aftermaths

              Rough day in the field. Prattsville is like some bad post-apocalyptic movie, but there are no movie stars and no cuts and Tina Turner is not going to sing at the Thunderdome. I was okay for the most part, working, and driving around a bit afterwards taking some photos and video. 

              I went home and had a shower, and walked to the farmers market where I met a man who was standing on the corner with a cooler full of water bottles on ice. In scrawly hand he'd written, "Help Yourself" and next to it was a jar for giving a donation to Prattsville. There was a posterboard with photos from the town in which his parents had grown up. His father died three months ago, his mom last year. He was a cancer survivor. Because of health issues he is unable to go there and work physically, but he called Verizon and they have been donating throwaway phones. With the money he collects he purchases cards with minutes on them, drives it all up to Prattsville, and walks door to door asking people if they need a phone.

              He asked me if I knew Prattsville at all. I pointed to one of the pictures, of a church, and said I'd spent some time there yesterday pulling carpet nails out of the floor. He told me he spent the afternoon outside the church, praying as hard as he could. And he told me it was the church his parents were married in. I pointed to the photo of the yellow house you see in the video; the one that fell into a 20-foot hole with the residents inside it. (All of them are okay.) That house was where his parents lived, many years ago. He asked me if I knew about the cemetery, if it was still there. His family was asking about it and he hadn't checked. It was old, he said. Graves from the 1700s. I didn't know.

              I wanted to stay and talk with him, hear about the Prattsville he remembered, the one before the terrible storm that ripped the guts out of a community, but I knew that if I did I'd never be able to hold back the tears I'd been on the brink of all day. I shook his hand and thanked him for all he's doing, and he thanked me back. Tonight's the first night I've cried about all of this.

free wishes

There's a guy around town we call Jogger John. Because he runs, everywhere. He's one of the local street people who's been here forever, and people tell of being out on dark country roads in the middle of the night, far from the middle of town, and having John run by.
              John keeps the town streets clean. Not in any official capacity that I know of, but he's always out there sweeping and moving trash into the proper receptacles from where lazy people dropped it when they were done. The local eateries give him coffee and food when he comes in, but he never stays with it, always takes it outside, weather or season no matter. He keeps their storefronts clean and is always happy to do a requested odd job.
              I was sitting on the patio of yum yum noodle bar a few days ago, before they were open, receiving donations to bring to the people of Windham who lost so much in the recent hurricane, and John came by and said hello and went inside. He came out a minute later and asked, "Want half a flower?" holding out an orange bloom missing half its petals. I told him that I'd love half a flower, and asked what happened to the other half? "I was making wishes, and stopped halfway through" he explained. "Did they come true?" I inquired. His eyes widened and he whispered, "I was dumbfounded." Then he placed the half-bloom on top of a pink flower growing in the patio flower garden, and ran away.
              Say what you want about people like John, but for me, I think the world needs more people willing to give half their wishes away.