Too soon for lunch and hungry after a spin through town on my bike, I spied a Dunkin Donuts and stopped for a break. To while the time, I brought along my graphic arts workbook. Next to me two stools away sat an old man, dressed in scruffy, rough clothing, craning his head to get a better look at my workbook. I asked him if he would like to see it and he slid over eagerly.

He introduced himself as Henry and revealed that he worked as a graphic designer in New York in the fifties. Though his wife died of cancer twenty years ago, he continued to live in their house, alone except for two stray cats. He offered to show me some of his graphic art that he saved.

So the following Saturday I rode over to his house. I stood transfixed in the path to the front door. Surrounding me were weeds head high, rubble strewn across the brick path as if it were a forest floor. I carefully made my way through treacherous rose thorns, stickers and assorted junk to rickety stairs leading to a small porch. At one end sat a large wooden chest and an old doorless refrigerator at the other. These signs of neglect failed to prepare me for the unimaginable scene inside the house.

Inside, Henry led me through a dark hall through an archway leading to the living room/dining room, apologizing all the way for the mess. And what a mess! Covering the floor were newspapers, Victorian bric-a-brac of every description. More appalling was the inch-thick layer of dust covering every unused surface. Framed art filled every square inch of wall space, festooned with trailing spider webs and glass hiding under a layer of grime. It would take at least twenty years of neglect for this amount of dirt to accumulate!

Henry shuffled over to a low, homemade bookshelf and retrieved a large scrap album bursting with paper. Henry lovingly turned each page, reminiscing how and for whom he created each piece. I learned that many a nineteen forty- six Macy ad came from his brushes.

In the center of the room sat a large oak drafting bench with an angled work top and adjustable shelves underneath. Dozens of brushes, pencils, and assorted drafting tools sat waiting on its surface. I'm sure none of them had been used for two or three decades. Nearby on a small table sat a new looking portable typewriter with a partially typed sheet of paper in the carriage. While Henry went to fix us a cup of coffee, I sneaked a peek at the first paragraph. It seemed to be the beginning of his memoirs, featuring his experiences repairing the old Morris Canal in the fifties. The grammar and sentences flowed quite well, but the typing was littered with mis-strikes and typing errors.

One cat wound his body around my legs and another peeked with one eye from the kitchen. After coffee, I offered to help clean up, curious about the rest of the house. Following Henry into the kitchen, he proudly pointed to the new refrigerator in the middle of one wall in front of the two windows. It turned out that his oldest son had it delivered one day. I gathered that his son only visited his Dad once a year to see how he was doing.

During the next three weeks, I started to help Henry make his kitchen more livable. I painted the cabinets, threw out the forty-year-old spices, washed the dishes (most of which lay congealed in a pantry sink. The back door was completely blocked with junk, his garbage being carried out through the front door and onto the porch. Henry wasn't too concerned with the unsanitary conditions, but would rather have me fix up some of his treasures. Like a two foot long sailing ship he and his son made together. It needed major repairs and re-rigging. So I took it home and worked on it for a couple of weeks. He cried when I gave it to him. Henry showed signs of dementia, forgetting to eat and being confused with time and the days of the week. A neighbor finally contacted a free lunch program which would supply Henry with at least one good meal per day.

During the rest of the summer, I enjoyed repairing various things around the house. One interesting project was the restoration of an old Gibson mandolin. Missing were the strings, the bridge, a tuning knob and pieces of mother-of-pearl decorations. Henry told me a story how he saw it in a pawn shop window and bought it for ten dollars. I placed it exactly where it was on the wall over the book shelf, gleaming with new varnish and looking as it must have looked in 1888 when it was new. Throughout the house were samples of Henry's wife's hobby -- collecting Victorian paraphernalia. Old dolls, boxes, hand-made toys and antique books of every description were piled on every surface.

Henry died at ninety-two, six years ago. The house still stands as it was, dilapidated and run down. Everything was left as it was except for a few things his son took away -- the mandolin, the Boston rocker and the model ship. Nobody cared for this kind old man who missed his dead wife to the point of barely existing. How many poor souls are there out in the world with no-one to share a life with? I'll miss him.

Writing soothes my soul.