Back in the 70's, Irv Manchester lived in a tumbledown place next too my sister's summer place on the border of Westport, MA and Little Compton, RI. The Manchester family ran the general store at the crossroads in Little Compton for generations. One day, the proprietor had had enough and locked the doors, and went away, never to return. He left the store as it was, food eventually rotting in place. Eventually the structure was transformed into a restaurant and a good supermarket filled the void. The great cheddar cheese has never been replaced. That's one story in the lore.

I saw Irv many times walking into and out of town with a gunnysack over his shoulder, his slouch hat pulled down so all you saw was his eyes to contrast the shadow and apparent grime on his face. Kindly people gave Irv odd jobs and paid him mostly in cans of food and other foodstuffs. He was accustomed to take a shortcut through my sister's property. My sister was young, often there alone with her two young kids, definitely feeling a bit vulnerable. She became very uneasy one time when he asked her what her car was worth. He kept to himself mostly and did not pose a threat.

There was a rumored incident that Irv and his brother got into an argument once and one of the brothers embedded a hatchet in the other's stomach.

These two have long since gone to their reward, whatever it might have been. I give credit to traditional small communities that look after its members who have struggled to find a way in life.