According to the 1940 census, Katherine Johnson, born about 1907, lived on what was then called the East Boothbay Road. She was 33 years old, widowed and head of household with six children – Gwendolyn (15), Effie (12 ), Oscar (11), Basil (7), Cecil (7) and Ronald (4). The listed value of their home was $500. I only knew of Basil and Cecil. I knew Cecil best.

In the ’80s, when we lived in the Harbor, I would bump into Cecil from time to time on a street corner, at Porter’s Drugstore, or along the footbridge after a stop at Andrews’ Harborside. He was a likable fellow, at least during the visits I had with him. He always spoke well and often had some interesting ideas regarding how things should be. He had piercing blue eyes. Mr. Johnson also had some challenges which troubled him. But, on his better days when we’d cross paths downtown, we’d discuss the state of the world and consider options.

Mr. Johnson, Cecil, as it were, grew up around here. He and his brother Basil were local characters about whom there were many stories, but they were sort of looked after, in one way or another, by local folk. They managed to get by on very little, but I don’t think they ever had much.

The photograph shared in this week’s adventure was made during a blizzard in Boothbay Harbor during the late 1980s. I was out and about with camera, stopping by Mac Andrews Gulf station for gas when I spotted Mr. Johnson walking down Townsend Avenue against traffic. I made the photo then urged him to try the sidewalk option. It was cold and blustery but I could tell Cecil was feeling no pain. He said the sidewalks weren’t cleared, which was why he had chosen the street. That image became the cover of my second black and white book, “NEAR HOME.” It had not occurred to me at the time, that a book was in the works but ultimately something about the photograph meant more to me as I guided Mr. Johnson to a safer lane!

Cecil was sort of a street person. I only recall his “home base” at Pat’s Pond in a rickety old tent-like structure which, in an attempt to adjust its thermostat, set the woods on fire. One other eventful relocation attempt sent Cecil and his brother to Florida, but they never made it and were back soon. Riding the dog as we used to say! “Greyhound.”

I lost track of Mr. Johnson when he eventually, due to failing health, relocated to the veteran’s home in Augusta. The memory of his stroll down Townsend Avenue stuck with me and to this day reminds me of his unique character.