Every town or hamlet has one. A colorful character. A dare-devil denizen. A legend-slash-loon. We had Hiram Walters (not his real name). He lives in my memory as a bit of all the above.
This Lilliputian neighbor stood about four-foot-six in his steel-toed farm boots. Soaking wet, he probably weighed in at 85 pounds. He was always clad in what looked like boys’ size 10 faded, denim overalls. His salt and pepper hair and matching scruff framed his small face. His deep-set eyes and slightly crooked nose reminded me of a turtle.
Hiram made up for his small stature with larger-than-life antics that even decades after his death, are still regarded with awe and headshaking.
Hiram and his wife owned a beautiful, antique, two-story, red colonial. “Oakridge Farms” also included several acres that ribboned behind four or five houses across the street from my childhood home. His son and family lived in the ranch-style house directly across from ours. Behind it was a big hill on which we neighbor kids often played. We were not allowed to go under the wire fence at the top that led to the barns where Hiram kept his cows, horses and sheep. We kids were too leery of this ancient yet spry, scary leprechaun to disobey.
Hiram put most of our county on edge because of his impulsiveness. The rare times he’d come to church, he’d ride down the street and cross the busy main road on his horse. He tied his nag on the black iron fence leading up the stone steps. Parishioners made a wide berth around the horse to get inside. They’d look at each other with, “Oh, boy, what’s going to happen next?” expressions. Eventually he’d say something off colored during the service, if he stayed for the entire service.
Hiram rode his horse to my grandparent’s house, five miles from town. He didn’t tie his horse to the fence post or even bother to dismount. Instead, he rode right up the front steps. My irritated grandfather met Hiram at the front door and hotly told him to back down.
Hiram came to our door once, invited himself in and took a seat at our Sunday dinner table. His own dinner would be ready later, he explained, but he was hungry now. We were stunned, but my mother made got a plate for him.
Legend has it that Hiram flew a rented airplane underneath the Arrigoni Bridge in Middletown. The span includes a four-lane highway and is just 89 feet above the Connecticut River. He also threatened a female state trooper with bullwhip when she pulled him over on a stop.
Somehow, Hiram escaped ever being arrested (or worse) for his many questionable behaviors. People would laugh and say, “That’s Hiram Walker for you.”
Hiram could go too, far, though, as if the above hasn’t already qualified as too much.
On Halloween night 1971, my mom was leading my younger sister and me around our immediate neighborhood for trick-o-treating. I couldn’t see too well out of the pinprick eyeholes of my witch’s mask. It smelled like my cousin’s Lite-Brite® set, heated plastic. Wind whistled through the sides as the elastic strap held it tight to my head. My face was sweaty, but I kept it on because it was part of the costume. I relied on Mom, who guided us as we scuffed through crisp leaves on the side of the road and into neighbors’ yards.
As Mom led us back to our own front yard, I was excited to get in the house to check out the candy I had collected. Despite limited visibility, I had been able to make out that a few bright orange Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups were in my bag.
Suddenly, Mom yelled, “Get down!”
The next thing I knew I was face first in the big pile of leaves we had been playing in earlier that day. The maple syrupy smell rushed into my nostrils.
“Stay still!” Mom whispered. She pulled my sister and me under each of her arms and close to her sides. Too stunned to speak or cry out, we just lay there.
What was going on? Was this mom’s idea of a funny game? I could hear my breathing loud and fast inside my witch mask.
In the quiet, a vehicle rolled by behind us.
“Quick, run to the house!” Mom whispered low and fast.
I stood up but then felt like I was flying. Mom had gathered both my sister and me under each of her arms.
“My God!” she said, out of breath as she set us down on the kitchen floor.
We took off our masks and looked up at her.
“That felt like a carnival ride,” I said, not exactly sure if I was supposed to laugh or be serious.
“What’s going on?” my father asked, emerging from the back hallway into the kitchen.
“Hiram Walters just drove by with a shot gun pointing of his pick-up window!” my mother explained. Her eyes were big. She had her hand on her chest.
“What?” he said. “That crazy old coot!”
What happened next? My mother made a phone call to Hiram’s son across the street.
She shook her head as she replaced the phone on the wall receiver.
“Hiram was mad because some kids were trespassing on his back forty,” she said. Apparently, he was just trying to scare them if he saw them on the street.
“He scared the daylights of me!” my mother said.
But that was that. ‘Ole Hiram Walters is at it again.’
My sister and I adjourned to the living room and sat on the braided orange rug and began sifting through our candy.
Do you remember a colorful character from your childhood?
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