The Life of a Story in Progress IX: Having no thoughts, the thinker fades into memory.

The Crazy Lady

Being remembered as the Crazy Lady isn't very complimentary. But, it's too late for political correctness or niceties. The Crazy Lady lived at 105 Dorchester St., in Worcester, MA up to the year that she died in 1975.

In 1974, I lived in Worcester, MA on Dorchester St. in a third floor apartment in a "double" triple-decker. That is, the building was essentially two triple deckers joined together. A double triple-decker was unusual but there were others in the city. The apartment in which I lived was on the third floor. Because of the terrain, and the height of the building, looking out of the windows was an awesome sight. It seemed to me as though the view was from a much higher viewpoint

The Crazy Lady did have an actual name and that name was Dottie St. Marie. My paternal grandmother's last name was St. Marie. But that's not really relevant here. Dottie was crazy, there's no doubt about that. She was nothing if not schizophrenic and demonstrated all the classic symptoms of schizophrenia.

My interaction with the Crazy Lady consisted of "conversations" with her through my third floor kitchen window and hers. These windows were very narrow, perhaps about 24" or so. The building had an irregular shape in the back. See illustration:

My introduction to the Crazy Lady came one day soon after moving into the building. I heard a woman yelling outside but I didn't know where it was coming from. The yelling was quite loud. I eventually discovered that the reason she was so loud was 1) she was actually yelling very loudly and 2) her voice was echoing back and forth between the two "wings" of the building. It was as though she was yelling through a megaphone. 

I checked out several of the windows looking for the source of the ruckus and when I checked the kitchen window I saw the Crazy Lady for the first time. 

She appeared to be about 60-65 years old with mostly grey hair. Her face was worn and wrinkled with the emotion of her rantings. She was wearing an inverted dark green contractor-sized trash bag in which she had cut arm holes and a hole in the bottom of the bag to accommodate her head. Her arms had been lathered with soap that she had allowed to dry and in one hand she held some kind of kitchen utensil, perhaps it was a spoon. Needless to say, her appearance was striking. Now add to her appearance her loud raving diatribe against the landlord of the building. This was my introduction to Dottie St. Marie.

Appearances aside, the Crazy Lady is really remembered for her insane discourse. One day, I recorded her for about an hour. This is most likely her only legacy. Her favorite topic of discussion was the inadequacies of the neglectful and greedy landlord who, in her words, "only wants the rent." 

The truth about the landlord was that he was a very amicable fellow who was rarely seen unless making a repair or was at the building for some other appropriate reason. When he did come to the building, this would trigger Dottie into hyper-crazy mode and she would begin a very long session of verbalizing her great displeasure with his perceive indifference and neglect. 

In the course of about a year, Dottie made frequent speeches, mostly about the landlord, but occasionally about her daily routines and even more rarely, she would have a fairly coherent expression about how she felt about someone or something. Whenever she had such a lucid (one-sided) conversation, hearing her express an awareness of her isolation and illness was very sad.

Many months after living across the way from Dottie, I went out to the front porch and was surprised to find a very old man sitting there. He seemed quite frail and spoke softly and haltingly. He had a cane and wore a hat. He wasn't much of a conversationalist, but over time I learned that he was Dottie's father and that they had lived in their apartment for many, many years.

He was not often able to walk even fairly short distances and his appearances on the front porch were very limited. When I did find him on the front porch, I would sit with him and not engage in much conversation. I couldn't imagine what it must have been like for him to live in his situation so keeping him quiet company seemed appropriate. I got a sense that he appreciated the time I spent with him, but perhaps that was just something I imagined.

 If you'd like to hear a sample of Dottie's speeches, an. mp3 file is available HERE.

Sadly, and sadly is an understatement, there was a fire at 105 Dorchester St. in 1975 that consumed the entire building. No occupants survived the fire.