Under The Rock

Rusty Carlson, nicknamed for his earthy red hair, died in the heat of last summer. Died alone in the workshop where he toiled. My grandmother would say he tinkered, meaning he accomplished little. She thought he was just trying to avoid people when he hung out at the lease.

He dreaded encounters with people. You could tell by his curt greetings and the way he sat with his back to you watching ball games as you chatted with his wife. He snarled if you owned a “foreign” car. Rusty distrusted everyone and just about everything.

He lived, married to my great-aunt Jean for more than 70 years. She “invented” Christmas and managed to make each of their hundreds of relatives feel as special as Rusty made us feel marginalized and bothersome.

I know so little about this man who has saved me from financial ruin. It all started with his shack and a black moleskine notebook.

His little shack was on an oil lease Rusty had owned for more than seventy years. He owned Well ID: 37-085-37168 in Foster Township, McKean County, Pennsylvania. This well is now plugged and abandoned, which seems fitting for something Rusty left behind following his death.

Rusty was born during the Pandemic of 1918 and died in 2018 just missing the Covid-19 Pandemic. He did not want a memorial service and he did not get one. Few knew him. I surely did not.

I was writing father’s memoir when I heard Rusty had died. Dad grew up in the valley and hills nearby and spent countless hours underfoot as a child in the home his Aunt and Rusty shared. He could tell you how Rusty smelled, what he wore, and his routine, but Dad knew nothing else about the man.

My plan was to go to Pennsylvania to shoot photographs for the book. It took me six hours to get there by car. I checked in to the only hotel. The room smelled of bleach and the windows were streaked. The town itself looked weary and frayed.

The photos I took were of ball fields and bars, brickyards, and fish streams and of the former horse club where dad and his buddies broke in and swam late at night. I was looking for Dad’s old haunts. His father had been an oil rigger. I decided to hunt for Rusty’s lease.

There were funny names for the roads I followed to get there. Droney. Gulch. Eureka. I found his workshop on the lease property after 30 minutes of driving. It was surprisingly quiet.

The area looked abandoned. The workshop was rustic and solitary. The only structure visible for miles. My car door squeaked as I opened it. The sound startled me. The ground beneath my feet felt hallowed for reasons I cannot explain.

There was a rickety metal chair near a downed tree. I sat for a moment and took a few photos. Glancing through the images I was struck by the colors and the beauty. The trees were still holding onto their leaves. The leaves were fall-struck and colorful. The surrounding sky so blue it almost hurt. The grass still green.

I walked to the workshop and peeked inside. I could see a few tools hung on pegboard and some metal signs advertising military recruitment. There was a wall calendar held by a tack, opened to August 2018. The month Rusty died. Everything around me was still. I walked around the outside of the shop and tried to imagine what he did during the thousands of days he toiled (or tinkered) there.

My hand brushed the wooden siding. A splinter stung my finger. I went back to the chair and tried to remove it. It was really in there. Finally, it released from my skin. I walked back to the shop and imagined crawling onto the roof if a black bear, known to the area, made an appearance.

There were rocks and pebbles surrounding the base of the shop. I kicked a few. There was almost perfectly round rock, a favorite of mine, a concretion. I wondered what confluence of nearby streams had formed it and how it ended up near Rusty’s shop. I tried to pick it up. It was a dense, solid sphere. I really wanted to take the rock home to Ohio.

A desperate person finds a needed tool. I broke up the old metal chair and used the leg as a lever to extricate the rock and then I rolled it back to the car with my feet and arms. I rolled the rock onto the floor mat I had taken out and placed on the ground. Then I hoisted it into the open trunk. Now, I was covered in dirt and sweat. My back ached.

After flopping on the ground for a few minutes to stretch my back, I returned to the workshop. My foot moved the remaining stones to fill the gap I created when I took the concretion. A small corner of waxy fabric broke forth. I wriggled it out to find it was a thick plastic bank envelope. I looked around expecting to see someone. When there was no one to see I unzipped it.

Inside was a small black moleskine notebook and a huge stack of $100 bills. I collapsed to my knees.

It did not feel safe to be standing at an abandoned oil lease, outside of an abandoned workshop, holding a clearly abandoned bank envelope full of money.

I ran to the car and locked myself within. My heart pounded as I started the engine. The words I was saying aloud just tumbled out of my mouth as I raced to the hotel. “What? Why? When” How? What? Why? When? How?

My mouth was parched, and I looked like a crazed animal as I sprinted into Room 16 and bolted the door.

I jumped onto the bed and placed the stack of hundred-dollar bills and the notebook in front of me.

I was drawn to the black notebook. I picked it up and ran my fingers along its smooth edges. Then I turned it over within my hands. Finally, I opened it. It was full of shaky writing. Some notations were written in pencil, some with black ink. There were dates and dollar amounts as entries. The first date was August 6, 1939. The last was July 4, 2018. Carl E. “Rusty” Carlson had written his name on inside back cover. The only other words besides dates and dollar amounts were these: “For a rainy day, my own, or the one who finds this.” It was his stash. The man who did not trust anyone or anything, including a bank, had found a way to renew my life.

His moleskine notebook and $20,000 in cash were mine. With no further inkling about who he really was.