The first time I met Eleanor, my family had recently moved to Keene, New Hampshire. My son Jace and I were making the 6-mile drive from our home to downtown Keene. We were southbound on Route 10 when I saw the hitchhiker at the side of the road. My impulse to help a soul in need quickly shadowed my hesitancy of picking up a stranger with my nine year old son in the car.
Eleanor was just a whisper of a woman with the build of a broomstick. It was hard to gauge her age, but I guessed she was in her sixties. Her attire was old, even shabby. The scarf about her neck and the hat on her head may have been more fitting of a Dr Seuss book than the country side of New Hampshire. Eleanor was very gracious and offered much thanks for the lift. When she spoke, she instinctively and without fail, placed her hand over her mouth. She was self conscious. I guessed she had no teeth. This was the first of many rides my family would give Eleanor over the next three years.
A few weeks later when I gave this same hitchhiker a ride home, I learned what my wife Donna already knew. Eleanor was a neighbor. She lived about a quarter mile down the street from us. I dropped her off at the intersection of Red Oak Dr. and Sullivan Center Road. As always, she thanked me heartily for the ride. I watched as she got out of the car and crossed Sullivan Center road. In a blink she disappeared into the thick foliage. It was the first time I realized there was a house back there, hardly visible from the road. Little detail was evident through the thick trees, but the faint outline was cottage-like, something out of a Hansel and Gretel story book.
There was no driveway to this house in the woods. It was months later that I realized the onetime driveway had in fact been reclaimed by the forest. The give away was a 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan. It sat imprisoned in the forest by mature trees which had sprouted decades earlier. The car apparently belonged to her deceased mother, for Eleanor did not drive. She often hitchhiked from her home into town and back. On the return trips her arms were full with shopping bags. Over the years, my wife and I gave Eleanor numerous rides to and from town. We got acquainted. Our kids got to know her. We had her in our home. My boys and I sometimes helped her stack firewood. Our family befriended this eccentric old lady.
Contrary to her bag-lady homeless appearance, Eleanor was well spoken, seemingly well educated, and well versed in current affairs. She had never married. She had no children. She had two brothers who lived out of state. She didn’t seem close to either. Her life seemed a very lonely one, though it seemed it was by choice. She was a bit of a recluse and seemed to venture out only when necessary. To my knowledge, she never had visitors.
Her appearance and comments indicated that Eleanor had very few funds. Perhaps her only income was a meager Social Security check. We helped her as much as she would allow, but she was fiercely independent. When dropping her off, any offers to help carry bags to her door was resolutely declined. She was not comfortable with anyone seeing her home. Any offers of food were declined. Her diet, presumably driven by health consciousness, was very different than most.
One of Eleanor’s eccentricities became evident on a Saturday afternoon as we helped her stack firewood. She didn’t want Jace and his friends in her yard. She was afraid that they might break branches. The thick trees in her yard were sacred to her. They were a barrier between her and the outside world. They deadened the sound of traffic and kept “fumes” out.
Eleanor was familiar with our faith. In earlier years she had talked with Mormon missionaries. She had once been acquainted with Wes Clark’s family. She had a Book of Mormon which she had read some.
After three years in Keene, we moved across the country. When we left, we wondered what would become of Eleanor. She was an old woman with needs, eeking out a meager existence. We were concerned for her well being. Along with our other dear friends and neighbors, we bid Eleanor adieu as we left for a new life in Oregon. We gave her name to the full time missionaries. They subsequently visited her and rendered service.
It was the better part of two years later that Donna and I had opportunity to return to Keene. During that visit, on March 15th, 2009, we took the opportunity to visit several old neighbors. Our last stop was one we did not plan but felt impressed by the Spirit to make. We parked across the road from Eleanor’s and walked into the woods, through packed snow, and past the old Rambler. As we approached her house, the clutter on the front steps made it clear that that entrance had not been used in years. The entrance on the left side of the house was similar. “Eleanor,” I called, hoping she could hear my voice. “Eleanor.”
The home was in disrepair. The dust on the first story windows was almost thick enough to hide the clutter piled high inside. We followed the trodden path through the snow to a back basement door. I knocked. There was no response. The air was cold. Our feet were frigid in the snow. We were about to leave when we heard a rustle inside. A moment later, Eleanor poked her head out. Her look was one of suspicion.
“Eleanor, it’s the Fullers. Remember us?”
Her bewilderment changed to wonderment and joy. For the next hour we stood in the winter air outside her home, shuffled our feet to stay warm, and mostly listened to Eleanor. If ever her loneliness had whispered on previous occasions, it spoke loud and clear this day. She was an old woman in need who had not friends or family to turn to.
Donna and I were saddened to find her remarks bordering on paranoia. She suspected a neighbor of having designs on her property. She suspected intruders to have been in her yard snooping. Though one account was hard to follow, she told of an unpleasant exchange with Department of Transportation crews when they trimmed trees on the frontage of her property. Keene police had been called. A day in court followed. She did not have the means for legal representation. The whole episode sounded a bit bizarre but obviously had basis in truth. As she spoke, she apologized several times for “dumping on us”. We didn’t mind. Unloading her pent up frustrations, loneliness, and fears seemed to be soothing balm to her troubled soul.
Eleanor was not eager for us to leave. She asked us to remember her in our prayers. We said we would. “Can we pray before we leave?” I asked. The three of us huddled with arms around each other and bowed our heads. I pleaded with heaven that our dear friend’s needs would be met.
Donna and I left for Oregon the next day. We were most grateful for the Lord’s tender mercies, that he had granted Donna and I the chance to see old friends. As we traveled, we thought of Eleanor, and prayed that the Lord would send someone to help with her needs.
Eleanor was just a whisper of a woman with the build of a broomstick. It was hard to gauge her age, but I guessed she was in her sixties. Her attire was old, even shabby. The scarf about her neck and the hat on her head may have been more fitting of a Dr Seuss book than the country side of New Hampshire. Eleanor was very gracious and offered much thanks for the lift. When she spoke, she instinctively and without fail, placed her hand over her mouth. She was self conscious. I guessed she had no teeth. This was the first of many rides my family would give Eleanor over the next three years.
A few weeks later when I gave this same hitchhiker a ride home, I learned what my wife Donna already knew. Eleanor was a neighbor. She lived about a quarter mile down the street from us. I dropped her off at the intersection of Red Oak Dr. and Sullivan Center Road. As always, she thanked me heartily for the ride. I watched as she got out of the car and crossed Sullivan Center road. In a blink she disappeared into the thick foliage. It was the first time I realized there was a house back there, hardly visible from the road. Little detail was evident through the thick trees, but the faint outline was cottage-like, something out of a Hansel and Gretel story book.
There was no driveway to this house in the woods. It was months later that I realized the onetime driveway had in fact been reclaimed by the forest. The give away was a 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan. It sat imprisoned in the forest by mature trees which had sprouted decades earlier. The car apparently belonged to her deceased mother, for Eleanor did not drive. She often hitchhiked from her home into town and back. On the return trips her arms were full with shopping bags. Over the years, my wife and I gave Eleanor numerous rides to and from town. We got acquainted. Our kids got to know her. We had her in our home. My boys and I sometimes helped her stack firewood. Our family befriended this eccentric old lady.
Contrary to her bag-lady homeless appearance, Eleanor was well spoken, seemingly well educated, and well versed in current affairs. She had never married. She had no children. She had two brothers who lived out of state. She didn’t seem close to either. Her life seemed a very lonely one, though it seemed it was by choice. She was a bit of a recluse and seemed to venture out only when necessary. To my knowledge, she never had visitors.
Her appearance and comments indicated that Eleanor had very few funds. Perhaps her only income was a meager Social Security check. We helped her as much as she would allow, but she was fiercely independent. When dropping her off, any offers to help carry bags to her door was resolutely declined. She was not comfortable with anyone seeing her home. Any offers of food were declined. Her diet, presumably driven by health consciousness, was very different than most.
One of Eleanor’s eccentricities became evident on a Saturday afternoon as we helped her stack firewood. She didn’t want Jace and his friends in her yard. She was afraid that they might break branches. The thick trees in her yard were sacred to her. They were a barrier between her and the outside world. They deadened the sound of traffic and kept “fumes” out.
Eleanor was familiar with our faith. In earlier years she had talked with Mormon missionaries. She had once been acquainted with Wes Clark’s family. She had a Book of Mormon which she had read some.
After three years in Keene, we moved across the country. When we left, we wondered what would become of Eleanor. She was an old woman with needs, eeking out a meager existence. We were concerned for her well being. Along with our other dear friends and neighbors, we bid Eleanor adieu as we left for a new life in Oregon. We gave her name to the full time missionaries. They subsequently visited her and rendered service.
It was the better part of two years later that Donna and I had opportunity to return to Keene. During that visit, on March 15th, 2009, we took the opportunity to visit several old neighbors. Our last stop was one we did not plan but felt impressed by the Spirit to make. We parked across the road from Eleanor’s and walked into the woods, through packed snow, and past the old Rambler. As we approached her house, the clutter on the front steps made it clear that that entrance had not been used in years. The entrance on the left side of the house was similar. “Eleanor,” I called, hoping she could hear my voice. “Eleanor.”
The home was in disrepair. The dust on the first story windows was almost thick enough to hide the clutter piled high inside. We followed the trodden path through the snow to a back basement door. I knocked. There was no response. The air was cold. Our feet were frigid in the snow. We were about to leave when we heard a rustle inside. A moment later, Eleanor poked her head out. Her look was one of suspicion.
“Eleanor, it’s the Fullers. Remember us?”
Her bewilderment changed to wonderment and joy. For the next hour we stood in the winter air outside her home, shuffled our feet to stay warm, and mostly listened to Eleanor. If ever her loneliness had whispered on previous occasions, it spoke loud and clear this day. She was an old woman in need who had not friends or family to turn to.
Donna and I were saddened to find her remarks bordering on paranoia. She suspected a neighbor of having designs on her property. She suspected intruders to have been in her yard snooping. Though one account was hard to follow, she told of an unpleasant exchange with Department of Transportation crews when they trimmed trees on the frontage of her property. Keene police had been called. A day in court followed. She did not have the means for legal representation. The whole episode sounded a bit bizarre but obviously had basis in truth. As she spoke, she apologized several times for “dumping on us”. We didn’t mind. Unloading her pent up frustrations, loneliness, and fears seemed to be soothing balm to her troubled soul.
Eleanor was not eager for us to leave. She asked us to remember her in our prayers. We said we would. “Can we pray before we leave?” I asked. The three of us huddled with arms around each other and bowed our heads. I pleaded with heaven that our dear friend’s needs would be met.
Donna and I left for Oregon the next day. We were most grateful for the Lord’s tender mercies, that he had granted Donna and I the chance to see old friends. As we traveled, we thought of Eleanor, and prayed that the Lord would send someone to help with her needs.
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