Monte Parker (Photo property of Whidbey News-Times)
She was a rascal.
Perpetually puffing away on a cigarette, smoke curling from beneath her winter jacket, one eyebrow cocked, offering free chocolate and a swift kick to the ass in equal measure, Monte Parker wasn’t your sweet ol’ granny.
The undisputed Godmother of the North Whidbey Help House, she had a thousand tales to tell, only a few of which were remotely PG-rated.
An old-school pool hall hustler who knew where all the metaphorical bodies were buried (because she put most of them there herself), she could be equal parts sassy, wicked and sweet-natured.
She was already a legend at the Help House when I first arrived.
Camped out in front of the building, waiting for the van to arrive with that day’s donations from area grocery stores, Monte cut an imposing figure, while spending most of her time sitting down.
By the time I met her, she was using a walker, and she would use it to block off the main parking spot, so the van would have a spot to alight upon its return.
Time and again, newbies and lazy butts alike would try to buffalo her, pulling their cars half into the slot, as if that would cause her to move.
They didn’t know Monte very well.
First came the gaze, then the sigh, a little bit of “You’re gonna have to move, darlin’,” quickly followed by “Yes, jagoff, I’m talkin’ to you,” if you were stupid enough to get mouthy with her.
Then the walker started to lurch forward, a spray of ash preceding her, an enforcer whose iron spirit made up for whatever psychical strength she might have lost.
Treat her nicely, speak to her with respect, listen to her stories, give her a hug, and it was as if she had known you all her life.
Monte knew everyone, those who worked or volunteered and those who used the Help House for aid (at various times, I have been on both sides), and she treated you in the manner you earned.
Be mean, be ungrateful, be a “freakin’ jagoff,” and she would cut you a million ways, each sarcasm-tipped word slicing through the cloud of cigarette smoke and landing like an uppercut to the jaw.
But when Monte liked you (and she liked me from day one), she was your staunchest defender, your most loyal companion, your best entertainment.
Tales of Hawaii, of pool hall hustling, of being a cop’s kid in a small town, liberally spiced with a wicked sense of humor, and, underneath it, a genuine, if sometimes carefully hidden, sweetness.
I spent several years being a semi-regular presence at the Help House, a client who later rode the delivery truck as a volunteer.
During that time, I saw the best and worst of lives touched by need.
I witnessed great sacrifice, big moments and small gestures as people found, or retained, a bit of humanity, by helping others.
And I saw my share of mental illness, greed and grasping, of people unwilling or, far more often, unable, to get past the hardships which are destroying them piece by piece.
Live long enough in the world of a daily food bank, and the lessons once learned while working in a liquor store are reinforced.
Everyone, myself included, has a story.
Some are tragic, some are scary, and trust is something you really, really want to be careful about handing out.
Monte cut through all the crap.
She gave everyone a shot, but she could read your soul and she was unrelenting. Burn her, and she would never forget. Ever.
Bring a smile to her face, and she was yours forever.
While I still pop in to the Help House here and there, my time of being there on almost a daily basis came to an end about the same time Monte’s did.
Her health, which was never great, got much worse and she ended up in a care facility in Anacortes.
I would go to visit her (someone had to sneak in the candy the doctors were naive enough to believe they could prevent her from having), and it was, frankly, surreal.
Monte spent much of that time camped out in the same room my aunt Loni occupied a few years before.
The two shared a lot in common, from their ability to absolutely, positively cheese off a lot of people, to their ability to spin a yarn or three hundred – some of which might actually have been true.
She was in a lot of pain at that point, thanks to major damage to her back, something doctors misdiagnosed for quite awhile (“They’re idiots, dear, freakin’ jagoffs,” was Monte’s assessment).
She was frustrated at being restricted to a small room, unable to bounce from the Help House to the local bar (where she enjoyed the soup, having given up “the hooch” from her earlier days) to Wal-Mart.
But her sense of humor and her utter willingness to be a needle puncturing pompous people, was intact.
One of the final times I saw her she was camped atop her bed, sharing space with the care facility cat, who had adopted her, snipping away with a pair of scissors, working on a “top-secret” art project.
After making sure I had snuck in the right kind of candy, and that it was properly hidden, she unfolded the paper, revealing the word she had so carefully cut out.
It was a surprise gift for a nurse who she both liked and was ticked at for making too much noise outside her room the night before.
The paper unfurled, and, a huge grin creeping across her face, Monte held up the art work, one word illuminated by the late afternoon sun.
FUCKNUT.
And then Monte laughed and laughed and laughed some more, a pistol to the end.
The North Whidbey Help House (1091 SE Hathaway in Oak Harbor) is hosting a gathering to remember Monte 10 AM Saturday, Jan. 13, 2018. Some of the stories may even be PG-rated.
