by Jane Chrysostom
I’ve been volunteering for the Harvey Hall in the past few years, and recently was asked to revive some programming I’d done long ago – historical demonstrations of pioneer living, that I called “Homesteading 101.” I traveled to classrooms, senior centers, museums, libraries, and other venues to share how the tough old pioneers survived making their own threads and yarns, hand-woven cloth, butter, cheese, candles, soap, and bread. Quite often I'd have to find my way to a public school in a gritty part of a downtown neighborhood, lugging a weaving loom and a canvas bag full of filthy raw sheep fleece. Frequently, I'd find myself lost in transit to distant urban locations, struggling for nearby parking, battling flights of stairs with loads of cumbersome equipment, or jammed up in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I soon learned to leave a big window of time in case of delays.
I’ve been volunteering for the Harvey Hall in the past few years, and recently was asked to revive some programming I’d done long ago – historical demonstrations of pioneer living, that I called “Homesteading 101.” I traveled to classrooms, senior centers, museums, libraries, and other venues to share how the tough old pioneers survived making their own threads and yarns, hand-woven cloth, butter, cheese, candles, soap, and bread. Quite often I'd have to find my way to a public school in a gritty part of a downtown neighborhood, lugging a weaving loom and a canvas bag full of filthy raw sheep fleece. Frequently, I'd find myself lost in transit to distant urban locations, struggling for nearby parking, battling flights of stairs with loads of cumbersome equipment, or jammed up in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I soon learned to leave a big window of time in case of delays.
One time I was on my way to a retirement community with all my equipment for a captivating historical bread making demonstration, including a grain mill, several pounds of whole wheat grain, and loaves of freshly baked whole wheat bread. I found myself in fast-flowing traffic heading north on a six lane highway. I was ahead of schedule, encountering no traffic problems, and on my way to a group that had invited me back repeatedly for my "edu-taining" programs and workshops, so all signs were positive. It was a good day.
Shortly before my exit, however, there was trouble on the side of the highway. A minivan was pulled over onto the shoulder, and near it I saw a young woman standing, a middle-aged man pacing, and a stout black woman my age gesturing on her cell phone. Relieved it wasn't my problem of the day, I moved into the middle lane to safely avoid them, when I saw the stout woman come around to the front of her van, holding her phone out in front of her with one hand and waving with the other. She caught my eye directly as I passed, and shouted with genuine desperation, "HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!" I could see that she meant it.
I moved back into the slow lane and then onto the shoulder, backing up close to the front of their minivan, and waited while the stout woman came up to meet me. I lowered my window with the automatic button as she approached. Holding her cell phone out again, she said, "Help me, thank you for stopping, I need you to call 911." I said, "What's going on?" and she held out her arm, and showed me three large, deep, well defined human bite marks that were fresh, raw, and real. The poor woman's skin had been so wounded that her dark black skin was now sickly pale in the center of each bite, with red blood dotting the teeth impressions.
"What happened?!" I exclaimed.
She explained that she was a driver for the mentally challenged, and one of her clients had as she put it "gone off" while she was driving.
That would have been Charles. He was the middle-aged man I'd seen pacing moments earlier, who now suddenly reappeared in the middle of the highway. Cars started to honk and swerve to avoid him, as he ran back and forth from lane to lane.
I dialed 911 on my cell phone, as hers was not working.
"Hello, 911, what is your emergency?"
I described the situation, and advised they'd better send the police, and FAST.
The woman started calling for Charles, as the cars honked and swerved to avoid him. "Charles, get back here! Get out of the road! Charles, come over here!" She had the authoritative tone of a serious woman with attitude, who knew how to take control, but she was worried and hurt, and her pitch and intensity grew with every shout.
Charles ignored her, and instead removed his shirt, belt and shoes as cars continued to speed past him, his cast-off articles of clothing littering several lanes of the road.
The younger woman, who until now had remained calm and quiet on the shoulder, now approached my car. I unlocked the door and the other woman helped her get into the passenger seat. I said to her, "Hi, I'm Jane. Sorry you're having a rough day." She replied, "Yeah, it is …” and showed me her arm, which had similar though less severe bite marks. She spoke slowly and without emotion; another client, I surmised. Then she said, "But it's my teeth that really hurt" and looked up at me, so I could see her swollen lips and red jaw. Charles had punched her in the mouth! And HARD.
As the traffic whizzed past, horns blaring, tires screeching, Charles reached down into his trousers and pulled and wrangled until he'd released his large white underwear, that he began to swing above his head while hollering unintelligibly. This latest activity, along with the constant pleading of the driver for him to come back to the safety of the shoulder, the constant noise of car horns, vehicles racing by at high speed, made a chaotic and surreal situation.
I called 911 again as Charles removed his pants, tore off his T-shirt, and proceeded to bite pieces out of them. I told the operator they'd better send an ambulance; this man couldn't avoid being hit by a car much longer.
His driver’s unrelenting pleas to Charles finally connected to him somehow, and he approached my car. He came to my window and stood breathing heavily, sweating, naked but for his socks. I asked, "What are you doing?" and he responded with a sharp, strong blow to my arm that was resting on the window ledge. Taken aback, I let out a Tony Soprano-style bellow of "WHOA!" Oh, man-oh-man, it really hurt.
At this point, these events had unfolded so quickly that I hadn't even put the car in park yet. So now I slammed the gear shift into park, and leaned away from Charles, toward the young girl in my passenger seat. Charles reached in through my window, grabbed my shirt collar, and started to drag me toward him. The look in his eyes suggested he anticipated that I had a very tasty liver, and he would enjoy every bite.
I mashed him off, back into traffic, and pushed the button to roll up the window.
Undeterred, Charles returned to his private world as he removed his socks and used them as a flag-like accessory to whatever delight he was experiencing in his mind. He was now stark naked.
By now, a police car had arrived, and the officer stood with the van by the side of the road as he calmly and sedately put on rubber gloves. Charles approached the officer, and I steeled myself for a dramatic physical scene. The officer motioned to Charles, and said, "Hey buddy, why don't you come over here with me?" and they calmly walked together over to the police car. Charles sat down on the pavement, the officer put plastic zip-ties around his wrists, and that was that.
The ambulance arrived momentarily, and the two women went off to be attended to. I put the car back in drive and left – my work here was done. Only about 15 minutes had passed; I was still going to be on time for my program!
I arrived at the senior center just minutes later, but I was trembling, my head reeling, my arm hurting. I hauled my equipment, set up my grain mill, dramatically poured a tall pile of whole grain, fluffed a large bouquet of wheat sheaves, and was greeted by
the familiar and friendly audience anticipating an entertaining tutorial on the history of grains, breads, and a delightful tasting session of home-baked bread over the next 45 minutes. They welcomed me back by name.
"Hi, Jane!"
"Hello!” I said, “Phew, a funny thing happened to me on the way to this program today!" and I described my encounter from just moments earlier, taking several sips of strong hot coffee in between breaths. The audience was captivated. I wrapped up my story with an “All's well that ends well!” and took a deep breath to begin my program and launched into telling about the varieties of grain around the world.
About ten minutes into my program – after dispensing invaluable historical information, passing around species of grain plants for inspection and identification, and sharing timeless resources of grain production for our food supply – I took a pause, suggesting this would be a good time for questions from the audience. An elderly lady in a wheelchair in the back of the room raised her hand and called out, "Jane, I have a question."
"Okay!” I called on her brightly. “What's your question?"
"That man was COMPLETELY naked?"
—--
I recently presented this same program for the Harvey Hall’s Folk School session. I didn’t share this story, but the audience was just as appreciative and engaged. Watch for future Folk School sessions coming in 2024. Since the Bread Making, Soap Making, Butter Churning, and Blacksmithing sessions were extremely popular, we’re keen to hear what other classes would be of interest!
Shortly before my exit, however, there was trouble on the side of the highway. A minivan was pulled over onto the shoulder, and near it I saw a young woman standing, a middle-aged man pacing, and a stout black woman my age gesturing on her cell phone. Relieved it wasn't my problem of the day, I moved into the middle lane to safely avoid them, when I saw the stout woman come around to the front of her van, holding her phone out in front of her with one hand and waving with the other. She caught my eye directly as I passed, and shouted with genuine desperation, "HELP ME! PLEASE HELP ME!" I could see that she meant it.
I moved back into the slow lane and then onto the shoulder, backing up close to the front of their minivan, and waited while the stout woman came up to meet me. I lowered my window with the automatic button as she approached. Holding her cell phone out again, she said, "Help me, thank you for stopping, I need you to call 911." I said, "What's going on?" and she held out her arm, and showed me three large, deep, well defined human bite marks that were fresh, raw, and real. The poor woman's skin had been so wounded that her dark black skin was now sickly pale in the center of each bite, with red blood dotting the teeth impressions.
"What happened?!" I exclaimed.
She explained that she was a driver for the mentally challenged, and one of her clients had as she put it "gone off" while she was driving.
That would have been Charles. He was the middle-aged man I'd seen pacing moments earlier, who now suddenly reappeared in the middle of the highway. Cars started to honk and swerve to avoid him, as he ran back and forth from lane to lane.
I dialed 911 on my cell phone, as hers was not working.
"Hello, 911, what is your emergency?"
I described the situation, and advised they'd better send the police, and FAST.
The woman started calling for Charles, as the cars honked and swerved to avoid him. "Charles, get back here! Get out of the road! Charles, come over here!" She had the authoritative tone of a serious woman with attitude, who knew how to take control, but she was worried and hurt, and her pitch and intensity grew with every shout.
Charles ignored her, and instead removed his shirt, belt and shoes as cars continued to speed past him, his cast-off articles of clothing littering several lanes of the road.
The younger woman, who until now had remained calm and quiet on the shoulder, now approached my car. I unlocked the door and the other woman helped her get into the passenger seat. I said to her, "Hi, I'm Jane. Sorry you're having a rough day." She replied, "Yeah, it is …” and showed me her arm, which had similar though less severe bite marks. She spoke slowly and without emotion; another client, I surmised. Then she said, "But it's my teeth that really hurt" and looked up at me, so I could see her swollen lips and red jaw. Charles had punched her in the mouth! And HARD.
As the traffic whizzed past, horns blaring, tires screeching, Charles reached down into his trousers and pulled and wrangled until he'd released his large white underwear, that he began to swing above his head while hollering unintelligibly. This latest activity, along with the constant pleading of the driver for him to come back to the safety of the shoulder, the constant noise of car horns, vehicles racing by at high speed, made a chaotic and surreal situation.
I called 911 again as Charles removed his pants, tore off his T-shirt, and proceeded to bite pieces out of them. I told the operator they'd better send an ambulance; this man couldn't avoid being hit by a car much longer.
His driver’s unrelenting pleas to Charles finally connected to him somehow, and he approached my car. He came to my window and stood breathing heavily, sweating, naked but for his socks. I asked, "What are you doing?" and he responded with a sharp, strong blow to my arm that was resting on the window ledge. Taken aback, I let out a Tony Soprano-style bellow of "WHOA!" Oh, man-oh-man, it really hurt.
At this point, these events had unfolded so quickly that I hadn't even put the car in park yet. So now I slammed the gear shift into park, and leaned away from Charles, toward the young girl in my passenger seat. Charles reached in through my window, grabbed my shirt collar, and started to drag me toward him. The look in his eyes suggested he anticipated that I had a very tasty liver, and he would enjoy every bite.
I mashed him off, back into traffic, and pushed the button to roll up the window.
Undeterred, Charles returned to his private world as he removed his socks and used them as a flag-like accessory to whatever delight he was experiencing in his mind. He was now stark naked.
By now, a police car had arrived, and the officer stood with the van by the side of the road as he calmly and sedately put on rubber gloves. Charles approached the officer, and I steeled myself for a dramatic physical scene. The officer motioned to Charles, and said, "Hey buddy, why don't you come over here with me?" and they calmly walked together over to the police car. Charles sat down on the pavement, the officer put plastic zip-ties around his wrists, and that was that.
The ambulance arrived momentarily, and the two women went off to be attended to. I put the car back in drive and left – my work here was done. Only about 15 minutes had passed; I was still going to be on time for my program!
I arrived at the senior center just minutes later, but I was trembling, my head reeling, my arm hurting. I hauled my equipment, set up my grain mill, dramatically poured a tall pile of whole grain, fluffed a large bouquet of wheat sheaves, and was greeted by
the familiar and friendly audience anticipating an entertaining tutorial on the history of grains, breads, and a delightful tasting session of home-baked bread over the next 45 minutes. They welcomed me back by name.
"Hi, Jane!"
"Hello!” I said, “Phew, a funny thing happened to me on the way to this program today!" and I described my encounter from just moments earlier, taking several sips of strong hot coffee in between breaths. The audience was captivated. I wrapped up my story with an “All's well that ends well!” and took a deep breath to begin my program and launched into telling about the varieties of grain around the world.
About ten minutes into my program – after dispensing invaluable historical information, passing around species of grain plants for inspection and identification, and sharing timeless resources of grain production for our food supply – I took a pause, suggesting this would be a good time for questions from the audience. An elderly lady in a wheelchair in the back of the room raised her hand and called out, "Jane, I have a question."
"Okay!” I called on her brightly. “What's your question?"
"That man was COMPLETELY naked?"
—--
I recently presented this same program for the Harvey Hall’s Folk School session. I didn’t share this story, but the audience was just as appreciative and engaged. Watch for future Folk School sessions coming in 2024. Since the Bread Making, Soap Making, Butter Churning, and Blacksmithing sessions were extremely popular, we’re keen to hear what other classes would be of interest!
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