Harry was my close neighbor. “Close” in
rural lingo generally refers to an adjacent landowner, as opposed to folks
living several miles away who are still considered neighbors. The
distinction is purely geographical.
Harry occupied a tiny one-room cabin, situated
precariously at the edge of a bluff, whose most notable feature was a front
porch that crept several inches away from the house with every spring thaw.
Inside, one usually found little more than a small coal stove, a couple of
straight-backed chairs, what passed for a kitchen, and a foot-long rack of
clothes. In all of the years I knew him, I never found anything resembling
a bathroom. That bothered me a lot, but I never developed the courage to
inquire about it.
Harry was not especially impoverished; he owned 100
acres of good farmland and seemed able to buy whatever he wanted. He simply
didn’t want much.
During the warm seasons he spent much of his time
fussing over the wide fence row that encircled the property, carefully
noting each species of wildlife that thrived in that kind of
“edge” habitat. Bluebirds, cardinals, and brown thrashers were
always in abundance there, along with rabbits, foxes, deer, and countless
other creatures. Harry kept a running inventory of all, checked the nests
daily, and severely lectured any critter that threatened to upset the
delicate ecosystem. He ranged over the fields, tasting the soil and
checking for evidence that all was well there. Everything his hands touched
seemed to gain energy and thrive.
From Harry I first heard it said that no one could be
healthier than the soil that produced one’s food. We spent afternoons
walking the land together and talking in the shade with a glass of cold
well water. He was then well into his nineties.
This article appears in Jan 27 – Feb 2, 2005.
