dollar homes next to deteriorating trailer parks and their children will play together just the same. They’ll only judge you if you turn a blind eye to their existence. He told me that there is no bullying there. Or at least that it isn’t tolerated. Everyone is always listening, keeping an eye and an ear out to protect their neighbors. He told me I am lucky too. To knock on every door that lined the street of my new home. To spend an hour with them. You now live in the most magical place on earth too. 

He told me a lot of things that morning. But there was one thing he said that struck me the most. 

He said, “The people here, they go to church every day. They don’t always know it, but every day they go to church. Every time they step out their front door to float or raft along the river, rock climb, hike among the trees, or simply be amidst nature, they go to church. The people here are good people, because they witness the lord, whatever their lord is, every day.” 

That evening his words were drawing me to my neighbor's front door. The neighbor wasn’t welcoming me in yet but with a warm smile and watery eyes, he was telling me to come back if I ever needed help with anything. And from his front doorstep, I went wandering into the bare twining trees and acorn-littered trails on my way to church. 

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Thanks so much for being here and for spending a few minutes with me. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider sharing it with a friend.

Hugs to

Tommy Dixon

,

Steven Foster

,

Rick Lewis

,

Camilo Moreno-Salamanca

, and

Charlie Bleecker

for their support this week. I am so fortunate to call each of you a friend - you make me a better writer and a better person.