The evidence of Eugene’s biggest snow storm in 50 years has long melted, but the two feet of snow, two days without power and the sudden appearance of an interesting visitor are still emblazoned in my mind. Just before the snowpocalypse of 2019, a first cousin of my dad left a cryptic message on the answering machine. She needed to get in touch with my mom. I passed along the request but forgot about it during the succeeding days of campus/school closures and snow shoveling. Later in the week, and after power had been restored, we discovered the reason for her call. Her younger brother Willie had gotten off a bus in Springfield and was lost in the area. I was back at work on Friday and received a phone call from the local Chamber of Commerce. They had someone named Willie in the lobby asking them to contact a Mark Watson. Connection made! The only useful bit of information I could glean was that he going to a “St. Marys.” After talking with my mom and doing a bit of checking, we found out that St. Mary’s Episcopal Church was one of the local sites for the Egan Warming Center Program. The all-volunteer organization mobilizes local congregations to provide a warm place for unhomed people to sleep when the temperature dips below 30 degrees on any given night.
What to do? We had a near distant relative out on the streets during the worst weather in many years, and on top of that we knew that Willie suffered from schizophrenia. The famous story about a Good Samaritan immediately came to mind; however, the part I recalled in that moment was that several would-be do-gooders walked on by the guy in the ditch before someone actually decided to get involved. Why? Well, probably for some darn good reasons. Mentally unstable people can be dangerous, and the problems trailing in their wake can mess things up … like your life! Still, my 83-year old mom was not about to let that stop her. So, enlisted as her sidekick, we drove downtown at 9:30 p.m., hoping to intercept Willie if he arrived to spend the night in the church. He didn’t show up. The volunteers were helpful and offered to spread the word to all the other centers and call us if Willie signed in at one of the other Egan locations.
My mom and I left St. Mary’s but before heading home decided to drive by the 1st Christian Church where we had heard a hot meal had been served earlier that evening. We parked, and I offered to head inside to check things out. Nearing the door to the church basement, a man was coming up the stairs vaguely resembling the appearance of Willie stuck in my 12-year old boy memory. “Willie?” I asked; he startled, peered at me from under his hood and then stuck out his hand, calling me by my first name. Amazing! We had found Willie, now an older man looking every bit the 70-year old that he had become, carrying what looked like a 60-pound backpack. Here goes nothing I thought, momentarily forgetting that Good Samaritans do not sign on for “nothing.” In fact, they usually open themselves up to more than they had bargained for.
Willie was limping badly, and, as we walked slowly toward the car, I snuck a peek at a grizzled face that looked like death warmed over. Willie paused to ask a guy sprawled out on the pavement of the parking lot if he had fallen down. I’m standing there thinking, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
It turned out that by night Willie had been camping in the freezing weather and trudging the streets to keep warm. During the day, he roamed around trying to find food and shelter. At some point, Willie had found a way to call his sister who purchased a bus ticket for him back to Kennewick, WA. But, troubles ensued. There was a story about being hassled at the bus station and the loss of his wallet with all his ID and cash. And that was just the first of many tales, and it didn’t take very long to find out that Willie inhabits a reality of his own that intersects with the one you and I perceive, but his sense of time and his memories are all jumbled up in a non-linear narrative that makes sense to him but to few others.
My mom was determined to resuscitate my 1st-cousin once removed with food, a warm bed, a hot shower and clean clothes. Willie proved himself capable of eating and sleeping in a bed, but the clothes that had been thoroughly imbued with the gifts of nature and church floors were not coming off his back. The shower idea was also brusquely dismissed, and I think we all went to sleep a bit uneasy that night.
The following day, one that might have passed for an otherwise routine Saturday, turned into a comedy of Shakespearean proportions. Understanding the convention, you know that a happy ending (sort of) was in store, but the players don’t get there without experiencing their share of misunderstandings and struggles. Job number one for my mom and I was to find a way to get Willie back home. Willie had his own ideas. He decided that his improved fortune lent itself to making some money. He announced that he wanted to stay several days in order to arrange a piano recital at the 1st Methodist Church, where he would also peddle all the soggy, self-published books stored in his backpack. In his mind, at least $7oo was up for grabs. On one hand, you had to admire his confidence but on the other it was pretty clear that his “memoirs” and piano playing skills, demonstrated on my mom’s baby grand, were hardly a golden ticket to fame and fortune. Reminding Willie of his recent trauma and injured leg, I demurred on the recital and insisted we focus on a strategy for getting him back home to recuperate.
By this time, my mom and I had spoken to Willie’s sister several times. Come to find out, Willie has pushed his sister to her wit’s end. He takes off without telling her where he is going, and she’s had to chase him all over the Northwest. There have been run-ins with the police, impounded cars and incidents that spiraled out of control because Willie is argumentative and does not want to take his medicine. We knew about the bus ticket, but, when reminded, Willie refused to have anything more to do with buses and the people who operated them. A train might be acceptable, so off we went to the Amtrak station. The employee working the counter promptly disabused us of the notion that someone without proper ID could purchase a ticket and board a train … TSA rules and all that. Willie began to argue, and, wanting to avoid another row akin to what must have happened at Greyhound, I insisted on doing the talking. What were our options? Well, we could file a police report for the lost wallet that would suffice in part for ID, but we also needed to come up with some secondary form of identification.
At this point, I started thinking that Willie’s stay chez Watson was going to be longer than expected. And, what if we couldn’t find a way to get him home? A multitude of unsatisfying scenarios raced through my mind as we headed to the Eugene police station. It wouldn’t be wise to leave him alone with my mom. Would I have to drive him back to Kennewick myself? Would his sister be willing to meet us halfway? And then I felt guilty because she is even older than her brother. I tried to stay calm and pleasant as Willie kept going over his money making scheme.
The police station on a Saturday morning proved to be very low-key. The doors were open and the lobby was nearly devoid of activity. Outside, I had jokingly asked Willie if he had any outstanding warrants, and he became agitated. Oh great, I thought. The next task required would be coming up with bail. We were directed to use a red phone hanging on the wall. A helpful sounding voice picked up and I explained the dilemma. Put on hold for a moment, the voice returned and told me that the Desk Officer wasn’t in, but I could easily file the necessary report online. It was nearly noon at this point, so I asked Willie what he liked to eat. “Fish sandwich,” he replied. So, we headed to McDonalds for Filet of Fish. Willie didn’t want any fries but requested a strawberry milkshake. I ordered a Big Mac and a chocolate shake … with fries (who doesn’t eat fries at McDonalds?)
Back home, I filed a police report for Willie’s missing wallet. It took multiple tries to extract the needed contact information to fill out the report. Now, the purchase of a train ticket depended on finding some other piece of ID. Willie was in the bedroom sorting his books and calculating future revenues when I went to ask if he had anything in his pack that could qualify as supporting identification to go with the police report. The conversation weaved around like a twirling dervish. Willie was less interested in coming up with the ID than talking about his travels and, or course, the upcoming recital. Feeling exasperated, I pressed my case until Willie suddenly reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a wad of paper that looked like it had gone through the washing machine. I reached for the baseball of soggy paper, but Willie pulled it back and insisted on performing the tedious job of painstakingly peeling the fragile sheets apart. Three documents slowly coalesced in front of me. Once they were separated, I grabbed them from Willie so we could dry them out on the bed. One piece of paper was no longer legible but the other two were versions of the same Physician’s Examination form. Upon a closer look, the information typed on one of the forms provided Willie’s full name, his phone number and Kennewick address. Bingo!
A little while later, Willie looked like he might be sleeping on my mom’s couch, so I left again and returned to the Amtrak station. A different agent was on duty, and, summoning my most persuasive rhetorical skills, I approached the counter with documents in hand. I handed over the police report and wrinkled Physician’s Report, expressing my hope that the documents would allow me to purchase train ticket for a stranded family member. The agent’s smile and affirmative nod brought a wave of relief. I quickly bought a $73 one-way ticket from Eugene to Kennewick, leaving on Sunday morning at 9:00 a.m. Willie would travel to Portland, wait a few hours and then transfer to the train going to the Tri-Cities.
Willie would need to spend another night, and I knew that this work was going to fall directly to my mom. I was exhausted from the stress of dealing with our recalcitrant guest and running around all day trying to piece together an exit strategy. My mom took over. I returned home and crashed out for the evening.
I headed next door just after 7:30 a.m. the next morning. Suspecting that getting Willie out of the house and down to the station was going to take a while, I entered to find him sitting at the counter, chowing down on a big breakfast. Willie actually looked good. His color was back, and he was chatting away with my mom (well, it was really more of a monologue). I realized that he was coming out of the shock delivered by overexposure and physical deprivation. It did end up taking a while for Willie to collect his things and finally bring the heavy backpack out of his room. He expressed his appreciation to my mom, and we headed off to catch the Amtrak train.
The drive downtown was pleasant. Willie told me some stories about other trips and stated his plans to take the train to Iowa where he had purchased an antique desk (go figure). Perhaps he could also sell his books and set up some recitals. We arrived at the station and waited until it was time to board. I walked Willie down to car 7. He offered a hug and I accepted. I watched him get on the train, and felt a bit guilty that it crossed my mind that he might decide to get off and extend his stay in Eugene.
It took my mom several days to clean up after Willie’s visit. Ridding her house of the odor and grime took a considerable amount of elbow grease. I could tell that she was wiped. I was grateful to have a Sunday to recover.
Looking back, I am grateful for having crossed paths with Willie again after nearly 50 years. My boyhood memories updated, I now ponder the passage of time and the mysterious ways in which life unfolds. On one hand, I take some pride in the “heroics” executed by my mom and I, but, on the other, I know that Willie is the true hero of this story. Somehow, he managed the impossible. He survived and lived to see another day, setting the stage for another adventure. Will we meet again? How many more Willie’s will cross my path? Next time, will I walk on by or stop to find out where a divergent road leads?
This Life ... the Best of Them? 