Beech Tree News Network

One morning last week, after I had grown tired of every US network obsessing over the pros and cons of a Trump presidency, I switched channels to the BBC World News.  While listening to the BBC World News, I started reading the scroll at the bottom of the screen.  “Austria Seeks Hermit,” I read.  That’s all it said.  No elaboration, just “Austria Seeks Hermit.”

I had to know more, so I checked the Smithsonian “Smart News” web site, and sure enough, there was the story: “Austria Seeks Professional Hermit.”  I wasn’t aware there was any such thing as a professional hermit, but evidently there is.  

It turns out, professional hermits dwell in a structure called a hermitage, which according to Wiktionary, is a place of religious seclusion.  (And all this time, I thought the Hermitage referred only to the home of President Andrew Jackson.  It’s amazing what you can learn on the BBC.)

Saalfelden is the quaint little town in Austria that is seeking a professional hermit.  The most recent person to fill the position has decided to return to his former life as a pastor and psychotherapist.  The officials of Saalfelden are taking applications, but before you send in your résumé, you need to be aware there is no heat or running water, and you will not be allowed a computer or a TV.  Also, the selection committee has a qualifier.  “Many people come and want to confide in someone, he (the hermit) has to be there for them,” says one member. 

The gig pays nothing (as in nada, zip, zero) but it comes with quite a bit of local prestige, and “the selection process can get heated,” as one resident hermit learned in the 1970s, when he had his front door blasted by a shotgun-wielding applicant who had been overlooked by the committee (Smithsonianmag.com).  Reading the article made me wonder how our definition of the word “hermit” here in the States   became so skewed.  

When I was a young girl growing up in Spencer County, Kentucky, there was a man who lived across the creek and up in the hills in a tiny travel trailer whom my parents referred to as a hermit.  His name was Isom Pearson.  He would walk to town with a small pack thrown over his shoulder when he needed provisions, which wasn’t very often.  He would nod when you passed, but he would never accept a ride. 

Once in a while, we would take things like fresh meat, when my parents killed hogs, or sweets Mom made or socks for Christmas, and he would meet us out in his front yard.  He could see us coming from his vantage point.  We would make small talk as Isom shifted from one foot to another, probably relieved when we decided to head back home.  He was never rude to us kids, and I’m sure he was grateful for what we gave him, but he was clearly uncomfortable around other humans.

I called Mom to ask her how and when Isom had died.  She couldn’t remember.  It almost had to be before Taylorsville Lake took all the property around Ashes Creek, because she said someone found him dead in the small trailer where he lived all those years.  (The lake opened to the public in 1983.)  Mom never knew how old he was, she said, and with people like that, it’s hard to know.  We also talked about how we never knew of anybody else with the last name Pearson in Spencer County.

I searched the death records online using the last name “Pearson” in Spencer County.  The search resulted in three names: George, James and Lucinda all dying before 1955, and Austin, dying in infancy in 1918.  Ever the story-seeker, I wonder if the name Austin became Isom, and the child didn’t actually die in infancy, but grew into the hermit in the woods on the other side of Ashes Creek.  

Albert Einstein wrote, “Solitude is painful when one is young, but delightful when one is more mature.”  Delightful isn’t the word that comes to mind when I think of Isom.  He lived alone and he died alone, and none of us knows why.  I just hope he isn’t alone now.