Mr. Harper

I don’t really remember why, but when I was in middle school my Mom connected me with a guidance counselor at St. John’s whose wife had just died. She had cancer I think, and it was a painful and drawn out process.

Mr. Harper had bought a house in 3rd Ward. He was fully renovating it. I remember it had a beat up church down the street, many classic but rundown houses on the street, and a lot of homeless and vagrants. He had specifically moved into an area where he could build back this classic house. The sort that “had good bones.” It was 3 stories. It had front and back porches. It was mostly just studs for walls in some rooms and rotten floor boards. A lot of wood to throw away and to paint. I remember Mr. Harper had told me that it had many people squatting in it when he bought it, so he had to get them to leave.

I helped him with general labor. I would hammer and paint. Break boards and throw them away in a dumpster. And we would talk. I guess it was for my benefit, but I think it was also for him too. He paid me to work for him, but I think it was so we could help each other maybe. He was lonely. His wife’s cancer had been long and had resulted in his leaving his job and spending a lot of his savings on her medical care. I don’t remember what we talked about on my end, but I remember his desire to talk with me. We probably talked about my Dad and my friends. My Mom had tried to find men who could impart their knowledge on me, as my dad had been gone 5 or so years by the time I was in middle school. I’d figured out some parts of my grief journey at that age, but not all of them.

I appreciated Mr. Harper. He was brave and kind. Living in an area of town most people we knew would feel uncomfortable to go. He loved his wife so deeply, as if she were still there, or always there. He was proud to be fixing up this old house. I think it has colored my desire to live off the main path in my own life. Like how I lived in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, but not Manhattan. Or in Alondra Park in L.A., not Manhattan Beach. I just rather save money and live in my own society. Not in the most expensive main one.

I remember a story about a Rice Architecture professor who was an early proponent of gentrification into neighborhoods. The logic he had was that you would bring the good you know into that area and improve it. Mr. Harper was that in his own time. While he was a widower. He was also a listener and a counselor.

I never kept up with him after those few weeks of helping him with his house, but I hope he got it done and I hope he lived a full life there. He certainly lived a life of love before that. I hope he found happiness in that house.