While there aren’t two cats in the yard, “our house is a very, very, very fine house” like the lyrics of Crosby, Stills & Nash profess. In the rural oasis that are the converted meadows and horse farms stand behemoths enshrouded in beige and gray plastic. Are these domiciles an unspoken testimonial to conformity or just a tragedy of the tragically white, Christian, Republican, largely upper middle class inhabitants and their lack of creativity? The answer to that question may require some degree of work from the analytics and polling teams at Marist or Quinnipiac. This will most unfortunately have to go unanswered for now. Perhaps the more timely (and much bigger) question for our family, friends and neighbors (and the occasional visitor) is the clear non-conformist to this color scheme in our neighborhood that catches their attention and threatens the comforting reality of sameness.

Everyone, I mean everyone know this house. They know the house like people from The Bronx know the Garabedian house on Pelham Parkway – the house that draws thousands of visitors during the Christmas holiday. No, this isn’t another “Christmas house”. 

It is bright.

It is blue.

At the end of the mountain road as it intersects with the county route it sits as the fulfillment of someone’s pomposity in their pied-à-terre – yes, a bright blue house.

It may not have been the object of such conversation in a place like New Orleans or even San Francisco but in our town this was an iconic incongruity in the idyllic whistle-stop. While everyone spoke about and clearly knew the house, the overwhelming majority did not know of its inhabitants. 

Who lives there?

If you are looking at the front of this blue house from the roadway, the mailbox offers a comforting head tilt to the left. As I had learned in a class on body language and deception two decades ago, the tilting of the head sideways can be a sign of interest, which may be in what is said or happening. It can also be a flirting signal saying, “I am interested in you!”. Now, I know what you are thinking, let’s not go and start giving human characteristics to inanimate objects. I agree with your view and promise not to anthropomorphize any further. It has been said the greater the tilt, the greater the uncertainty, or the greater the intent to send this type of signal. 

Whether you are curious or uncertain (or both) about this bright blue house at this point is still largely irrelevant. It is isn’t about you sitting in judgement in your beige or gray home. The hard fact here is this dwelling draws the deliberation of the many homebodies of this town. New and lifelong inhabitants as well as the very old to the very young are a bit bewildered by the blue.

Who lives there, anyway?

On the left side of the overgrown path to the door is a disjointed and misplaced black wrought iron hand rail that seems too short for even a small child. Where you would imagine the storybook white picket fence near the curbside on the right side of path is what appears to be some plumber’s remnants of some pipe and random fittings pieced together. It would indeed be quite “fitting” if the homeowner were growing some tomatoes and had a hope of securing the vines like Grandpa did in the asphalt jungle on Dalton Road but as a fence in a front yard it was a special peculiarity among the overgrowth of weeds. 

The path diverges immediately from the curbside. The straight path leads to the front door and the left path to an inaccessible small porch with a broken step that is surrounded by wrought iron. 

I’ll tell you who lives there.

I’ve seen a man on the small porch on occasion leaning on the artful white pillar that holds up the roof. He’s an older man about 80 years of age. He is of slight build, clearly riddled with arthritis, with not much white and silver hair left hair on his head. As best as I can recall his drooping eyes have always appeared somewhat watery, and he has a sad, weathered face that tells the tale of a wearisome life journey. 
The time I saw him that I remember most he had a well-worn (what was previously white, now yellowed and sweat stained) v-neck undershirt, khaki-colored shorts (that were clearly made from what was previously a pair of pants), white socks that came up to his knees (like that of University of Maryland basketball standout Walt Williams) and a pair of standard Army issue black combat tropical boots. He’s been describe in the same “uniform” every time anyone has seen him and as far as my investigative reporting has surmised. 

The very few in town that have engaged him have nicknamed and referenced him as “Crazy Joe”. I have heard others call him “Joe the Boxer” claiming he had been a Golden Gloves boxer in his youth. Some others around town profess he was just punch drunk from too many fights while he was in military service in the South Pacific or Korea or both. 

There’s a rumor that was overheard one night at Healy’s that he was indeed a veteran of both wars and after serving over twenty years in the military “Joe” retired with his college love to the town. As the story has been handed down, some time after losing their infant son to a rare childhood disease shortly after birth, his wife was diagnosed with inoperable primary CNS lymphoma and died within 18 months of their son. Already suffering through and reliving their deaths on a daily basis and wrestling with his own flashbacks, nightmares and severe anxiety of post-traumatic stress disorder from his years of military service, Joe became reclusive. He only accepted infrequent visits from a retired priest who was a former military chaplain who had taken residence in the local parish house and from a member from the local VFW who delivered him some groceries and the occasional hot meal once a week. 

One night, about four months after his wife’s burial, Joe was battling the jarring and tragic experience of her loss. It was about early evening and the sun had not fully set. His heart and mind was filled with feelings of sadness, anxiety, and he was reliving his recent past shared with the two loves of life. The guilt of not being able to prevent their death from having occurred and his deep feelings of sadness turned to rage. That rage quickly turned into action and “Crazy Joe” decided it is was time to memorialize their passing. 
You see, blue was his Annie’s favorite color. 
Bright blue, not baby blue, was the color Annie wanted for their baby boy’s nursery. As the legend goes (and has clearly been embellished), Joe kicked open the pantry door and jumped down the three short steps into the garage. He rustled through the cans of paint and brushes he had set aside nearly two years earlier. He brought them to the front of the house with his two-story ladder and began to slather the bright blue paint from the dormer windows in the roof structure to the base of the foundation and around the doorway of his domicile. It was nearly sunrise when he had completed his work and when he was done he sat down on the step of the path leading to the front door and wrote down a few words from the lyrics he remembered from a blues song he had heard – “There is no use looking or ever hoping, or ever hoping to get me back.” He taped the paper to the window of his door and finally succumbed to the mental and physical exhaustion – falling asleep on the cool bluestone path that was now speckled in bright blue paint drops.