The things you see in this business. This past week I posted about a small child I found after a home showing who wandered out of her home and how I made sure she was back in the care of her (mortified, surprised) mother. I didn’t write it to get a pat on the back but to hope that we all watch each others’ back.
We have work to do.
I first heard the term “forgotten man” a few years ago when I saw My Man Godfrey with William Powell and Carole Lombard. We have all seen a forgotten man or woman.
Yesterday, while showing a home to buyer clients in Stamford, CT, we saw 2 police cars parked at the side of the road. Next to the cars was a tarp covering something on the banks of a wooded neighborhood creek. The area was taped off, and it really did look like the scene of a fatality. After we looked at the house, my client walked over to the two officers and confirmed the sad truth that it was indeed a fatality. To paraphrase what he was told, a local old crazy guy who wandered the city was found to have perished in the creek. From the sounds of things, he was homeless and troubled. The Forgotten Man’s final hour was in that creek. He might have drowned, he might have had a heart attack and fallen in , or something more troubling. Regardless, someone’s baby’s rough life was over. We were random witnesses to the aftermath.
When I got home, it was late. I missed putting the kids to bed again, but I got to see them sawing wood in their Thomas the Tank Engine bedsheets, snoozing a sweet opera to their father’s ears, resting from a day of summer joy. It was a contrast I could not ignore. They will wake up to another day of idyllic sun-drenched fun, with roller skating day at camp, a blow up kiddie pool, Carvel ice cream, and their mother’s doting.
I’m not what you’d consider a religious guy but I hope this Forgotten Man will wake up in God’s arms, shed of his troubles, whole again, and as happy as my children. I hope his final hour was not as bad as it appeared, and that he even laughed or remembered an old joke before going to sleep. But beyond that I hope the Forgotten Man will never be forgotten, and the perfunctory police search for next of kin or anyone that knew or loved him will not be fruitless. I hope his memory is more dignified than his demise. If anyone knew the poor soul who breathed his last in east Stamford on Brookside Drive in the creek that feeds Holly Pond I want you to know that I won’t forget.
Anyone who think we just unlock doors and comment on decorating and do not see what goes on around us is nuts.