RIP, Dear Friend

It’s been a little over a year since Don died. Donald Leo Shortis. Donny. My dearest friend during a period of extreme upheaval and wild personal growth. Don!
We met soon after I’d moved, alone, to a sun-filled apartment on Carolina Street. I’d abruptly left a ten-year marriage and a valiant attempt to go straight. Not that I was drug-ridden or outlaw- just that, after years of struggle living as an artist, I thought I’d try a different route- something with a pension, maybe, medical benefits and a decent $ salary; I realized that I’d probably keep on living- maybe a long time- and my life at the time was pretty tiring for an old lady to live. I started nursing school and married- on the books- a decent, fine man with a credit card he paid off every month and a “good” job. Well, I DID become a nurse, DID get a pension and benefits and decent salary….. and lived pretty much in misery. No lack of love- just too much misery. So I Left. It took one week to find a place & move completely out; new town, new life….. and I met Don.

He was mowing the lawn at my new place, sweating and grunting over bumpy ground with a hand mower, leaving that sweet moist new-mown grass smell behind him; he looked so startling- a two foot long straight red beard growing down his neck, giant arms and belly, tattoos of skulls and women and faded illegible words everywhere I could see, clothes so dirt- embedded the original color and fabric was obliterated- that I’d’ve thought he was a dangerous freak if he hadn’t been mowing, & just would’ve sidled away with my face turned. But I didn’t- I introduced myself, shook hands, and commented on the sweet fine smell; for the next five years, he’d periodically remind of that day: member when I first met you? & you said how nice the grass smelled? I knew you were a nice lady.

We got a little closer when I came home with a giant piece of furniture I needed to haul up my twisty stairs; he was across the street by the church (he was living in the church basement then) and I called him over for help:Yeah… I can help you! member how you like that grass smell?
We got the big chair upstairs- he was strong as Atlas, and I felt like he was holding my world up with that one giant piece I couldn’t move alone. We sat down with glasses of cold water, and he asked me to help him with some writing: think maybe you could look at something I got? Sure. He pulled out a clutch of official looking papers he kept folded in his back pocket; he wanted help filing a complaint with the Labor Board. He’d been working at the church, sweeping the parking lot, in exchange for living in the basement and $60/month- now they’d stopped his $ and told him he couldn’t live there anymore. But that wasn’t his main concern; he was most upset that they’d been paying him less than minimum wage, which he’d just found out- I don’t think he knew there WAS a minimum wage until a friend told him. I don’t like people cheating me. Just cuz I’m homeless.
He couldn’t fill out the forms because he couldn’t read; he could barely write either, except for his carefully drawn signature. He didn’t know or have most of the information required for the form- his boss’s last name, how long he’d worked there, his residential address, a phone number- he DID have a social security number squirreled away in his back pocket with his other official papers. We filled out the forms as best we could- I figgered yr smart, cuz yr a doctor. He called me “doctor” from the first time he saw my stethoscope up to the day he died.

We went through a lot together after that: Don wanted a place to stay ( I only had to say “no” one time before he got it and never brought it up again), I wanted help with my projects, and we both wanted Friendship. I got the help I needed, Don found a car & then a field to live in, and we both got strong, sure friendship.

There are marks of our projects all over the Farm: we tilled the hardpacked clay, planted roses (his grandmother told him that roses are the heart of the home- she always planted them around the house), planted trees, built makeshift arbors- and he generally kept the front little lawn looking respectable. He always looked out for clay and rubble for me: we hauled at least a ton- in very small loads- back to the Farm from fields & lots & construction sites he’d sussed out. We tried turning tires inside out for planters; we built planting beds with the rubble and cut turfs for retaining walls in the Medieval fashion. We painted the middle room red- then immediately painted it over in white. We fixed what we thought we could fix, and tried what we couldn’t- we had to get a new toilet after me & Don tried to fix the old one, cracking it open in the process. We teased each other and hollered sometimes and always worked it out.
We spent regular time admiring our work, even years after the event- member when we painted the room red? member how we hauled all that clay? I gotta eye fr clay now.... member how we planted the poppies in my field? member how I gave you that butter dish? I knew you’d like it cuz it’s yellow…Yeah, we work good together…

When I explained why I didn’t want any of his friends visiting here- criminals know criminals, and I don’t need any criminals around, yrself excepted- he said simply yeah. I know a lot of criminals. OK. He never failed to say to astonished friends I introduced him to I’d never steal from here. These’ re my friends, we help each other out. And he never did steal from here, just gave & gave & gave.

A few years after we met, we were sitting on the porch with a friend who’s also an LCSW. She’d had an attack of nausea, and was kneeling on the floor to keep it at bay; listening to him, she crawled over on her hands & knees to ask him more questions- she was appalled that he had no social services in place. Later, Don said Man, I didn’t know what to think when that lady started crawling toward me…but he took it with absolute equanimity, like he did everything else that surprised him. He told us he’d gave em the papers last time, I don’t know what happened.

Our friend worked with him for some time; did the written psych eval and guided him to the right agencies. When I drove him out of town, about 30 miles away, to one of the appointments, he said I guess this’s why I never heard from em last time…I didn’t know I had to go to Fairfield…how’d they think I ‘d get there? Was I sposed to WALK? And I thought, how’s anyone who can’t read expected to understand what to do in the first place?

He got the services he needed. He got to a doctor, he started getting checks. And he got sicker & sicker: emphysema, massively swollen legs from venous insufficiency, type II diabetes and heart disease.
By the time he died, he was living inside- he’d inherited a little trailer house from his Dad, & his long lost brother found a park and moved it there. He was too sick to go out much, so I’d visit him there. He told me he could hear his Daddy playing cards at the table, talking to him- he told me he had all he ever wanted: to live inside, to have a little money just like reglar people do. We planted roses around his door, the heart of his home. Then, a few months after going inside, he died.

It’s been a year and a month now. That’s how long it’s taken me to write about him; that’s how long ago he died. I miss him every day. I hear him calling me Muscles when I lift something big; I hear him recounting our projects when I’m discouraged. I think of him every time I clip the roses. The Heart of our Home. Yeah, we do good work together, Don. RIP, my Friend.