EVERY SMALL town has at least one eccentric, old, “crazy person” who lives alone; seems to be without friends or family; isn’t big on personal hygiene (stinks); and is looked down upon by the more fortunate townfolks.

When I was a younger man, Smalltown was home to several such characters; one of whom was Dick Jenkins. Dick lived in a run down, two-room shack he’d built on a hillside in the 1930s. He’d venture into the village, and fortunately, into the Smalltown IGA (my Dad’s store) once a month, a day or two after his check from the Government arrived. Dad liked him, but also liked to make Dick’s visits to our store as brief and efficient as possible (he smelled wicked bad). His essence was hard to describe—a bad combination of body odor, wood smoke, cat urine, and bad breath.

Dad’s strategy for moving Dick through Smalltown IGA expediously was to assign me as Dick’s personal shopping assistant. The bad news was that I had to spend about twenty minutes with Stinky Dick Jenkins. The bright side was that I got to listen to his stories and to know the amazing man inside the dirty, foul-smelling exterior.

As a 20 year old, it was my job and—despite the odor—my pleasure, to guide Dick through the IGA; dropping cans of baked beans, a block of cheddar cheese, and frozen, reducedprice hamburger into his cart, while listening to his colorful, expletive-laced stories.

Dick would laugh and tell me how he’d sold his land—twenty acres on a beautiful hillside with a view of the valley to die for—to a New York lawyer when Dick was 72 and seemingly on his last leg. He’d insisted on a clause that allowed him to live out his life on that land without any new neighbors. He was 89 when he told me, “All my friends are dead. They drank water from the faucet. I get mine right off the #@! #*@! roof! That’s why I don’t get sick!”

In the 1960’s, Dick became a sort of folk hero to some of the free-thinking, long-haired, young, hippie wannabees. I knew some of them fairly well, and can tell you they didn’t smell much better than old Dick. He told me the State Police came to his door one day asking questions about his young friends. “They asked me if I’d seen them rascals usin’ drugs.” I remember how he grinned, exposing a few tobacco stained teeth. “I told the cops they was crazy. Them kids can’t afford no drugs! Hell, they’re so poor, they sit on my floor and pass around the same cigarette!” I knew that Dick knew better, and I’m sure the police did, too.

Dick Jenkins died in 1981 at 91 years old. I was sad that day and sorry that most of the folks in Smalltown never knew Dick the way I did.

I’m glad I got to know the bright, funny man, who’d fought for his country, lost his family in an awful fire in 1928, and worked hard to eke out a living, hauling logs with his horses, Jake and Pete.

Most of the folks in town knew Dick as the stinky, old, crazy man—the “fool on the hill”. They didn’t realize he’d lived his life happily, on his own terms, in a house he’d built with his own hands on one of the most picturesque spots in northern New England; sold it for a fair chunk of change, and lived there rent free for the last 19 years of his life . . . a fool indeed.

To comment on this article or to read Joe’s previous Thoughts, log onto http://www.avgjoewright.blogs pot.com