Box Turtle Bulletin

The Daily Agenda for Monday, September 26

This is one of those days where I don’t really have anything agenda-ish. But rather than skipping the Agenda altogether, I wanted to share something that I ran across over the weekend as I was reading one of my favorite magazines. Peter Hessler writes in this week’s New Yorker about the pharmacist in the small western Colorado town of Nucla, a former uranium mining town that has fallen on hard times. Don Colcord has been the druggist there for more than thirty years. There’s a clinic in nearby Naturita with a doctor who comes in for two days a week. At all other times, the clinic’s physician’s assistant and  Colcord are what constitutes the medical establishment for miles around. Hessler’s account of Colcord’s work in his community is a paean to one man’s service to everyone he meets, whether it’s by keeping the town’s Fourth of July fireworks going every year, or by offering his medical advice and empathy to anyone who stops in his Apothecary Shoppe, or by relieving his struggling neighbors’ financial burdens when he forgives their tabs at his pharmacy, or just by being someone to talk to:

When outsiders come to town—loners, drifters—they often find their way to Don. A number of years ago, a man in his seventies named Tim Brick moved to Naturita and rented a mobile home. He placed special orders at the Apothecary Shoppe: echinacea, goldenseal, chamomile teas. He distrusted doctors, and often had Don check his blood pressure. It was high, and eventually Don persuaded him to get on regular medication. Soon, he was visiting every four or five days, mostly to talk.

Don referred to him as Mr. Brick. He had no other local friends, and he was cagey about his past, although certain details emerged over time. His birth name had been Penrose Brick—he was a descendant of the Penrose family, which came from Philadelphia and had made a fortune from mining claims around Cripple Creek. But for some reason Mr. Brick had been estranged from all his relatives for decades. He had changed his first name, and he had spent most of his working life as an auto mechanic.

One day, his mobile home was broken into, and thieves made off with some stock certificates. Mr. Brick had never used a broker—to him, they were just as untrustworthy as doctors—so he went to the Apothecary Shoppe for help. Before long, Don was making dozens of trips across Disappointment Valley, driving two hours each way, in order to get documents certified at the bank in Cortez, Colorado. Eventually, he sorted out Mr. Brick’s finances, but then the older man’s health began to decline. Don managed his care, helping him move out of various residences; on a couple of occasions, Mr. Brick lived at Don’s house for an extended stretch. At the age of ninety-one, Mr. Brick became seriously ill and went to see a doctor in Montrose. The doctor said that prostate cancer had spread to his stomach; with surgery, he might live another six months. Mr. Brick said he had never had surgery and he wasn’t going to start now.

Don spent the next night at the old man’s bedside. At one point in the evening, Mr. Brick was lucid enough to have a conversation. “I think you’re dying,” Don said.

“I’m not dying,” Mr. Brick said. “I’m just going to pray now.”

“Well, you better pray pretty hard,” Don said. “But I think you’re dying.” He asked if Mr. Brick needed to see a lawyer. The old man declined; he said his affairs were in order.

Don found a hospice nurse, and within two days Mr. Brick died. Don arranged a funeral Mass, and then he went through boxes of Mr. Brick’s effects. There was a collection of old highway maps, an antique cradle telephone, and a Catholic prayer stand. There were many photographs of naked men. Don found checkbooks under four different aliases. There were letters in Mr. Brick’s handwriting asking friends if they could introduce him to other men who were “of the same type as me.” But he must have lost courage, because those letters were never mailed. Don also found unopened letters that Mr. Brick’s mother had sent more than half a century ago. One contained a ten-dollar bill and a message begging her son to make contact. The bill, from the nineteen-forties, still looked brand-new, and seeing that crisp note made Don feel sad. Years ago, he had sensed that Mr. Brick was gay, and that this was the reason he was estranged from his family, but it wasn’t a conversation they ever had.

In his will, Mr. Brick left more than half a million dollars in cash and stock to the local druggist. After taxes and other expenses, it came to more than three hundred thousand dollars, which was almost exactly what the community owed Don Colcord. But Don didn’t seem to connect these events. He talked about all three subjects—neglecting his dying brother, offering credit to the townspeople, and helping Mr. Brick and receiving his gift—in different conversations that spanned more than a year. He probably never would have mentioned the money that was owed to him, but somebody in Nucla told me and I asked about it. From my perspective, it was tempting to apply a moral calculus, until everything added up to a neat story about redemption and reward in a former utopian community. But Don’s experiences seemed to have taught him that there is something solitary and unknowable about every human life. He saw connections of a different sort: these people and incidents were more like the spokes of a wheel. They didn’t touch directly, but each was linked to something bigger, and Don’s role was to try to keep the whole thing moving the best he could.

If you know of something that belongs on the agenda, please send it here. Don’t forget to include the basics: who, what, when, where, and URL (if available).

And feel free to consider this your open thread for the day. What’s happening in your world?