by Bernie Green
It’s that time of year again. It sort of crept in like a thief the past few days.
Only a day or two ago we were marveling at the bright blue skies and the symphony of beautiful colors as Fall made her debut.
Now it’s dark and gloomy, rain is falling and so are my spirits. As I sit here writing I recall a true story from many years ago.
We lived in a small country village in an old house in a dated neighborhood. The neighbors were all good people, quite friendly, hard-working folks…except for the big old house up the street where an old man lived by himself.
The house was a huge Victorian place that was grey in color—not because of the paint color, but rather the lack of it.
The steps were crooked and the porch posts loose in their underpinnings. There was never a light to be seen through the dirty windows but ancient lace curtains still hung in pieces to block the view.
Some of the old neighbors told the story that the old man as a child was raised by a nanny who believed in witchcraft, following the death of his parents.
No one knew for sure but he was known to be a strange man who would curse at his frozen longjohns on the clothesline as he beat them with his cane. He blamed the “evil spirits” for the large open sore on his face, saying they had tormented him while he slept.
His name was Marcus. He was about 80 years old, hardly able to get around anymore and the big old house had no central heat!
I felt sorry for him. We were so comfortable in our big house with our big family and after a discussion with my husband I reluctantly walked up the street to the old place and knocked on the door. I brought a jar of fresh canned tomatoes with me as sort of a “peace offering.”
After a minute or so the door opened ever so slowly and a bony hand held onto the latch. A wrinkled, grey-haired person with sparkling blue eyes beckoned me in. He seemed quite cordial and accepted the jar with enthusiasm. I told him who I was and then bid him goodbye and left.
Several days later a knock came on my door. As I answered it I saw Marcus in his worn old barn coat holding the empty canning jar. He offered his thanks and the look in his blue eyes said, “More, I’d like some more.”
It came time for Halloween and all the kids on the street knocked on the doors of the houses that had left their porch lights on…all except Marcus’. They avoided his door not only due to the lack of a lighted porch but also because of the rumors that had been told about him by the locals for years.
That weekend when we advanced into November, I decided one more time to bring Marcus some food. I brought him a plate full of roast turkey, dressing, potatoes and gravy…everything I could fit on one large plate.
Again the door slowly opened and the same bony old hand gestured me in. As I walked into the huge dining room I saw bookshelves to the ceiling on two walls filled with volumes. Against the other wall was a grand old upright piano with legs of turned marble.
In the center of the room was a great dark wood dining table surrounded by many high-backed chairs. As I stood there, Marcus went over to a huge buffet, opened a drawer and took out a silver table service wrapped in velvet.
He walked back to the table and using his sleeve wiped a placed in the dust to set the plate. The dust appeared to have been there for many years, until that moment. He graciously thanked me and sat down to his feast as I left.
Several days later, again there was a knock at my door and there he stood. Marcus returned my plate saying again how much he enjoyed the food.
That was the last time I saw him. It was said that he was found dead frozen to death in his home.
Someone, nobody knows who, came and took all of his belongings out of the place and it sat empty for a long time.
I think of him for some reason on Halloween and I wonder if he was given an opportunity to come back home just the one time.