PEOPLE I HAVE KNOWN

          Charlie Newman lived in “Shanty Town”—the local name for a group of little old make-shift houses just outside of Medford village proper. He was a little old man, slightly bent over, who could be seen on summer days especially, high-stepping it, barefooted, straight-up the center of Main Street on his way to Braddock’s Tavern. He had a pinched face, a scraggly beard and wore ragged clothes, with his pants held up by a rope. He used an old stick for a cane, and paid no attention to anyone or anything, completely focused (or as focused as he could be) on reaching that watering hole just up the street.

          Old Bill Demore, local garbage man, with a floppy hat and a toothless grin, drove one of those old trucks with wooden removable sides, on which were a half dozen or so barrels into which he poured the contents of various peoples’ garbage cans. Once a week, maybe twice, he would putt-putt-putt his way up Main Street with 4 or 5 dogs following behind the truck, barking the whole way along.

          Sister Mary, who wasn’t really a sister in the official sense of the word, always wore a long black dress and black hat. Her face was similar to that of Margaret Hamilton’s—Wicked Witch of the North in The Wizard of Oz. She could be a scary presence to kids and I used to have occasional nightmares, not necessarily of her, per se, but of someone like her. In truth she was a sweet, innocent person who no doubt wanted to be a nun but it just never worked out that way. I don’t know if she had mental issues but that was probably so.

          Those were all people I especially remember from my childhood who particularly stand out as some of the most colorful ones. I could, of course, bring up the man who came down the street in the summertime, carrying clothes props on his shoulder, yelling in a loud nasal tone like country western singer, “Props…clothes props!” And I think he was the same man who at other times, or one who looked a lot like him, who yelled, “Rags? Any old rags?”

          I also could bring up a few people who had no peculiarities so to speak, but are also of my childhood days like the Dugan’s Bakery man or Dave the milkman, and also the fish monger who came through town in his truck with seafood from the Atlantic or Barnegat Bay.

          In time, of course, all those people quietly disappeared almost unnoticed except to those who might have known them more intimately. Word of their passing was probably a small topic of conversation among the adults in town. But to kids, they just weren’t there anymore and it wasn’t until maybe years later that memories of them came floating back.

          By the way, there’s no moral to these stories I just told; no profound message I’m trying to get across; just simply a little bit of thanksgiving for people I have known and for the way they made life more interesting by who they were either intentionally or otherwise. That goes for the so-called more colorful ones as well as those who have been generous spirits of good tidings and great joy in both difficult and happy times.

Just wanted to share that.