Sad Trip

The "Welcome to Pennsylvania" sign at the Delaware-Pennsylvania border outside Newark, Delaware

Hey Ron =

 

Hope you and Bill are well.  It's been a hot time around here has your area has escaped this warm summer? 

 

Forgive me for not keeping in touch....seems Mike and I are always on the go and travel more now than ever (we are fortunate to be able to do so).

 

While reading the fine print in the Daily Local News this morning, I came across a notice of "Upset Sales" being held Sept. 13, 2010.  These properties are for sale through the Chester County Tax Claim Bureau to satisfy unpaid taxes - could be municipal, county, or school district taxes.  Anyhow, I noticed that 161 Crawford is listed (the owner's name is shown as David Goldschmidt) and the amount owed is $17,405.92. 

 

I called the Tax Claim Bureau to ask how this works and was told that the $17,000 listed is theoretically the starting price of the auction for the home but the bidding could go much higher.  Sad to see your beautiful place in such a state.

 

Mike and I occasionally go up the driveway to look around - hopefully, the inside of the home is not damaged.  Those of us who live in the woods know that mold and mildew are a constant problem and you must stay on top of it.  I didn't see any damage from recent storms other than a lot of branches down on the ground.  We actually lost several trees.

 

Remind me of your mailing address and I will cut out this page of the paper and mail it to you.

 

Regards,

Becky

This is an e-mail I received yesterday from my former neighbor and friend Becky C.  It is in reference to our former home in Pennsylvania.  Early this morning Bill and I made a return trip to our former home.

Bill and I built our former home in 1980 from 6.875 acres of wooded land we purchased in East Brandywine township in 1976.  We sold our home in November of 2006.  We had over twenty five wonderful years in our wooded paradise.  Bill put unmeasurable sweat equity into our former home.  We raised three beautiful Pomeranian dogs at our home on 161 Crawford Road, Downingtown, Pennsylvania.

Last year another former neighbor of our told us that our former home was up for sale.  We were very surprised because the young couple from Florida who had purchased our home seemed so happy on the day of settlement.  I remember the young man and his beautiful blonde wife (I kidded him about how did he ever manage to get such a beautiful wife) telling me that his two young dark haired daughters would now have plenty of space to play.

Now to hear this news, that our former beautiful home is now going to be auctioned off for payment of back taxes.  What makes it especially sad is that Bill never wanted to move to Delaware.  I was forced to sell our home and move to Delaware because I could no longer afford to pay the ever escalating high school property taxes of Pennsylvania.  How ironic that our former home is now going to be auctioned off because of failure to pay those very taxes.

The trip today was very sad.  Our formerly beautifully manicured property is now overgrown with weeds.  The roof gutters are crammed with debris.  The three fish ponds that I had so lovingly cared for are now dark with dead leaves and the only occupants are frogs.  Long gone are the many goldfish who who were born, lived and died in those ponds for years.  

Bill at the entrance that he built to our former Pennsylvania home this morning

The leaf strewn entrance to our former garage - many a trip was made up this incline

Bill built this terrace, one brick at a time. It took him over 20 years to complete

The front of the house - the ivy and green mold is taking over

Me on the steps of the sunroom that Bill built, one brick at a time

The "grand staircase" of steps that Bill built - one brick at a time

One of the  three hundred dollar lamps that Bill put on top of his masterpiece

Gone are the days are the sounds of the happy "yap! yap!" of our Poms now replaced with the occasional breeze through the tall pine trees and the birds who now have taken back possession of their woodland home.  

The auction is scheduled to take place Monday, September 13th.  We will be there. If we had the money, we would buy it back.  But we don't.  One thing is for sure, whoever does buy our former home will be getting a bargain.  We spent many a happy day there.     Our dogs are still buried there, near one of the ponds.  Their ghosts still romp in the grass.

Me playing with Horace 1982 a year after moving into our new home

Horace looking at his new home 1982

Me posing for a 1985 Christmas card picture with "the kids" at the entrance

Me with Horace and his daughter "Babydoll" in happier times 

Note:  I'm keeping the "happy" music on this posting because this is the way I want to remember our former home.  Our dogs lived a long, good life on that property as did Bill and I.  We will miss it terribly.  

Homeless in Georgia

One of the goals of our recent trip down south was to visit my partner Bill's hometown of Toccoa, Georgia.

Bill was born in Toccoa 81 years ago.  At that time Toccoa was a thriving southern town.  The big company in town was the thread mill.

Bill's father died in an automobile accident when Bill was a little over one year old.  Bill's mother remarried Norman Tate Brown, a man who worked for the local railroad.

When Bill became a young man he left Toccoa, Georgia and entered the Army.  Later on he joined the Air Force.  After serving seven years in the Air Force, Bill had to leave the service of his country to take care of his mother.  Bill's mother died suddenly in February of 1964 of a brain aneurism.  She was only 52 years old.  I meet Bill in July of 1964.  I never met his mother.

Bill has only been back to his home of Toccoa twice since we've been together.  We visited once in 1965.  I vaguely remember that trip.  At that time of my life I was all caught up in visiting as many gay bars around the country as I could squeeze in during our all too infrequent vacations.

Bill visited his hometown of Toccoa again by himself about thirty years ago.

During the planning of my recent trip to Greenville, South Carolina I suggested to Bill that we could take a side trip to visit Toccoa.  We could make it a day trip since Toccoa is only 70 miles west of Greenville.

On June 8th, this past Tuesday, we rolled into Toccoa in our rented van (compliments of my brother John.)  We were immediately struck by the contrast between the two cities of Greenville, SC and Toccoa, GA.  Whereas Greenville is a thriving, pulsating, and vibrant,  Toccoa is a sad, lonely, and dying.

As we drove down the almost deserted ghost town like streets of downtown Toccoa, Bill pointed out a house that belonged to a childhood friend of his.  We pulled over and parked on the overgrown grass in front of the now abandoned house.  We got out to take pictures.

Almost immediately I saw a young woman step off the front porch and approach us.  She said "Yes sir?"  I assumed she lived there and wanted to know what we were doing taking pictures of her house.  Bill started to talk to her.  After every one of Bill's sentences she would say "Yes sir?"  I thought this was very odd.  I soon found out why she was so polite in her questioning.  She thought we were there to throw her out.  You see, she was homeless.

She told Bill she was homeless and had been living in the house before she was thrown out by the owner of the house who said he didn't "want her there."  The owner boarded up the door so she couldn't enter the house.  She said she was living in the tent that on the overgrown lawn next to the house.  Her belongings were on the porch, to prevent the rain from getting them wet.  She was barefoot.

Bill explained to her that his childhood friend used to live in that house.  As I took pictures, Bill walked around the property pointing out areas that he and his friend used to play.  One area that was of particularly fondness for Bill was a big tree out in the back yard that he and his friend used to climb in their youthful play.

The young woman followed Bill around the property as Bill reminisced.  I stayed apart, taking my pictures as I am wont to do in any situation.  The sadness of her situation began to overwhelm us and we both wanted to leave.  But before we left Bill told the young woman that he felt sorry for her.  He took out his wallet and gave her his last $20.  The young woman was overwhelmed and said "Oh God bless you sir!  Thank you!  Thank you!" and she gave Bill a big hug.  I managed to get a picture just as she was pulling away from Bill.

Bill told her again, "I feel sorry for you and I hope this can help you  I wish I could give you more."  The young woman said "Don't feel sorry for me sir.  Pray for me."  

We left her and her tent and the abandoned property of Bill's childhood friend.  I asked Bill to take me to the nearest gas station.  While I was taking pictures I had stepped on a plastic bag and immediately smelled a unique odor.  I had stepped in a bag of feces.  The unique odor told me that this was not dog poop but human feces.  It didn't take me long to figure out that this is how the young woman handled her bathroom needs.  I had to get to the gas station rest room so I could scrub off the smell from the heel of my previously pristine white sneaker.  I didn't want that smell and memory of her sad state to accompany me the rest of our trip.

I managed to scrub the evidence of our encounter with this poor young woman from my sneaker but I have not been able to erase the memory of her plight from my memory.

We do not know why she was homeless.  Perhaps she has a drug problem.  Maybe she was thrown out of her house by her husband or boyfriend.  All we know is that she is living in a tent on the abandoned property of Bill's former childhood friend.  The rest of our trip through Toccoa, Georgia  would be haunted by the memory of this poor woman.

We continue to think of her to this day.  Maybe someday we will forget her.  If anything good came of this encounter it is the reminder of how fortunate we are to have a safe and comfortable home.  Bill has come a long way from Toccoa, Georgia.  It was good we visited.  Bill had this idealized, bucolic memory of his hometown.  This past Tuesday he met reality.  It wasn't pretty.