Making Room For Eccentrics

I am a collector of stories, and the stories I like best are those of folks who don’t fit the tight confines of society.  That is why the stories of saints have always intrigued me.  St. Francis, St. Therese of Lisieux, and Rabia of Basra are all examples of people who wouldn’t color within the lines of life—thank God. 

This past weekend I was on a retreat and heard the story of another kind of outsider, the hermit.  My friend told of living near a hermit in rural New England, and the more she shared, the more questions I asked her.

The hermit lived at the end of a road near where she was living at the time.  Now, it’s important to explain that my friend is also someone who doesn’t fit comfortably in any mold.  She’s a delightful one-of-a-kind.  That’s probably why she walked to the hermit’s house one day and knocked on the door.  The hermit’s first response was to pull back a drape and give her a rude hand gesture.  My friend was undeterred.  She called out that she was a neighbor, as the hermit well knew, and wasn’t going to be put off by his rudeness.

Her stubbornness worked.  He invited her into his house and, for the next hour or so, she listened as he read poetry to her.   She remembers being enthralled not just by the poetry, but also by the collection of beautiful glassware arranged on a mantel and his gift of growing flowers from seed. 

My friend’s sons had a different relationship with Jerry the hermit.  They’d haul a canoe down to the small lake near the hermit’s—well, hermitage—and paddle around.  When Jerry saw them, he’d go down to the rickety dock and watch. 

Somehow over the years, the relationship developed so that if her sons stopped at Jerry’s dock, he’d bring out a chair and cut their hair.  Maybe Jerry had been a barber at some point in his life.  The point is that the hair-cutting was a treat for my friend’s sons, and it was apparently a treat for Jerry, because when he was finished, he would jump into the lake with all his clothes on. 

Our society has been fed a diet of horrible stories of characters who don’t fit conveniently into society.   Even while reading this, you might have imagined all the ways this story could have gone wrong, with the boys in danger from Jerry or with Jerry in danger from boys intent on terrorizing him. 

We see these horrible stories in newspapers and on many TV programs—both fiction and true-life accounts—that  we assume that someone like Jerry must be severely damaged, capable of damaging others, or both.  We find it more difficult to believe that some people choose to live alone because that’s just how they’re wired or what they prefer.

My friend, as a loving mother, could have prohibited her sons having any contact with Jerry.  After all, haven’t we all heard the adage “Better to be safe than sorry?”  My friend, however, doesn’t live in fear of strangers, and she didn’t raise her kids with that fear. 

And after listening to her, that’s what sticks with me.  Her sons, now grown, have a memory of an unforgettable friendship with a colorful person.  I’m sure they have become careful parents, but I’m also sure they haven’t raised their own children to fear those who don’t fit the accepted pattern. 

I also find myself thinking of the joy that Jerry experienced in his encounters with her sons.   After all, what does jumping into a lake, fully clothed, mean if not pure joy?