It was cool for August. Gaffer White hugged a ragged jacket to his wiry arms as he carried the day’s bounty up the steep climb to the cottage. A day working for Mrs. Newberry meant two or three days worth of groceries and, to top it off, the lady gave him a ride to Old Gorge Road where he now negotiated the narrow path through the woods to his home.
The music made by the birds and insects dwelling there was wasted on Gaffer. He took no pleasure in hearing the rhythm of water rushing over the rocks, splashing and falling into streams and pools on its way to Lake Raynard. The powerful beauty of the place did not give him pause or engender joy. The animals that shared the woodland with him were not his friends. The white tail deer, the raccoons, skunks, muskrat, beaver and squirrels; the snakes, turtles, toads and frogs were just there, like the trees. Gaffer did not trap or hunt; the creatures were not his prey. He missed the opportunity to interact with nature. He did not consider himself part of it. He did not consider himself part of anything. No one ever pointed out a beautiful flower to Gaffer, read him a story, asked his opinion or sought his advice.
The old stone cottage where he made his home was borrowed, which is to say, Gaffer moved in after a fire, never paid rent and no one ever tried to kick him out. Uninhabitable, the fire chief declared, and so it was thought until Gaffer moved in. The two top rooms were unusable and the roof was damaged in the front, but a makeshift tarp kept most of the rain out. The kitchen and two extra rooms downstairs were more than enough for the short, skinny man most folks considered simple-minded. Built into a hill, the fieldstone walls of the sad house made it cool in the summer and, with a kerosene heater, not too bad in winter. The owners of the 1840 cottage were city folks who never bothered Gaffer, which suited him admirably. He never wondered why. He did not know that the owner’s son drowned in the ocean and the boy’s mother lost her mind, the father killed himself and the part of their estate that was a little cottage off Old Gorge Road was stored in files at a lawyer’s office in New York City.