It was one of those long, warm days where spring was almost ready
to give way to summer. I was a sophmore in college back then. I didn't
have any classes, and to try and alleviate the mounting boredom I decided
to explore the town.
It was one of those long, warm days where spring was almost ready
to give way to summer. I was a sophmore in college back then. I didn't
have any classes, and to try and alleviate the mounting boredom I decided
to explore the town.
New Paltz is a small college town, an exit point on the thru-way
running between Albany and New York: exit number 17, at mile marker 87.
It's right on the edge of the Catskill mountians; close enough so if you
drive for ten minutes by car, you will be navigating tight, brake-or-die
curves overlooking the valley.
The town is nice. It's small, but it has it's share of business
(mostly catering to the college crowd). There are some estoteric book
stores, a handfull of bars and resturants, some gas stations, and so on.
If you go down main street and turn before you get to the steel-girder
bridge overhanging the Wallkill river, you'll find Hugenot street, which
is the country's oldest roads (founded way back in, 1619? It's hard to
remember the date.)
But this is not about that historic landmark.
I stood on the edge of Hasbrook Park (everything in New Paltz was
named after Hasbrook or Deyo or Bevier, the origional town founders).
There was a still wind, the kind that moves slowly enough to almost escape
perception, unless you actively try to find it. It was a dry day, with
clouds overhanging the mountians in the distance. The sun was past it's
mid-point, but not really close to setting. It was at the right angle,
however, to give the clouds this dull, yellowing color. I really wasn't
in the mood for going through the town itself, but the idea of standing
on the shore of the Walkill river suddenly seemed appealing, so I started
walking down the incline towards the unseen river in the near-distance.
I was walking down some nameless street, letting my feet take me
where they will. The street turned sharply to the left, and then, after
a twenty foot sharp decline, it came to an intersection before turning
back on itself and on it's origional course. I paused at the top of the
hill, seeing the road twist around and decided to cut through a small
section of yard, and save myself the two or three minutes it would take
to walk all the way down the hill, around the bend, and back. The house
had a for-sale sign, and it looked like nobody had lived in it for a long,
long time. I didn't think anybody was home, and wouldn't care if I cut
through their yard.
I didn't see the man sitting in the chair until I was about
halfway through the yard. He was an old, black man. He sat in his
little wooden chair, slowly absorbing the world by some osmosis that
you learn as you age. The entire side of his head was layered with
this massive, 'skin-colored' bandage, completely covering his eye and
a good portion of his forehead and cheek.
I felt nervous, guilty at trespassing. I stood there, halfway
through his yard, just looking at him. He regarded me from his throne,
and then, with the air of royalty, waved hello. I akwardly waved back,
but, since I was already feeling like an intruder in his domain, I did
not stop and chat. I continued through the yard, and eventually out of
sight of the man.
I watched the sun slowly set behind the mountians, I somehow knew
that I would never see that old man again. I thought about it, many times
after it had happened. What his life must have been like, living
(presumably alone) in this small, empty, 'For Sale: Price Reduced' home.
What kind of events had led up to the afternoon he found a random college
student cutting through his yard. Whatever those events might have been;
I do know this. He was content, and that he lived.
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