Wheat Street (Part 2)

I worked part-time in the shipping and receiving department of a large mall department store for awhile until I got my first real job — as a houseparent in a community residential program for the mentally retarded. I had gotten the job in October of that year when a friend from my photojournalism class, who worked there, told me about it. I was very reluctant, and it took me weeks before I thought I would be able to actually continue working there. It was so strangely new, and, even stressful because of the mental and emotional problems some of the people I worked with had, in addition to mental retardation. They were not severely retarded, and could function to some extent, with much supervision, in the community, and that was our job — to assist them in their daily living skills so they could function in the community.

At that job, I’d spend a couple of nights a week on the night shift, and would assist in preparing the meals for the guys I supervised (there were about 14 in the program at that time, and it was the first such program in Columbia in the early, heady days of de-institutionalization of the large MR facilities across the state). I remember there were huge hams and roasts to slice, big pots of beans and potatoes, canned peaches for dessert and homemade rolls. The food was actually quite good, but the surroundings were less than desirable. The building we were we housed in was a former asylum for aged mentally ill persons, and all the rooms had bars on the windows. It had, to say it politely, a “problem” with roaches, and it was kind of a spooky place. But, it had been donated to the organization that ran the program, and the executive director, who started it all from scratch just three years prior to my coming there, jumped at the chance to have a place in which to begin. She was by every measure one of those rare and charismatic individuals who are inspired to help others, but who are so intelligent and intense and suffused with such a powerful inner presence, that one stands in awe of them. And that is the way I felt about her. She was larger than life. Inpsiring. The program she started went from serving 12 individuals to more than 350 in just four years, and I was there at a critical period of growth. Many of the people we served lived at home and were cared for by their parents who wanted, above all else, to keep their children from being institutionalized. We also had a number of residents who came directly from the big institutions. It was an experience I will never forget, I can tell you.

That friend I met at college, and who got me the job there, became my best friend and, really, the only true friend I had had in my life up until that point. We took a lot of photographs in the countryside together and developed and printed our own black and white film, as I’ve written about before in this journal. A couple of years later, he took off on a solo excursion traveling around Europe, and we didn’t see each other except occasionally over the years after that. He ended up marrying a girl from Australia whom he met on his travels. I also got to know very well his friend, and my direct supervisor at that job, R.__, although I always felt just a bit of distance between us because of his supervisory role.

So, I would come home from my job at the center for the mentally retarded wiped out emotionally at times, and tired from both the job and going to school as well. But the journalism studies turned out to be something I was perfectly suited for, and I loved doing it.

That old house on Wheat Street became my sanctuary. My room had an air conditioning vent on the floor near the bed, and cool air coming up from it felt wonderful on hot days. I could see the oak tree’s leaves blowing in the breeze outside my window on cooler days when I had the window open and could get some of that nice fresh air. I was so comfortable in that room, and in that house, that I would wake up some mornings and just ask myself if it was all real.

Most days, I’d try to talk to Mrs. B___, if only briefly, and she would sometimes call up to tell me I had had a phone call earlier, or else that there was some mail for me. It was all very old-timey, and I felt sometimes as if I actually was living at the turn of the century. Mrs. B.___’s cook would often leave some of her famous fried corn fritters on the stove for me to snack on later, and I can recall the taste and texture of those delectable treats even now as I think about them. She was a reedy-thin woman with a sort of high-pitched voice who had been with Mrs. B.___ for many years. R.___ was an unforgettable character. She had this wonderful laugh and was easily amused by Mrs. B.___. Sometimes I’d be home in the afternoons when she left for the day, after fresh towels and linens has ben put out in all the rooms, and I’d hear her shout as she went out the door, “I’m gone.”

After a year and a half at this grand old house on Wheat Street, I knew I had to find an apartment of my own because I needed more privacy, and I was fairly established in that city by then. I didn’t really want to live anywhere else, although I knew I’d have to be moving eventually to find newspaper jobs.

I missed Mrs. B.____ and R.___ very much when I left. It marked the end of an era for me, a distinctly satisfying and wonderful period in my life when I was on my own for the first time. I call that first address I had a boarding house, although technically I guess you’d have to say it was a rooming house because meals were not actually served, but I like to think of it now in that broader and more literary sense.

I drove by the house just a couple of weeks ago. If anything, the big trees that line the street seemed larger and more over-arching than ever, but the street iself appeared frozen in time. Nothing ever seems to change about it. It always looks the same to me.

I pass by the place where I spent those happy and deeply fullfiling years, and I look out the window of the car, and I can imagine myself bounding up the stairs to my room, closing the door, lying in that big, comfortable antique bed and drifting off to sleep.

(Written August 1, 1999)