Encompass Blog
Pack and a Pint - Remembering Harold
Harold has died.
He died warm and inside, but he died nonetheless.
His body could not withstand the regime he subjected it to,
alcohol tobacco and malnourishment, and so, it failed.
I do not know much about Harold's life.
I am told he has four daughters.
He told me he was married.
The joke was, that if the stories are true,
Harold died at 600 years old.
He had done so much, as he told, all of which he did for twenty years.
And yet, he knew the wife of a homeless man when he,
Harold, was in central America, what was he doing there?
He died in the house of the son of a friend, an army friend.
When we heard that the army friend showed up,
we all wondered, who is Harold, why would this young man,
not only find Harold but take care of him,
bathing, feeding, bathrooming, until he died.
Harold the engineer, soldier of fortune, lawyer,
dog trainer, martial artist, horse rider, chef —
what was truth, what was fiction, I may never know.
Does it matter?
There are things I do know.
He knew the law, he could cook, he could use a computer,
he did have an army buddy,
that after he told us he called the Irish gangs in New York,
someone showed up to take care of him,
and, everyone that knew him, liked him.
I knew him just as he had come to the street, and was drinking.
He was living in his car.
He had hopes, he was going to get off the street.
He did not.
He tried, he was sober, he was in programs, but he did not make it.
When I met him, he told me he had no family,
it was only later I learned from others he had children.
Did he? I don't know, and may never know. Does it matter?
I watched him lose his car.
End up under a bridge, behind a law office,
Jack in the Box, along a trail.
It was Harold that took me along the trail.
Introduced me to people at Macdonald's, brought me to Martha's.
There were hopes.
Hopes of creating a program that would allow him to get off the street.
He would cook for folks in a housing unit.
There were hopes.
Many dreams but never it seemed, traction.
Was this due to me, did I lack faith, prayer, trust.
Was it the alcohol?
Was that what kept everything a dream, a hope.
Hope, though it never disappoints, sometimes it stays there,
out there, never to move from smoke to solid.
It seems that the alcohol was a factor.
Not maybe in his commitment, judgment, but in staying power.
The ideas were there, but the resilience was not.
Mike, a police officer, says alcohol is in 75 percent of his calls.
Grandpa Thompson hated it; took two of his brothers-in-law.
He would stagger up, and then,
like the falling man in the Gates of Hell, he would tip back,
caught by his pack and a pint.
Much of Harold is unknown,
just stories told by an aging man, drunk. What is known?
It is known that he laughed,
that he was kind,
that he had the gift of gab,
that he would work you for a pack (of smokes) and a pint (of H&H whiskey).
Even when he wasn't working you,
he was always kind and sweet.
And generous. His SSI helped more folks than I will ever know.
I never saw him really get angry, speak badly of someone.
When he was down, you could count on folks coming to his aid,
cleaning him, giving him clothes, food, and his pack and pint.
Allison, Carlos, Ray, Julie, Mike, Lee, Vodka Dave, Anna, Eva,
Dee, Mark, Mike, Soccer Dave, Stanly, Merle, Joshua, Pricilla,
and so many more folks that knew Harold.
The staff at church of the chimes and Martha's kitchen.
He always had a smile, always a laugh.
These last six months have been tough.
He could hardly walk, make it to the bathroom,
really take care of himself.
His disabilities cause him such pain.
You could feel knots in his hands, they did not work well.
It was this pain that drove him to drink —
and, to be sure, I am confident that that was part of it.
What other pains he felt, one set he only let me in on once;
his daughters gone, parents and sister too,
he felt he was alone.
But whatever else it was that he carried,
whatever other wounds there were, added up,
they were too great for him to face.
And so, he drank.
It's not a moral issue though, no, it just is.
Harold knew it was not a moral issue, because he had his faith.
This I feel, I know.
He had his faith.
He knew that Christ died for him,
he knew that he was forgiven,
he knew that he was going to heaven.
It seems, he just could not find heaven here on earth.
I will miss him, I wish I had seen him one last time.
I did not realize he was so sick.
This is the second time this has happened.
First Bill, now Harold, you would think that I would learn.
I had hopes that I would be more present, but no.
maybe there is nothing to be done.
Maybe there will always be regret, but I am sad,
and feel that I let him down, did not say good bye,
did not tell him I loved him,
even if he wouldn't change his habits for me.
I fear too. I fear that Carlos, Ray, will slide.
Will they see this as a failure?
Or will they just be really lonely.
Sad that their buddy, Harold,
will no longer be asking for a pack and a pint.
