By John Brown

His face was an old scrub brush; his coat a tattered scarecrow. He had no running water but used a nearby creek. He never was smelly but always had the faint odor of kerosene and fried fish. The odor came from a small kerosene cooking stove. Never crude or crass, he was well spoken and quite intelligent. Neighbors told us that he was reclusive at best and sometimes even hostile, unwilling to allow anyone into his space or life. He refused offers of help. But when my daughter Heather was in grade school, she went out selling Girl Scout cookies and was amazed when The Hermit bought some! That’s really how our relationship with him began.

It was Christmas time and we lived on Green Hill in New Richmond Township. There was a late night knock on our door and through the swirls of snow, I made out the form of The Hermit. He lived a few hundred feet down-hill from us in a shabby shack, which many people assumed was vacant. He said he had passed out the day before, and he seemed disoriented. He was not a drinker. We sat him down at the kitchen table and Martha, my wife, dished out home-made noodles and chicken. He ate several bowls, in fact.

Refusing to be taken to the hospital or to spend the night with us, he seemed to gain strength as we sat at the table and chatted. When he decided it was time to go, we packed up our station wagon with firewood and food and drove him home. He didn’t ask us in — never did.

The Hermit even had a name! We were to call him “Lad,” short for Ladislav. Years before he had forsaken society (never found out why), and purchased his little hut, along with 50 acres. Once I was out mowing and Lad came up to me, wanting to know if I had a trickle battery charger. I did and thus began a series of loans — always returned: simple things like tools, gas cans and a car jack. He did have an old clunker partly hidden beside his house and bearing Ohio plates.

After that, I’d take him to get groceries and run errands. I actually thought he almost trusted me but realized that in a way, I was a necessity — his car rarely ran. Holidays and other times we’d fix dinner for him and deliver it; he refused to come to supper at our place. I recall one Christmas day when we went to Lad’s place with food. By that time Heather had a car of her own so we used it. But Lad wouldn’t come to the door. Like a flash going off, I realized the problem, so we drove home, got in my car (which he would recognize) and as if by magic, he answered the door.

On one of our many trips together Lad remarked, “I guess people around here probably think I’m a heathen, but really, I’m a Baptist.” But church never interested him.

I’d stop to see him several times a week and once I heard him inside, apparently groaning. He didn’t answer the door and finally, in desperation, I called the state police. I figured that in so doing, our relationship was ended. He came to the door for the police and assured us he was OK. I explained to Lad the next time I saw him, why I had called the police. He seemed OK with that. Then I popped the question. I asked him to give me the phone number of someone I could call just in case. Miraculously, he gave me the number of his brother in Ohio.

We knew Lad over a period of perhaps 20 years. Then one bitter, white knuckle driving day, I was trying to make it up our hill when I saw flashing lights. There had been a fire at Lad’s place, caused by the little stove. The structure was saved but the inside was damaged. Social service agencies had tried to work with him and one even offered to put him up for a few days in a motel. He informed them that he already had a place to stay — our place!

Lad stayed with us for some weeks and never was any trouble at all. You’d hardly know there was a guest in the house. During the day he’d work on getting his car road-ready and trying to fix the fire damages. Martha even trimmed his hair, though reluctantly at first. Then one day Lad asked me to come to his home and help him break into a steel file cabinet — he had lost the key. It was the only time I ever was invited in. From one drawer, he withdrew a safety box and in it were seven $1,000 certificates of deposit. He was not a rich man, nor a poor man but lived his own life style.

On a cold January day right after Christmas, The Hermit drove off to live with his brother. His place was sold to some people who renovated it into a cute cottage which served as a hunting cabin. The Hermit and his brother have been dead for some time, but while he lived, he had a passion and a dream. He planned to build a roadside produce stand. For years, each spring he’d rake and clear to make a spot for the stand. Every year the plot stood vacant — he never followed through.

The Hermit continues to be a puzzle but one thing I know, he was God’s gift to us.



Brown is a Meadville resident.