It’s Our Block

Small Town Ohio

Our street is just off of State Route 16, the “main drag” through our small town of Pataskala, Ohio.  If you’re east bound, turn right on Linden Avenue, then left at the stop sign, and you’re there.  If you look down the street, you see several US Flags, some on poles, and some displayed from houses.  But that’s not all.  As you turn the corner, you’ll see a “Trump 2020” sign, and the blue Trump flag waving in front of a well manicured home.  Farther down the block, you’ll see a similar blue flag, this one displaying the words “Literally Anyone Else.”  Welcome to Linda Avenue.

This isn’t a story about Blue versus Red, or Trump supporters versus “Resistors.”  This is a story of how a neighborhood in suburban Ohio manages to get along and work together, even if we don’t agree on the national political picture.  We know:  we all know who supports Trump (most) and who does not (us, and maybe???)  But as far as Linda Avenue is concerned, that really doesn’t matter.

Helping Pat

Our little street came together a year ago to support one of our own.  Pat was an eighty-seven year old widow who lived in her house on Linda Avenue for almost sixty years.  She lost her husband and only child in a horrific freeway accident in the 1970’s. Her house remained frozen in that time.  

Pat was often the “mean old lady,” roughly turning down offers for help with shoveling snow or raking leaves.  She took care of her own property with pride, and I had conversations with her as she spryly trimmed branches up in the tree.  “Pat, let me do that,” I’d say.  “Mr. Dahlman, I can still climb trees and take care of myself, go along now,” she’d respond.  

She lived alone, ultimately finding friendship with the widower across the street.  They teamed up together, getting the grass cut, the leaves raked, the bills paid, and sharing the his “Meals on Wheels.”  Pat would never allow them to deliver to her, but she wouldn’t let his food go to waste.  They were “just friends” she’d say, for decades.  But then, he died as well.

Pat didn’t want help, and if you offered, you might get yelled at.  “Stop being nosy” she would say.  But when her friend died, she didn’t come out at all.  After a month or more, the neighbors started checking on her, knocking on the door, and dropping groceries off.  They made sure the grass was cut, and the leaves cleaned up.

Losing Track of Time

Sometimes Pat would just yell “go away.”  Sometimes she’d open the door and talk.  And, very occasionally, she let them in.  But even if she wouldn’t come to the door, if you left food on the doorstep, it would disappear into the house.

But then there was the mail.  Pat didn’t have a mailbox in front of her house, she was afraid someone would steal out of it.  So she had a box at the post office.  But, if she didn’t ever leave her house, she couldn’t get the mail.  And no one else could have the key, even to run in and get it for her.  And finally, the rent came due, and the office closed it.

Pat lost track of time.  It wasn’t hard to do:  she didn’t leave her house or yard from October to July.  The TV stopped working, and so did the clocks. No one was allowed to do repairs, not even to fix the broken toilet.  She had to take to top off to flush it.  She knew her bills were up to date, because she didn’t get any more. January and February passed.

Jenn and I got more involved when the neighbor down the street mentioned that she was paying Pat’s water bills.  There hadn’t been a cutoff notice; it couldn’t arrive.  But when it was “time” to cut off the water, the folks in Pataskala City Hall didn’t want to do it.  They let the neighbor cover the bills, three months worth.  

So the neighborhood was buying a little bit of groceries, and pitching in to get the water paid.  We knocked on the door with a Kentucky Fried Chicken “three piece” meal and iced tea; even if Pat called out “what do you want, I’m in bed,” it would go inside if you just left it on the stoop.  

Looking for Help

We called members of her family over and over, but they showed little interest in Pat.  We tried the County Aging Services:  they stopped by, but said there was nothing they would do.  It was frustrating frustrated. It felt like the whole world turned it’s back on this little old lady in Pataskala.

We’d rotate calling, usually one of us every day.  Pretty much no matter what time you called, Pat said she was in bed and didn’t want to talk.  Then the phone was shut off.

Here in Ohio the utility cutoff date is April 15^th, just like taxes.  That’s the day the gas and electric gets cut off if you haven’t paid the bills.  But phone companies don’t wait so long.  No one freezes to death from not having a phone.  

Utility companies are kind of funny.  They won’t give you information about the “account” without the having all the identifying numbers, but they’ll let you pay the bill.  The phone company was the first:  after explaining everything that was going on, that the phone was the only lifeline, they sadly said there was nothing they could do.  

Fifteen minutes later, the agent called back, in tears, and said he couldn’t let it go. He blessed us, took our information for payment, and turned the line back on.  Jenn and I were overwhelmed by his response.  I don’t think Pat ever realized it was off.  

Jenn went over to Pat’s house, and explained that she was going to lose all of her utilities.  “Just snoopin” said Pat, but Jenn managed to persuade her.  She got the old utility bills so she could copy the identification numbers.

Pay the Bills

Gas, electric, water and sewer, phone:  it all had to be paid.  And we had to get her mail going again.  The Pataskala Post Office knew Pat well, and they were worried about her.  When we explained what was going on, they were anxious to work with us.  We got the PO Box back open, and delivered Pat’s mail to her again.

So, for a couple of months, we’d go over to Pat’s house, knock on the door, and try to get her to pay bills.  The hardest part, once we got in the door, was the argument:  “What month is it?  What year?  When did I last pay the bills?  You paid what?”  It was every time and overwhelming; she’d shake from shock and fear.  It was the realization that she had lost a year; her checkbook said it was 2018. It would take fifteen minutes to write three checks.

No Good Ending

 And she had skin cancers:  on her face and on her back.  They were growing, but she wouldn’t let anyone take her to a doctor.  She was embarrassed about how they looked.  And she was eating less and less.  

We had a lot of discussions, about whether we should leave Pat to die in her house alone.  It’s seemed like that’s what she wanted.  But it would have been a horrible, helpless death:  cancer, and starvation, and cold.  Right or wrong, we couldn’t do that.

By mid-July Pat wouldn’t pay bills.  She wouldn’t let anyone in the house, peeking out the front window to tell us to go away.  She even stopped taking the groceries from the stoop.

We had a neighborhood meeting, trying to figure out what to do next.  Jenn did a “deep dive” into the Internet, trying to find someone in Pat’s family who would help.  She reached a niece we hadn’t known before, and arranged a meeting on the last day of July. 

We all met in the kitchen of our neighbor down the street.  The conversation started out cold:  the niece seemed like she was thinking, why was it our block’s business what happens to Pat.  But after some discussion, and Jenn’s incredible documentation of texts and payments going back to before Christmas, the niece melted, and took charge.  She called Licking County, and heard, “…well, if she wants to starve to death in the house, there’s nothing we can do.”  Then she stood up, marched down to Pat’s house, and called the ambulance.

Her Legacy

The memory I want to have is of Pat proudly walking out of the house, flannel shirt covering her wounds, and marching to the ambulance, on her own.  To the end she did things her way.  

She never came back home.   We visited her in the hospital and nursing home, but the cancers spread and she was too weak for treatments.  She passed away two weeks ago, her niece at her side.  As lonely as her life must have been, in the end she had relatives and friends who cared.

The house is for sale now.  But Pat left a legacy, beyond her determination to live her life her own way.  She got our “block” to work together.  We don’t talk much about politics; the conversation is more about kids, grass, leaves and new fences.  But we know we can work together, regardless of what the banners say.  It’s our block.