Meet Pagan Joe

Joe wasn't actually a Pagan, at least I don't think he was. When we met, he refused to shake hands, saying, "That's pagan!" Therein lies the nick name.* Joe had just turned eighty, and was squatting on private property in the Santa Cruz Mountains. His "home" consisted of plywood scraps he had pieced together. It was about 7'x7' wide, and about four feet high. Joe was less than five feet tall, yet his dwelling wasn't even tall enough for him to stand upright. There was no door to keep out the cold weather. The floor was dirt, and there was a fire pit made of rocks near one of the walls. There was no chimney, or ventilation system, therefore smoke filled the abode, and poured out the gaping open structure. The walls were blackened with smoke... evidence of a long history of occupation. There is no telling how many years Joe had lived there, but when I met him, he was being forced to leave because the property he was squatting on had been sold, and the new owners planned to build a home** where Joe's smoke-hut was located. It wasn't looking good for poor old Pagan Joe. Where would he go? At eighty, he wasn't interested in starting a new life in a nursing home. He'd lived in the woods all his life, and wouldn't be comfortable anywhere else. Fortunately, one of the adjacent neighbours was aware of Joe's plight, and allowed him to relocate two hundred feet to the north. The kind property owner also provided a small trailer for Joe to live in. He expressed to me that he knew Joe wouldn't be alive for many more years, and it was the least he could do to provide him with a small amount of comfort before his mortal demise.

*I've often wondered... "If his name is Nick, what is his nickname?"

** In contrast, last week I drove past Pagan Joe's, and observed a massive home being constructed at the site of the old shack Joe called home.