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The Old Man of the hollow
Sunday, April 11, 1999 By John Beale
Post-Gazette photographer John Beale recounts his longstanding friendship with Marlin Miller, who lived nearly half his 98 years apart from society, in a secluded wooden shack.
SOUTH BUFFALO, Armstrong County --The steep, wooded lane into Murphy's Bottom is treacherous in the drifting snow. More than a mile from the main road, ice-covered puddles make crunching noises that mix with an occasional thud as the car bottoms out in ruts of snow and frozen mud.
Near the bottom of a half-mile hill, I look out into the valley to see if there's smoke coming from the chimney of the three-room wooden shack in the distance. Like watching for the respiration of a sleeping friend, smoke assures me that this hollow's lone resident, Marlin Miller, is still alive.
He's just three months shy of his 99th birthday. Will the cataracts that cloud his vision prevent him from recognizing me? I wonder, will he even remember me?
Usually Miller can be found seated with Skeeter, his beagle, on a bench-style couch next to a window. He leases this piece of land from a sand and gravel company for $17 a month. Unfriendly trespassers have found that he considers the property his own.
I can't remember much about when I met Miller, but dates scrawled on a stack of negatives I keep in a blue-vinyl binder serve as a reminder that it was more than 23 years ago.
My life has changed since then. I grew up less than 10 miles from his home in South Buffalo, graduated from high school, then college. I changed jobs a few times, started a family and moved to another county.
But just a stone's throw from the Allegheny River, Marlin Miller, who never married, had chosen a life where things remain the same. For more than 40 years, "The Old Man," as he's known to locals, has lived alone in the woods, without the convenience of electricity, telephone, indoor plumbing or running water.I was drawn to Miller partly out of curiosity but mostly out of desire to document his simple life with a camera. It seemed amazing that about 30 miles upstream from the bustle of Pittsburgh, there lived a man who bathed in the creek, mined his own coal, grew his own food and made most of his own clothes. My cousin introduced me to Miller more than 20 years ago, when I was just out of high school and interested in photography. Back then, I would not have believed that The Old Man would become my friend.
Intrigued with photographing Miller's solitary lifestyle, I've visited him many times, more frequently over the past five years. When I first met him, there was some apprehension. It's hard to forget that Miller once used a shotgun to chase away gas company workers. He spent several nights in the Armstrong County Jail before being allowed to return to his shanty. Over time, I've found Miller's bark is worse than his bite.
Even the few who know him best don't know much about his past. His baptismal certificate lists his birth date as June 10, 1900, in Brush Valley, Indiana County. He has lived in Murphy's Bottom for decades. Some say he came here to run a sawmill, and when the business went bankrupt and the equipment was repossessed, he just never left.
Why did Miller choose to stay here? Who is this man that many fear?
Miller often relays vivid tales that include some of the most famous names in Pittsburgh. He tells stories of piloting Air Force One and starting a ranch for orphans in Utah. I forewarn visitors about his imagination. "Whatever Miller says is true - at least until we're out of Murphy's Bottom."
?
Slowing my car at the base of the hill, I breathe a sigh of relief as I notice faint smoke rising from the red brick chimney. Dogs bark, announcing my arrival. I call out Marlin's name to let him know a friend has arrived.
Chickens pecking at kernels of yellow corn scatter along the path leading to his shanty. Soiled trousers hang from tree branches next to a gurgling spring. A snow-covered tarp shields a stack of firewood near a bench.
Inside, Miller is seated in a metal chair near his heating stove. Beams of light streak through a soot-covered window next to a pot of cold homemade stew. Rags hang from a clothesline overhead. Pots hang from nails in the walls.
Miller barely looks up to greet me. His huge fingers, gnarled by arthritis, look like tree roots resting on his lap. His face is covered with soot and coal dust. The dirt-floored cabin is more disheveled than ever before.
The Old Man explains that the past several weeks have been difficult. "The legs have gone to rubber," he says.
It is a big change from the industrious man I've come to know. Once, when I admired one of his hand-stitched shirts, there was one waiting for me when I returned. It's bright green with purple corduroy cuffs and collar. He presented it to me wrapped neatly in brown paper and bound with twine. I have worn it when I'm in Murphy's Bottom.
?
Miller's legs have given him trouble for years, especially since 1986, when he broke a hip in a fall while repairing his leaking roof. During one visit to the hospital, social workers suggested that Miller never return to his shack. But Miller had his own idea - and the support of his best friend, Joe Poretti of nearby Freeport.
Poretti, 74, a retired ironworker who's single and lives with his 93-year-old mother, says he met Miller back in the '50s. Poretti, known as "Indian Joe" because of his interest in Native Americans, was hunting for arrowheads in Murphy's Bottom when he met The Old Man.
We don't know for sure whether Miller has any relatives. The Old Man claims none are living. Some say he had a falling-out with a brother, and he changed his name years ago. A small circle of friends help him maintain his lifestyle as a woodsman. During the past decade, no one has offered more support than Poretti, an avid outdoorsman.
While Miller's hip was healing, The Old Man was taken from the hospital to a nursing home. Living under the same roof with other people bothered Miller. He swore that the meals were sterilized and tasteless. He threw his medicine, yelled at nurses and finally convinced Poretti to "hijack" him out of the "home" and return him to his shanty in Murphy's Bottom.
Since then, Poretti has visited Miller nearly every day. Once a month, Poretti takes Miller to cash his Social Security check and buy groceries. Years ago, Miller drove himself - sometimes on the correct side of the road. Joe says that Miller has been in nearly a dozen fender-benders. That, and his failing eyesight, forced him to relinquish his driver's license. Not losing his freedom without a battle, Miller drove for a short while without the license. That ended seven or eight years ago, when his '74 Ford truck mysteriously quit running.
Now Miller depends on Poretti, but the past year has been tough on him, too. Heart surgery prevents Joe from doing some of the chores he once helped Miller with, and he can no longer make the strenuous hike in and out of Murphy's Bottom in bad weather.
From about 8 feet away, I can barely see Miller through the smoke and soot. Still, there's no doubt that he is ill and should see a doctor. Remembering his previous encounter with modern medicine, he insists that if he gets a wheelchair, he will be fine. Silently, I disagree. The Old Man has always feared that a doctor would force him out of his wooded paradise. Even the mention of a nursing home sends him into a rage.
Miller contends that if he needs medical attention, he'll doctor himself. Mention an ailment, and he's quick with a remedy made from an herb or root. For months, Miller has been doctoring himself by rubbing white vinegar on his legs. He seems to think it "takes the poison out."
Another source of Miller's angst has been his eyesight. The Old Man would ask Poretti to take him to various eye doctors for his cataracts, but he always claims the eyeglasses they prescribe are faulty. Miller says he wears them only a short time before "all the power goes out of them." Poretti says the doctors get frustrated, and Miller refuses to pay.
Before leaving, I bring in coal from outside, placing several buckets within arms' length of the heating stove. Miller asks that I stoke the fire and clean out the tray of ashes in the bottom of the stove. To keep from filling the room with smoke, I grab several pieces of coal at a time, carefully tossing them into the stove's belly-full of glowing cinders. "That's not how I put coal on a fire," Miller grumbles. So with a small shovel, I heap several loads of coal into the stove, coughing as a cloud of smoke envelops us.
With the wooden door open for fresh air, I tell Miller that I'm going to see Poretti about getting him help. The problem, in my mind, is what kind of help. Miller insists on staying right where he is. Going to any hospital is simply out of the question. Leaving, I realize something is different. Our visits are usually over when Miller gets out of his chair and with a firm handshake or hug says, "God bless you." He says something inaudible, but he appears too weak to get up. "God bless you," I say, closing the door.
I stop at Poretti's home in Freeport, and he volunteers to take The Old Man to the emergency room that afternoon. But a few hours later, Poretti relays the message that Miller refuses to see a doctor.
Should I defy Miller's wishes? Should I call an Armstrong County social worker? He would be taken to a home, where he'd be warm and safe. If his health continued to fail, I wouldn't feel guilty.
The next morning is blanketed by fresh-fallen snow. On the slow drive to work, I wonder whether Poretti's pickup truck can make it down the steep hill into Murphy's Bottom. Years ago, this wouldn't have been a concern. Poretti would have parked his truck at the top of the hill and hiked into the woods. But now, the heart problems prevent him from trudging through the snow.
The past few years, Ed Divers, 70, of O'Hara, a retired engineer, would give Miller a hand with daily chores. But Divers is vacationing in Florida, and Poretti doesn't like to ask for help.
Poretti knows Miller has plenty of food, coal and firewood inside his cabin. Because of the weather, Miller will have to fend for himself for another day. The next day, Poretti won't leave the visit to chance. He will summon his neighbors to accompany him into the snowy hollow.
For most of his life, Miller hasn't minded being alone. "Other people get lonely, but I don't," he once said. "I'm used to it. I get up, and if I make a mistake, there's nobody to correct me. I do pretty much what I want. I have a free life."
He has hinted about the possibility of sharing Murphy's Bottom. A year ago he inquired about building my family a cottage next to his. I wrote it off as one of his stories. "I'm talking about a nice place," he said. "There'd be a bulb in every room." I always sensed that Miller enjoyed my visits, but this would be the first indication that he considered me a friend.
Navigating down the steep hill, Poretti feared the worst when he didn't see smoke rising from The Old Man's chimney. He slowly opened the cabin door to find Miller lying motionless on the floor next to his coal stove.
Poretti covered his friend with blankets while his neighbors waited at the top of the hill for an ambulance. When Miller arrived at Armstrong County Memorial Hospital, his body temperature was 83 degrees.
Miller was trying to put coal into his stove when he fell. There were signs that he had struggled to get up. His chair was upset, and an oil lamp had been knocked from the table, broken into pieces. Miller was wearing only one shoe.
Miller was admitted to the hospital but never seemed to regain full consciousness. The Old Man's feet were swollen from frostbite; his toes were purple and black. He labored to breathe. The man who had been so independent for most of his life now relied on intravenous feedings and medication to survive.
A call from Joe came in the final hour of March 15. Just five days after he was admitted, Marlin Miller had died.
At daybreak, there were details to address. Poretti spoke with the funeral home where The Old Man had arranged to have his body cremated, then he returned to Murphy's Bottom to care for Miller's dogs. Divers' son, Jeff, adopted the beagle, Skeeter. A few days later, the dog ran away and was hit by a car north of Freeport, about 30 miles from the Divers' home. It appears the beagle was en route to his former home. Despite a broken hip, Skeeter survived. The county dog catcher took Sally, a black lab. The wooden shack still stands, although it was recently burglarized. Friends chipped in for a modest tombstone that will stand nearby. It will say "Marlin F. Miller, 1900-1999, "The Old Man."
For me, there will be at least one last trip down the narrow dirt road into Murphy's Bottom. As a final request, The Old Man asked that his ashes be spread over the land that he loved.
"I live from day to day," Miller said nearly a decade ago. "You and me, we might be talking here, and tomorrow I might be stiff. Whenever you get around 100, that's how you think. But I've done everything I've wished to do. I've been contented. There's nothing I miss."
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