Just Another Squatter

His name is Conrad & he’s my friend. He lives five miles north of town on the narrow, paved road leading to Nebraska & another two miles east over gravel & dirt. He has taken up residence in an old, abandoned farmhouse at the end of the road. He scavenges for things he needs, things we take for granted. We flip a switch; he sets up solar panels he’s acquired over the years to charge batteries for two hours’ worth of internet access on a computer so old it’s a wonder it still works. We turn on a faucet; he fills buckets with rainwater or from the irrigation systems so ubiquitous in our area. We head to bed; he heads to a pile of worn-out blankets on the splintering, bare wood floor of a room where, when it rains, it doesn’t leak too much &, when it blows, it only whistles through the cracks in the wall a little & rattles the dust-covered windowpanes.

I first recall meeting him at the food bank for which I had recently become the director. He would only accept the two bags filled with dry & canned goods, never any of the frozen meat we usually offered. There always seemed to be several others in our small building looking for assistance & so it took several visits from him over a period of months before I asked him why. He told me that he walked the seven miles into town whenever he came. He never asked for rides, though he also never turned them down when offered, so he could only take what he could carry. He didn’t have any electricity for a fridge or a freezer, so leaving behind the frozen food was an easy choice. I told him that if he could wait until five p.m. I’d be happy to give him a ride. And so, he did.

I had always been told that there were large numbers of homeless in the rural areas of the Plains states. We didn’t always notice because they often moved in with friends or family. In our small communities, we didn’t have shelters the way they did in the larger towns & cities. On occasion we might see them walking along the road carrying their duffel bag or backpack. When they asked, we would give them a ride as far down the road as we could or, if the weather looked sketchy (& especially if there were kids involved), our local ministerial would put them up for the night. But they were always heading someplace else where there were services or family or a job waiting for them.

Conrad was the kind of homeless I knew about in theory but didn’t know how to find. In truth, I doubt I ever would have found him if he hadn’t found me first. I’m sure that I had probably seen him many times before walking through town. I just hadn’t noticed him. He was neither one of my parishioners nor clients nor any one of the people I saw at ballgames or other community functions. I didn’t know him, so he was easy to dismiss as none of my business & as someone into whose business I had no need to pry.

After I had closed at five, we hopped in my car with his bags of food (still nothing frozen), & he helped me navigate to where he was staying. He took me the back way. It was the same distance, just more gravel & less pavement. He told me it was better to go this way because it avoided the one mile of gravel/dirt road that could be pretty messy when it rained. When we arrived at the abandoned farm, we both got out & he showed me around. He pointed out where the neighbors lived & how he was on good terms with them. They would check in on him from time to time, make sure he was alright, wave at him when they saw him, & offer him rides into town when they saw him walking. They even told him it was okay to fill his containers from the spigots at their homes when he needed water.

We then sat down on the back steps to the house & talked for a while. This became a regular monthly routine for us & so I can’t rightly say what portions of his story he relayed to me when. So, what follows is an assemblage of my recollections over an extended period of time.

As we sat on the steps I could look to my right (west) & see the barn which was nestled in the middle of the u-shaped drive (which was covered in debris & you didn’t want to use for fear of losing a tire; it was always best not to pull in too far & simply back out from the east side of the drive). The barn was in worse shape than the house, which I knew could fall in any minute. I could see through the gaps between the slats on the near side to the sunlight shining through the gaps on the other side. The wood was completely weathered & gray. Any paint with which it had been once been graced was long gone. I could tell that there was a small room inside just north of the door as well as piles of abandoned equipment, wood, & assorted junk I could not identify. In other words, the inside of the barn closely resembled the yard & buildings outside of the barn. That room inside the barn was where Conrad prepared his meals.

Over time, I learned that Conrad had been a mechanic & had owned his own beautiful home & business (garage) off the highway just outside of a large town in Nebraska. During the Great Recession, he told me that the bank had foreclosed on both, even though federal law forbade it at the time. He had spent some time down in this area before with friends, knew about this place & decided to move here.

He explained how he managed to sell things now & then, raising enough to purchase a few portable solar panels & rechargeable batteries, & how, until just recently, the power company had left a single light above the yard connected to the grid. Now, however, the nights were simply dark & star-studded.

I also learned that he had a girlfriend. She lived in Canada. They had met online. She said she wanted to move down to the States & live with him, but she never made it. He had tried a couple of times to make the trip north—his neighbors had even paid for his train ticket (“Really?” I found myself thinking, somewhat less than charitably)—but he’d never been allowed to cross the border. He was still trying. I asked how he knew she was real & not just catfishing or part of a date scam. Oh, she was real. He knew she was. He had a picture.

Otherwise, his days were spent walking & exploring. He always kept his eyes open for any small treasure left behind on the side of the road or tossed in the ditches which he thought he might be able to use some day. He kept those stored in the barn where he also spent time sorting through the piles to find anything that might inspire. Occasionally he would tell me about one of his unbelievable finds.

In the evenings he liked to go online to catch up on the news. His favorite source was Breitbart. I tried explaining to him that Breitbart was hardly a reliable news source, that they loved to float all kinds of conspiracy theories, & that they were a favorite of racists & white nationalists hoping to start a race war. He kept insisting they were the only ones who told the truth. He had black friends. He knew that my son was a combination of black, native-American & gay. He had no problem with any of that. He still liked Breitbart.

At one point we talked about hot meals. He had no way to cook them other than over a campfire. I owned a small, portable charcoal grill that had never been used. I decided to give it to him. I assumed he would use it outside. I was troubled to find that he continued to prepare his meals, whether hot or cold, in that small room in the barn. I probably should have said something, voiced my concern, but he’d had no problems with it as of yet.

Several weeks later my wife & I heard the fire sirens after dark. We wondered where they were headed & prayed, both for the firefighters & for whomever it was about. The next morning, we heard. Conrad’s barn had burned to the ground.

I drove out to see Conrad that same morning. The ground was still smoldering where the barn had been. It had taken the firefighters all night to get the blaze under control. Now, even though there were still a few hot spots, at least it didn’t appear likely to spread anywhere else. There were no breezes even expected for the rest of the day. Here & there I could see a mound of metal where something I could no longer identify used to be. One or two charred timbers jutted up at separate angles over the piles of ash. The fire had been so hot portions of an old vehicle parked over twenty yards away had melted & fused together. Everything was gone.

We stood there for a long time, silently watching the small wisps of smoke still rising from the ruins. Then Conrad told me about the night before, how he had run the better part of a mile to the closest neighbor so they could call the fire department, how by the time they had arrived there had been nothing they could do but contain it. For a long time, they had been afraid it would spread to the other buildings, perhaps even jump the road & begin spreading through the fields. But it hadn’t &, after a long night’s work, those that could went home to bed while others headed off to work. The fire marshal & county sheriff had both promised to return later in the day to make sure everything was okay. Conrad was upset with something one of the other pastors had either said or done, but I don’t remember what it was.

Conrad grieved the loss of his treasures as well as that of the barn itself. But otherwise for him it was just another day. He didn’t know how the fire had started. I never asked about the grill. I also didn’t see it anywhere in the yard.

Some time later my wife got a new appointment to another set of churches & so we moved away. Conrad & I lost touch with each other. He doesn’t have a phone, nor does he have a mailing address. But I still think of him & wonder how he’s doing. Is he still out there, seven miles from town? Has he adopted one of the other buildings as his new barn & kitchen? Are the neighbors still watching out for him, making sure he’s okay? Has he gone to Canada & managed to find the girlfriend he’d met online?

I doubt that the barn is still smoldering, but did he ever get it cleared away? Did he ever find any of his lost treasures & were they still unharmed? Did he perchance find something he’d never noticed before & was he inspired?

I don’t know. But I do know that, to me, he’ll never be just another squatter.