By Karl K. Sorenson
He just showed up in Cut Bank one windy fall day when he picked that place to jump off the freight train headed west. No one knew where he had come from and he never became close enough to anyone that we knew of, to have him tell his tale.
Cut Bank is a real windy place on the high plains of Montana close to the eastern front of the Rocky Mountains where the wind howls down from the west. In those days, the temperature was below 0 degrees Fahrenheit often in the winter and the wind chill took it even lower. The home that Whiskers built was made from corrugated metal roofing which had blown off buildings and other scraps of lumber and building materials which he had scrounged up from his wandering around town. Somewhere, probably at the local town garbage dump, he found an old battered red and rusty wagon with a bent pull handle. He pulled it around town as he wandered up and down the streets and alleys looking for scraps of food and other useful items in the garbage cans of the community. Most often, he was seen looking in the cans of the grocery stores, restaurants and bars. There were good pickings.
As he traveled around, he was accompanied by his band of dogs from one to half a dozen on any given day. They were his family and friends and offered him protection from strangers and from the biting cold on winter days. His metal sided and roofed shanty was erected to the west of town close to Cut Bank Creek below the railroad trestle in the area known as “Bums Coulee”. There were other residents of the coulee but most of them were transients and would come and go with the seasons. As far as I remember, Whiskers was the only permanent resident.
No one really knew how old he was. When he showed up, he had about a one-week’s stubble of whiskers that over time grew down to his chest and stayed there. I guess that helped keep him warm in the winter also. His clothing, like his food, was mostly found in garbage cans. He dressed with the same stocking hat and long wool coat both summer and winter.
One of the lessons I learned in life is to give respect to everyone-no matter rich or poor. Whiskers’ home was close to the city baseball fields. Sometimes after games or practice, we would wander in that direction to test our arms to see how far we could throw rocks. I am sure it must have rattled his brains when rocks hit that metal shanty. He would emerge cussing and shaking his fist and sic his dogs on us. We were on a dead run away while the rocks were in mid-flight. He called the dogs back before they ever caught anyone.
One day my dad got wind of the fact I was involved in the rock throwing. My rear end received just punishment. The belting was over quickly but the ensuing lecture lasted a long time and was brought up again and again. “How would you like it if Whiskers came to our apartment and threw rocks at it? That is his home.” I never threw rocks at Whiskers’ home after that day.
One of the interesting things about Whiskers was that he could play the piano. When he needed money for something special, he would show up at the Glacier Inn lounge, which housed a baby Grand piano. He would place a can on the top of the piano and start to play. The man could play just about any song and requests would keep him playing for hours at times. Other times he would sit and play classical music song after song and hardly ever looked at a sheet of music.
Although most people had contempt for his way of life, everyone who ever heard him play had great respect for his musical ability. When playing, he was transformed from Old Man Whiskers of bum’s coulee to one of the best pianists anyone had ever heard. On those days he must have washed himself and his shirt in Cut Bank Creek. His shirt was clean and his face was shining with a wistful faraway look on his smiling face. When done playing, he would quietly thank people for any donations he might have received and walk on home. Some people said he used most of the money to buy dog food for his friends and many figured he shared that with them.
My father had a gruff exterior and demeanor but in reality was one of the kindest men I ever knew. He befriended many of the old down and out men in Cut Bank and was sure to show respect and kindness for many that other men did not. Dad knew Whiskers looked through the garbage cans of the B&L Bar and he would leave a weekly treat for him. During the week, dad would pour the last bit of whiskey from each bottle into a bottle for Whiskers. On Sunday mornings that was left next to the garbage cans. On Christmas or other special occasions, dad would have me watch for Whiskers to call him to the back door. I would give him an unopened pint of Calvert’s whiskey and wish him a “Merry Christmas”.
The smile that showed through his long black beard and the quiet “Thank you” was payment enough for dad and allowed me to see Whiskers as a person worthy of kindness and respect.
Old Man Whiskers lived in Cut Bank for many years and after a period of time most people learned to tolerate his digging in the garbage. All who heard him play, myself included, showed great respect for him as a pianist. Some years after I graduated from high school and moved from Cut Bank, Whiskers died in his old corrugated metal shack with his dogs. The town was alerted of his death by the howling of his mangy mutts as the sun rose in the east that bitterly cold winter morning. When his body was taken to the funeral home, a note was found in his shirt asking anyone to take in his dogs and a sister’s name. She had not seen or heard from Whiskers since the night he jumped a freight train in New York City after his last concert at Carnegie Hall. His real name was William T. Mathers.
Sometimes it is hard to understand why people do what they do. But, as my dad would say, “Even a bum like Old Man Whiskers has a story to tell and should be shown kindness and respect.” MSN
