The last time was when I was fifteen.

My aunt and uncle had a friend who was a mountain man and a hermit. His name was Harold. He did herd sheep. He fished and trapped, too. This was during the fifties and sixties. I think he had another source of income, as well. Checks came in the mail. But he lived very simply, in a cabin with few amenities. That is what he wanted. During the summer, he would come down to get his mail and cash his checks. He would get groceries then, too. There was a neighbor who let him use their shower and washing machine when he came down.

Harold would come to visit my aunt and uncle. My aunt was one of the few women he felt comfortable with. I always thought it was because she had five kids. Someone motherly was not a threat to him. He did not talk to other women.

In the winter, my uncle would go check on Harold, and make sure he had the supplies he needed.

My aunt wrote to us about the accident Harold had. An old man had wandered away from the nursing home and walked right into the path of Harold's truck. The man was killed. Harold never forgave himself. For a long time, he stopped coming to town. My aunt and uncle, and the neighbor, took care of him more and more.

I don't know whatever happened to him. My aunt and uncle are still living. I should ask them, while they are still around. I doubt that there are many people left who are like Harold.

I always found people like them fascinating.