Body temperature that is too low affects the brain, making the victim unable to think clearly or move well. This makes hypothermia especially dangerous because a person may not know that it’s happening and won’t be able to do anything about it. – Centers for Disease Control and Prevention
Influenza kept me in last week; I was told to rest, drink fluids, take meds, and do nothing else. Sam was an excellent caretaker, while laundry piled up and meals were interesting, we made it through. Something I had wanted to do for a long time was to re-read Possumhaw columns from its beginning in September of 2009. As weather predictions warned of temperatures in the teens, there was one column I needed to read. It was the winter of Hozzie. Hozzie was a panhandler often sitting on a sidewalk bench downtown. Hozzie would hustle Sam sometimes needing some Pepto-Bismol from the drug store or a hamburger at Hardees.
Soon after I saw the man on the bench, he hollered out, “You got a dollar for a hamburger?” I sat down beside him and told him you couldn’t get a hamburger for a dollar; then I gave him one. He pulled out a roll and added my dollar. I said, “You might not want to pull that out. By the way, I think you might know my husband.” He looked puzzled. “Bardwell,” I said.
“Oh yeah, he took me to Hardees.” I continued the conversation telling him we talked about him often. I wondered how he’d react if he knew we thought of him as a person, a person with needs, and maybe a family somewhere. I asked him how he was doing. “Pretty good, “he said. Then he asked me, “How’s your arm after you broke it?” Now I was surprised. We were talking like old friends. Sam must have told him I broke my arm six months ago. How could you remember something like that about a person you never met? I figured as a daily panhandler he sized people up pretty well.
That’s when I asked him his name. That’s the next level of up-close-and-personal. A book I read said a street person won’t give their real name; not even to another street person. They’re afraid you might report them. “Well, it’s nice to meet you Mr. Hozzie.” We nodded and moved on. It was mid-December and getting cold. I figured the encounter was worth every bit of a dollar.
We didn’t see Hozzie much after that but I found out he had been arrested for vagrancy and was now in the “pokey.” That was a good thing. He’d get meals, a warm place to sleep, and have some friends. Later he got out of the pokey. I asked around about him. All I heard was he had a family but he preferred to be a loner. I’m writing this because I appreciate the time Mr. Hozzie spent with us. Sometime later on a night when the low temperature was 17 degrees Hozzie died of hypothermia due to exposure in an apartment with no electricity and no running water. He was 72 years old.
Shannon Bardwell is a writer living quietly in the Prairie. Email reaches her at [email protected].
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 34 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 34 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
Join the Discussion