Storytelling: Reclusive Emil gave quiet kind of warmth to kids, neighbors
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Seventy years ago, our family lived in a secluded, hilly section of Lawrenceville above Butler Street and the Allegheny River.
It had about 25 homes on three short streets, adjacent to hills, woods and meadows. Before the 1920s, when city steps were put in, there were only trails and a narrow dirt road, later cobblestoned, into this area. We called our little enclave "The Hill."
A reclusive man named Emil who hardly ever spoke lived in the house at the end of our street. He was tall, thin and gaunt, with deep-set eyes, and he walked with a resolute determination. He had a pained look that quickly changed to a smile when kids looked at him or said hello.
Emil usually was seen carrying a large log or branch from the hills and woods, sometimes from as far away as the then-undeveloped parts of Morningside and Highland Park, two miles east. No matter the weather, he did this every day, some days making several trips.
At his house, Emil would cut the logs into small pieces for firewood, using an ax or handsaw. Few people had power tools then. By midsummer, the firewood was piled high in his yard, waiting to be given to families like mine on "The Hill" who couldn't afford central heating or even coal for their stoves.
Emil's relentless routine went on for nearly 10 years. Some of us wondered why this quiet, gentle man did this for so long, but no one ever asked him.
We never saw him during the Christmas holidays, except one year when the kids on The Hill all got a present. Emil carved miniature figures and animals in his basement workshop -- one for each of us. I got a little shepherd, which had a place under our Christmas tree for years.
In between his log labors, Emil often appeared on the steps up to our homes looking for someone to help. He carried their groceries and packages, especially older ladies coming from shops down on Butler Street, and he was all smiles as he did so.
He showed anger once -- at his mother no less. A section of the city steps ran alongside their house. When my buddies were playing cops and robbers, a playmate and I were caught and tied to the railing of the steps next to their house. The commotion brought Emil's mother outside to witness our wailing.
She turned on her garden hose and sprayed the two of us for being the robbers and disturbing her peace and quiet. We were soaking wet, but the "cops" were thrilled. Emil berated his mother, turned off the hose and freed us. Before leaving, I looked back and saw Emil smiling.
One evening, when Emil hadn't returned home , his mother went house to house inquiring if anyone had seen him. The next morning, my brother Larry and I joined in the search. We finally found him drinking at the old Indian spring, three hills east. Emil was bruised and limping, but laughingly explained that he had tripped and fallen about 20 feet, lying unconscious all night.
He fell again that winter. This time he was discovered by two high school kids on their way home -- and just in time. The season's first big snowstorm, a 10-incher, had started.
The following summer, after none of us had seen him for several days, word got around that Emil had died. There was a private family funeral at the church on 57th Street, then St. Mary Assumption.
Emil passed from life as quietly as he passed us day after day. A neighbor told us Emil had been sick all those years with cancer. The cancer spread and there was no treatment available. So now we knew why Emil hauled and sawed logs day after day. It was his way of enduring the relentless pain inside his body.
After he died, Emil's mother told everyone to take as much wood as they needed. We also learned that the family never used any of the wood themselves since they had had gas central heating for years.
Every week, as we took another load of firewood for our stoves we couldn't help thinking about this beautiful, quiet man who shared the bounty borne of his personal pain.
Thinking back about it, his smile may have gotten bigger as the log pile got smaller. In fact, I'm sure it did.
First Published January 25, 2012 12:00 am
