Once a week, in the late 1960's, there would be a knock on our back door. Everyone else came to the front. And when we opened the door, there would be Don Fulcher, with a bowed back and a big smile, holding a gallon jar of milk. He would get a gallon of raw milk for us from Vos' farm each week and carry it several blocks to our parsonage, giving it to us for free. After he left, Mom would scoop the cream off the top to save, leaving the best milk we've ever had for us to enjoy until Don came again. Don was a member of our church, and this was one of many blessings he brought the minister and his family.
We weren't the only ones he helped. Don was all over the little town of Sultan, Washington, helping everybody, from manual work to simply a big smile and wave. He was easy to recognize blocks away because his back had a severe forward bend to it, making him have to look up to look ahead. I never did know the cause of this, possibly kyphosis. It seemed like it would hurt, but Don kept energetically walking all over town without complaint.
Calvin Vos (whose farm we got milk from) and I were the paperboys in Sultan. Calvin delivered the Everett Herald to his east side of town and I delivered to my west side. While we rolled up the newspapers each day in front of Dale's Market on Main Street, Don would occasionally come by and help us. He was good company. But despite all our talking and ribbing each other, I never really got to know Don Fulcher.
He lived in a house down the street, but I never visited him. I wasn't even sure if he lived alone, but assumed he did because he was most often out and about. To me he was the symbol of Sultan. Everyone knew him without knowing him. He was the town's heartbeat.
Don did have a car, a big boat of a car that he seldom drove. When he did drive it, we'd see a big car go slowly by with Don's head peeking over the dashboard. One Sunday afternoon he drove over to our house and invited us on a drive in the countryside northwest of town. So Mom and Dad and I got in his car, Dad in the front seat and Mom and I in the back, and off we went. Little did we know that Don was a terrible driver!
He didn't speed, even tended to go slow, but hardly slowed down for turns; so we had to brace ourselves as we slid around the corners. But the worst problem was distraction. As we traveled along through the beautiful scenery, Don would point things out to us and gaze at the view, while the car drifted to the left or right. It turned out that Don was the only one enjoying the sights; the three of us were staring directly ahead in terror. But we all made it home okay.
Long after we moved away from Sultan, Don passed away. Born on my mother's birthday, five years earlier, he was in his sixties when we shared his little town. He lived to 94 years of age, outliving both my parents, and passed away in March of 1998. His body lies in the Sultan Cemetery, without a marker.
Whenever we visit my old hometown of Sultan nowadays, how I miss that bowed-backed character crossing the street a block down, with a big grin and hearty wave, shouting out something to me that I'm too far away to hear. Once he took us along with him, and brought us safely home.
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