The following essay serves as the second chapter of One Grew Up in the Cuckoo’s Nest. Please note that the name given to the person in this essay is fictional and the character is a compilation of many people encountered during my youth living on the grounds of Danvers and Medfield State Hospitals.
A MOBILE HOME
Recollected and Written
by
Mark R. Ellsworth
Immanuel Kant was a German philosopher who lived from 1724 to 1804. One of the quotes attributed to him is “The Lunatic is a dreamer in the waking state“. This quote kindled a distant memory about a patient I met. He was part of the landscape that came to life at Medfield State Hospital. ( Before I go on, I have to take umbrage with Mr. Kant’s use of the designation Lunatic. Living, playing and working on and in a State Hospital for the first two decades of my life, I can honestly say I never heard or read of a patient labeled as a lunatic. I understand that label, along with adjectives like asylum, snake pit and others were commonly used during the centuries before; Mr. Kant I will grant you that.)
Keeping a journal or a diary had not become a habit of mine until I reached middle age. I don’t have a written record of Jack’s name. His countenance exists in my aging memories. As I begin to write this approximately 40 years after my early teen rambles, games, dramas, sports, and whatever else our imaginations could conjure up, I do remember a very tall man who was a patient. As with others he had ground privileges. Both male and female patients with those privileges comprised working groups who labored in fields picking vegetables. From the seats of our bikes we would see patients, wearing large straw hats, riding on a flat bed trailer being pulled by a red farmall tractor. They were usually on their way to a field of choice ready for harvest that day. Patients worked in the Laundry and other areas of the State Hospitals too. I do believe these patients were paid for their work but I was too young to get into the details of that. In any case some of them had free time away from their designated wards to enjoy the park benches that were placed around the grounds. Jack was one such patient who apparently lived a long time at Medfield State Hospital. Long enough to think it was his home. If you thought that however, you would be wrong. I learned over many encounters with Jack and others that their real homes were held close and were very mobile.
This man, Jack, walked with a purpose. My memories tell me he was always wearing a full length black trench coat no matter the weather. Even though his gait had purpose and his demeanor was intent, he acted startled as he would abruptly stop a few feet from us as if awaking from some dream. Each time we met him he appeared exactly the same, head down, trench coat flapping, abruptly stopping, lifting his head and finally muttering. His first word was sung low and soft. A Jack followed by a a rising Spree or maybe Wee was always his introduction. It was difficult to pinpoint that supposed last name with any accuracy as we needed to duck and weave to avoid the inevitable spray that followed his announced first name! Yes Jack always had the black coat that almost touched the ground. In all types of weather Jack’s coat was seen through his misty Spree.
Jack was constantly on the move. Before walking and jogging were fads, Jack appeared to be the master of the daily walk/jog. As a preteen I spent more time outdoors than indoors. Growing up we had one portable black and white television with attached rabbit ears. Antennas able to pull into our view only three channels on a good day. No lure of video games or other electronics to keep us indoors. Serious outdoor time playing kick the can, “pick up” football or sand lot baseball. Preteen prep for the Vietnam War playing in the fields with toy guns marketed in the Sears Catalogue with too much zeal. Winter did not bring me inside either. We kids of the Hospital neighborhoods designed works of art that, to our judgemental eyes, were believed to be snow forts and igloos. Of course we enjoyed ice-skating on last year’s cow corn fields of stubble, suddenly flooded by rain on snow melt and followed by the typical glaze of ice. New England’s philosophical lament; If you don’t like the weather just wait a minute, or something to that effect always on display. Our playgrounds were huge. Both hospitals were comprised of five hundred acres plus. The open lands had pastures and fields along with hills to sled on and rivers to fish in. The Charles River in Medfield and The Ipswich River in Danvers presented us with their banks and trees to fight our young turf battles. If the snow was not blowing sideways or the wind not blowing “Donna” like, we were out doors.
Many days Jack Spree was out doors too. I remember seeing him walk/jogging towards us with hands mostly in his pockets and his head down. At twelve years of age I was tall. I reached my adult height of 6’1″ in junior high but Jack was half again taller standing before me. Our meetings with him always started the same. We would say hi, he would softly answer Jack exhaling his Whee or Spree. His left hand would lift from a coat pocket holding a multiple rubber banded wad of paper, shown for a second before being brusquely buried into the same pocket. His other hand, on cue, rising to show us an orange tin can full of other treasures. Other pockets seemingly inside and out would be bothered producing carefully twined balls of string or roached second life cigarette butts wrapped in used wax paper. Hidden pockets handled balls of rubber bands, erasers, coins. The coins were sometimes shaken together. Jack smiled to the music of the jingle before the jingled coins lost the light of day, once again pocket buried.
Over time Jack produced many treasures from his coat long forgotten by me. (The orange tin can with the black top will always stay in my memory as it reminded me of the tobacco cans once empty collected by me, my brother and cousins from Pa’s shanty in Becket. My cousins and I used them to carry our worms in as they were fitted for the pocket. Hiking the brook while fishing on the move with one hand free for balance was important as we chased the next whopper.) Back to Jack!
Jack was proud of what he owned. He waited for us to nod appreciably at his treasures before he walk/jogged away continuing his daily rounds. To me Jack Spree was amazing. For the few years he was in my life he was one of the most stable persons I knew. He was so consistent. As a young teenager I was anything but consistent. I jumped through my sports, music, school fueled by my emotions of learning to be human as a young teenager. Moody? You bet I was! Jack though was always the same. His walk, his coat, his look, his mumble followed by the display of all he owned never varied. When done, after our appreciating nods, he quickly swiveled and off he would go. Jack carried his home, his world. His black trench coat was his closest friend.
As a youngster and a young teenager I egotistically believed I was master of my domain; the outdoors. As an adult I became master of my couch. Couch potato at my best! One night as I was watched a news report from location at a street corner in downtown Boston, I noticed a man standing behind the news reporter. He was just out of focus but still clear enough for me to see his long black trench coat and a flash of an orange tin can held in his hand. I swear I saw him nod before he turned and walk/jogged away!
This was many years after the Hospital became victim to different standards of mental healthcare. Simply put, de-institutionalization with a goal of community healthcare, being the new norm. I smiled. I was comforted to realize that you could shut down the State Hospitals that had become home to countless Jacks. But the homes that counted most of all were still on their backs. Black coats of armor with pockets full of treasure!
I end this essay with another quote attributed to Immanuel Kant.
Look closely. The beautiful may be small. We are not rich by what we possess but by what we can do with out.
Thank you Jack for showing me that sentiment long before I was introduced to Mr. Kant.
Next month’s chapter in this series is titled The Autopsy. Thank you for reading.
Be in peace and joy!
Mark