Celebrant Pam Meily Vetter


	Celebrating Life Everyone Has A Story...

Henry Resolved Mack II was born in 1924 in Dover, Delaware, the youngest of three children born to Christobel Brown Mack and Warren Williams Mack. As state highway commissioner, W.W. Mack supervised the construction of the first dual highway in the country and quickly saw the need for a state police force. So, as the son of a strict disciplinarian, Henry had to behave, at least most of the time. The state police officer who picked him up hitch-hiking one day and offered to drive him home when he found out who Henry's father was, also realized the dilemma both were in and gladly dropped Henry off a block from his home.

Henry spent his summers on Caspian Lake in a cottage his grandfather built in 1907. Mackville, just below Hardwick, is named for his family. Henry's parents held great value for education, so it is not surprising that Henry would graduate from St. John's College with a degree in Philosophy and Literature. At the time of World War II, Henry struggled greatly with his conviction that war was never the answer. He became a Conscientious Objector when few had heard of the term. His niece remembers him speaking about war in Quaker Meeting with tears streaming down his face. In his alternative service, Henry offered himself as a medical guinea pig: The military gave him malaria and then tested cures on him. Consequently, his body was not accepted by UVM for medical study after his death.

After his alternative service, Henry entered theology school at Boston University. That wasn't a perfect fit, and he shifted to socialwork, in which he finally got his Masters degree. But Henry's empathy for others meant he often got too close to his clients. He had no professional distance, he was simply too human. So Henry finally left socialwork and became a taxi driver and a house painter. During his years in Boston, Henry tried marriage, first to Doris May and later to Mildred. He fathered no children of his own, but Mildred's five have fond memories of the time Henry spent in their lives and his devotion to the equality of the races at a time when interracial marriage was uncommon. He was everyone's favorite uncle. Tired of the demands of city living, Henry returned to his family's roots in Vermont in the late 1970s, living a catch-as-catch-can kind of life and making friends everywhere he went, even or especially with the local cops.

The following letter-to-the-editor appeared in the Barre-Montpelier Times Argus about 1978 under the title, "Obituary for a House": A small article on Nov. 5 reported that "wood, tires, and rubbish" were burned in a blaze extinguished by Barre fire fighters by the railroad tracks near B&D Beverage. What burned, in fact, was a dwelling: a railroad encampment belonging to a man named Henry, hobo without a train, poet in the Bardic tradition (Henry writes long Vermont ballads which he has committed to memory and recites powerfully to anyone who'd like to listen). My friend and I had the opportunity to visit Henry's house two days before it was destroyed. Built from scrap metal and lumber, it stood as a fine example of the architecture of survival. The stove was made from a pretzel can. Henry slept on the ground in a tiny bedroom, defined by a piece of corrugated sheet metal that reflected the heat from his stove. A plank, holding salvaged cans of food and utensils, served as the kitchen area. The living room consisted of a dinette chair protected from the weather by an umbrella. The structure was ingenious, the sanctuary that most of us give thousands of dollars and our independence in order to get. Henry chose to live simply instead, in his own style, living on those things the rest of us throw out. He got most of his food from the backs of stores; Henry explained to us that good food is cast out daily because the packaging has been slightly damaged and is not acceptable to the American consumer. For cash, he collects redeemable cans and bottles. Henry shares his food with people and with animals, and created enough room in his house to put up anyone passing through who needed shelter. We hope that Henry is well and has found shelter, and that his poems, composed mainly under the small umbrella, have not been destroyed. Architect and friend, Chelsea, VT

On September 28, at the age of 84, Henry Mack died in the care of Kate and other staff who gave him shelter at St. Joseph's in Burlington. For those wishing to make a contribution in his memory, please consider the Athaneum Library in St. Johnsbury, the Friends World Service Committee, the Peace and Justice Center, the Fletcher Free Library, or Vermont Catholic Charities

Letter to the editor:

I don't know if you read the obituary of Henry Resolved Mack II in the Oct. 1 edition, but if you could find a moment in your busy day to read it, you will greatly enjoy it.

I got to know Henry in my days in the '70s in the department of corrections. I first met him on a visit to the old St. Johnsbury jail on Cherry Street. At first I thought he was a staff member as he was busy serving meals to the other inmates and generally seemed to be helpful to everyone.

Over the years, I developed a delightful relationship with him.

Some would call him a vagrant, but he was a man in touch with the natural world. He lived often outdoors and under culverts, was well read, was a poet, and could converse well on just about anything. For several years, when he would spend time in the winter in the warm jails, he would write me poetry on toilet paper and send them to me at central office.

The obituary mentioned that he knew all the policemen in the small towns on a first-name basis. When it would get cold, Henry would approach a cop and let him know that he was going to steal a candy bar at so and so's store. Sure enough, Henry would enter the store with the police officer behind him, take a candy bar, and be put under arrest, whereby the police officer would pay for the candy bar and escort Henry to the nearest jail. (His favorite was St. Johnsbury where all of the staff knew and cared for him.) The relationship finally would get to the point where the police would escort Henry to St. J. without even going through the candy bar charade, and the jailers would wink and offer Henry a "room" with no paperwork. Most of the time, Henry's stays at the jail were completely off book. (This was in the '70s when Vermont had a grand total of 400 prisoners in its jails.)

In the 1990s, when I was Secretary of Human Services, on his way through Waterbury, Henry would occasionally stop in and we'd have lunch at the cafeteria and I would have the chance to catch up on Henry's view of the world.

Given his lifestyle, I never would have believed that Henry would make it to 82. But he was a man who was at peace with the world, and the would treated him in kind.

Con Hogan
Plainfield

Letter to the editor:

In awaking, I found the world was a slightly dimmer place as I read the passing of Henry Mack. For the past 15 years, I had the pleasure of enlightenment by Mr. Mack's unique insight on various topics, and his lavish writing style. Henry was a true Burlington iconic character. On endless occasions, Henry would hail myself or former co-workers with a quip observation or account of his "privileged youth." I will forever remember the story of his pet hawk as a child, or the account of how the town drunk won the derby by planting a deceased pig in a pond attracting a large catfish.

Henry's penmanship was glorious, always calligraphic, beautiful and artistic. I could envision Henry writing with ink and quill by candle light as the letters flowed flawlessly. Although the content was sometimes confusing, it was highly prized. One writing in particular will be ingrained in my mind for eternity, somewhat risque, but entertaining none the less. I have told this anecdote countless times at parties, always looking over my shoulder before I began. Stop me sometime and I'll tell you what he wrote.

I will miss the short visits with Henry on Marketplace. I will miss his distinct voice and the sight of Henry sitting on a bench watching birds with field glasses, smoking his pipe. Rest in peace Henry Mack.

James Brigham
South Burlington