When I was a young pioneer , over the years I had built up a “route call” and every Wednesday afternoon myself and a couple of the other pioneers would walk ( or if adverse weather , drive ) around the streets of our town and the surrounding villages distributing the magazines. Most houses were empty , which didn’t really matter - It was a pleasant diversion from what was generally quite a harsh unfruitful territory to work. We would talk about the things young ones talk about – girls , football , tv and , er , girls – “chewing the fat” over the latest gossip.
In our congregation , Joe , a retired brother in his 70’s lived with his non-JW “worldly” ( but very pleasant and hospitable ) wife , Jean. He was still nominally an elder , though he rarely attended meetings in his later years as he was a retired barber and his health had suffered from wartime injuries and lung problems , probably exacerbated by the hair products that he had used over the years. His house had been fitted by the local hospital authorities with an oxygen tank which pumped a mixture of oxygen and other gases into his house and he also had portable equipment similar to that used by asthmatics. We had a few calls in his street and used to pop in most weeks for a coffee and a chat for perhaps 20 - 30 minutes to break up a long afternoon. Jean always had a cake ready –the visits doubtless gave her a few minutes brief respite from her increasingly frail and grumpy husband. Her lemon sponge was a delight – I still haven’t tasted anything like it.
Before becoming a JW in the 50’s , Joe had been in the army , injured in Belgium , had been at Dunkirk and was always happy to share some of his wartime experiences (Brits would readily recognize him as a classic “Uncle Albert” figure , from Only Fools & Horses ) , as well as sharing experiences from a life “in the truth”. He rarely saw anyone else from the congregation – time had elapsed since he was regular and few of the newer members knew him. He was always delighted to see us though ( he had always cut my hair since I was a child , albeit his techniques hadn’t really moved with the times! ) and used to always sit in his window or front garden watching the world go by. The visits always ended with a hug from his wife and a surprisingly firm shake of the hand from Joe. Sometimes there would be a visiting home help or nurse – I remember one telling me that members of other churches got much more regular visitors than Joe ever did.
A new pioneer elder moved in and was appointed as service overseer and joined us on our afternoon arrangement , as he didn’t have any calls. The first week he seemed reluctant to visit the brother and sat scowling in the corner , not really communicating. Afterwards he said that we shouldn’t count our time visiting Joe ( our protestations that his wife wasn’t a JW weren’t accepted because he said that it was essentially a social call ) and really we should be out on the ministry knocking on doors. He also expressed some distaste about the picture of him in his British Expeditionary Force regiment that was on the table.
As pioneers always struggling for time ( this was long before the “30 hour pioneer arrangement” ) we had no choice to comply. But this presented us with a challenge – how to “sneak past” Joe’s house without being noticed. So our route was changed – we would do one house on one side of Joe’s house , then take a circuitous route around to visit his near neighbour on the other side. Occasionally if we were up to date in our hours we would call , when the service overseer wasn’t with us , but sadly these visits became less and less frequent. Joe’s health continued to deteriorate.
I moved away to another congregation and lost any contact but heard through a family member that “old Joe” was pretty much on his last legs , so visited him a few days before his death. His face was literally blue and he was gasping into a face mask , breathing pure oxygen , doubtless hastening his ultimate demise. He was skin and bone and removed his mask only to spit into a nearby bucket. It was a sad , undignified ending and all I could do was hold his skeletal hand. He smiled weakly , mumbled goodbye and we both knew we would never see each other again.
There was an obituary in the local paper giving a lot of information about his life that I had never realized. I never realized that he had been invalided out of the army , he had volunteered again , getting a sympathetic doctor to fake his medical records and fought with the desert rats. His JW connections were mentioned and one of the elders who had never bothered to visit him described him as “ a much loved member of the congregation”. The irony somewhat “stuck in my craw” , as they say in these parts.
Looking back now with a new perspective , I often feel very sad and even guilty about my actions back then. I was a victim of a system that valued distributing literature over showing genuine kindness . Poor Joe. May he rest in peace.