January 22, 2004 - 11:57 p.m.
The lessons of this business creep up from the strangest places.
Today, I learned one from a guy named Ernie, who earned a reputation on our campus for his habit. Every day, especially when there was an athletic event, the older man with the scruffy white beard and gaunt frame would get on his bicycle and ride around collecting cans, which he later would return for money at Goodrich's Market on Trowbridge Road.
But what no one knew about the guy we all called "Ernie the Can Man" was that he was born in Vienna, Austria, became an American citizen in 1945, and was the son of an MSU horticulture professor. No one knew he had two brothers (one in West Hartford, CT and the other in Rochester, Minn. -- both affluent communities) and no one knew that he still lived in the house he grew up in. No one except his brothers -- with whom he hadn't spoken in two years -- knew he hated all technology except his radio and, for that reason, had his phone disconnected. And no one -- not even his brothers -- knew that his house had no heat.
And because no one knew that, and because it's been so cold lately, Ernie died, in his house, of hypothermia.
When the news of Ernie's death began circulating through the student body here, people started asking questions. One person called and yelled at our production manager because this newspaper missed the death of such a well-known man. It's no surprise -- Ernie was easy to notice but last to speak. He exchanged niceties with people near him, but the conversation rarely went beyond that.
But what I witnessed in the wake of his passing has been remarkable. Employees of the store at which he returned his cans expressed profound grief at his loss. People -- random people! -- on the street knew who he was and were shocked and saddened by the news. Neighbors said he was a good guy, and when they returned from the holiday break and didn't see him coming and going from his house, they noticed "almost immediately."
And when I walked into the back of our newsroom tonight, damned if four staffers, managing editor included, weren't flipping through back editions of the newspaper looking for a story someone said we once did on the man. Searching through the inky bound volumes from up to 10 years ago, trying to find the one voice that people rarely heard and that the story so desperately needed -- Ernie's voice.
We didn't find Ernie's voice, just remembrances of a humble man who collected cans to keep himself going, and who never asked for much more than a "hello" every now and then and maybe, just maybe, a little peace and quiet.
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