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One of our neighbors died recently... the circumstances were kind of interesting. He owned 160 acres up at the top of the hill, and many years ago he sold it to the brother of a neighbor lower down, with the provision that he be able to live in his cabin on the land for the rest of his life. He lived a LONG time, and although his age was rumored to be anywhere from 75 to 85, I don't think anyone expected him to hang on for so long. He lived alone the whole time, without electricity or central heating, never asking anyone for anything.
Last week, the neighbors realized that they hadn't seen him for quite some time, so Bill went up to his cabin to investigate. Yep, dead - for several weeks. One boot on, one boot off, lying on the kitchen floor. Bill, being experienced in such matters, took the lead in the thoroughly unpleasant task of contacting the coroner and cleaning up.
He was the very model of a paranoid recluse. His cabin looked exactly as I had pictured it on the inside - a curious mix of obsessiveness and filth. A bottle of vinegar solution was not merely labeled with a permanent marker, it practically had an entire essay on the exact way in which the solution would be used. And yes, he did store up his precious bodily fluids. Yum. But he never threw anything away, so the whole area was strewn with useless junk.
He did not take any medications whatsoever, but did consume a variety of exotic health foods I'd never even seen before. Umeboshi vinegar? Guess it worked - he was frail, but otherwise in perfect health.
Among the things that were hastily destroyed, and which I did not see, was a collection of white-supremacist literature. Along with the cartoons and photos he had enlarged, laminated, and hung on the wall - kittens, girls, political cartoons with a libertarian bent - there were, disturbingly, several copies of a picture of a starving African child. What did this mean to him? Who knows?
The cleanup continues - they've already filled a huge dumpster with his trash, including such useful artifacts as empty paint cans and ancient catalogs. His son - who nobody on the ranch even knew existed - visited for a few days, but took few of his belongings. Among the spoils, we were gifted with two small bottles of 50-year-old Weller bourbon - made in '53, bottled in '65. We had the neighbors over for pizza last night and they brought them down. One remains, and the other was absolutely delicious.
With his passing, I am enjoying a newfound freedom to explore the top of the mountain. Though we have always had a nominal right to pass, I never felt comfortable walking up the road, what with his clear and strategic view of a small section of it, and a not insignificant chance that I might get shot at for doing so. I look forward to exploring the ravine below his house, which appears from a distance to harbor a small, flat, shady, and very moist area that is sure to host a number of exotic species.
I never really knew him, but I cannot help but be impressed by someone with his tenacity - he lived on his own terms, and in his own way, until the very end. We should all be so fortunate.
Last week, the neighbors realized that they hadn't seen him for quite some time, so Bill went up to his cabin to investigate. Yep, dead - for several weeks. One boot on, one boot off, lying on the kitchen floor. Bill, being experienced in such matters, took the lead in the thoroughly unpleasant task of contacting the coroner and cleaning up.
He was the very model of a paranoid recluse. His cabin looked exactly as I had pictured it on the inside - a curious mix of obsessiveness and filth. A bottle of vinegar solution was not merely labeled with a permanent marker, it practically had an entire essay on the exact way in which the solution would be used. And yes, he did store up his precious bodily fluids. Yum. But he never threw anything away, so the whole area was strewn with useless junk.
He did not take any medications whatsoever, but did consume a variety of exotic health foods I'd never even seen before. Umeboshi vinegar? Guess it worked - he was frail, but otherwise in perfect health.
Among the things that were hastily destroyed, and which I did not see, was a collection of white-supremacist literature. Along with the cartoons and photos he had enlarged, laminated, and hung on the wall - kittens, girls, political cartoons with a libertarian bent - there were, disturbingly, several copies of a picture of a starving African child. What did this mean to him? Who knows?
The cleanup continues - they've already filled a huge dumpster with his trash, including such useful artifacts as empty paint cans and ancient catalogs. His son - who nobody on the ranch even knew existed - visited for a few days, but took few of his belongings. Among the spoils, we were gifted with two small bottles of 50-year-old Weller bourbon - made in '53, bottled in '65. We had the neighbors over for pizza last night and they brought them down. One remains, and the other was absolutely delicious.
With his passing, I am enjoying a newfound freedom to explore the top of the mountain. Though we have always had a nominal right to pass, I never felt comfortable walking up the road, what with his clear and strategic view of a small section of it, and a not insignificant chance that I might get shot at for doing so. I look forward to exploring the ravine below his house, which appears from a distance to harbor a small, flat, shady, and very moist area that is sure to host a number of exotic species.
I never really knew him, but I cannot help but be impressed by someone with his tenacity - he lived on his own terms, and in his own way, until the very end. We should all be so fortunate.
