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NYtimes May 11, 2005 "An Old Hand, Betrayed by His Belt" Dan Barry
JOE GILLUM of Harlem fell from the sky last week. He plummeted silently through the air of a Silk Stocking neighborhood and broke upon impact, as did that extra appendage of his, a squeegee.
He washed windows for a living, often working so high above the ground that your hands perspire just thinking of it. At 68, he was still strapping on his trusty old belt - too old, it turned out, and not so trusty - and suspending himself in the air, his back to the world, his silhouette reflected in the soot-caked windows of others.
Until last Thursday, that is, when he dropped nine stories in about the time it takes to soak a rag in a pail of soapy water. Up above, the two canvas straps that he had secured to the sides of the window could do nothing now but wave goodbye in the breeze.
The initial police report on his accidental death attached his middle initial of L to the end of his given name, and so in most of the brief news accounts he was rechristened Joel Gillum. "It was Joe," said his wife, Ollie. "It was Joe."
Mrs. Gillum, 67, small-boned and white-haired, sat deep in a couch's hug in the worn apartment on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard that she had shared with her husband for more than 30 years. She seemed composed, but this was Monday morning, within the exhausting awkwardness that comes after the death and before the wake.
The telephone beside her rang again, but her sister-in-law, Marie Colbert, in from Oklahoma for the funeral, was fielding calls and jotting messages in a spiral-bound notebook. "Thank you for calling," Mrs. Colbert said again into the receiver.
Some of the callers were friends and relatives. Others were wondering where their window washer was. "His clients don't know," Mrs. Gillum said. "They're expecting him today."
Joe Gillum, of Georgia, and Ollie Colbert, of Oklahoma, met nearly 49 years ago in a Harlem nightclub on Eighth Avenue. He was working in a hospital morgue then, and she was setting fake gems in costume jewelry at some factory. They talked about where they came from, how they had wound up in New York City - jobs, basically - and what they liked and disliked. At some point she revealed her love for apricots. Next day, here comes Joe Gillum, bearing apricots.
They married in 1957, and shared more fruit, bitter and sweet. The first child, Joe, died in infancy. The second child, Sabrina, would give them three grandchildren. And one of those three would give them a great-grandson.
The years can blur into one long workday. But Mrs. Gillum said she is sure that her husband started his own window- and floor-cleaning business in the mid-60's, because it was after President Kennedy's assassination and before Martin Luther King Jr.'s.
After 30 years of wrestling electric sanders over parquet floors - those machines have minds of their own - his back hurt so much that he decided a decade ago to concentrate on windows. By then he had built up a good clientele, which meant that every spring he was out, and up.
"He never was afraid of heights," said Mrs. Gillum, her eyes looking for distraction from a muttering television.
"That was his life," said her brother, Nemiah Colbert. "That's what he did for a living."
The telephone rang again. "They're calling for him to come to work today," Mrs. Gillum said to the television.
LAST Thursday morning, the Gillums made plans to go food shopping that evening. Mrs. Gillum told her husband that she might be a little late from her job minding an apartment on the Upper West Side. "His last words, and it was so soft," she said, "was, 'I'll be right here waiting for you.' "
Then Mr. Gillum headed for a job at a nice brick apartment building at 430 East 57th Street, carrying, his wife recalled, "his belt, his pail, and his squeegee." When asked whether her husband ever updated his equipment, Mrs. Gillum slowly shook her head and said, "Uh-uh."
By 11, he was dead. By noon, his blood had been scrubbed and sprayed from the sidewalk by one of the building's employees. And by the afternoon, a neighbor of the Gillums who had spoken to detectives had taped a note to their door, saying, "Please see me, it's an emergency."
A funeral service was held at Canaan Baptist Church in Harlem yesterday morning, followed by the long ride out to Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island for the burial of a fallen window washer.
For the record, his name was Joe Gillum. Joe L. Gillum.
las flores del vicio
back
NYtimes May 11, 2005 "An Old Hand, Betrayed by His Belt" Dan Barry
JOE GILLUM of Harlem fell from the sky last week. He plummeted silently through the air of a Silk Stocking neighborhood and broke upon impact, as did that extra appendage of his, a squeegee.
He washed windows for a living, often working so high above the ground that your hands perspire just thinking of it. At 68, he was still strapping on his trusty old belt - too old, it turned out, and not so trusty - and suspending himself in the air, his back to the world, his silhouette reflected in the soot-caked windows of others.
Until last Thursday, that is, when he dropped nine stories in about the time it takes to soak a rag in a pail of soapy water. Up above, the two canvas straps that he had secured to the sides of the window could do nothing now but wave goodbye in the breeze.
The initial police report on his accidental death attached his middle initial of L to the end of his given name, and so in most of the brief news accounts he was rechristened Joel Gillum. "It was Joe," said his wife, Ollie. "It was Joe."
Mrs. Gillum, 67, small-boned and white-haired, sat deep in a couch's hug in the worn apartment on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard that she had shared with her husband for more than 30 years. She seemed composed, but this was Monday morning, within the exhausting awkwardness that comes after the death and before the wake.
The telephone beside her rang again, but her sister-in-law, Marie Colbert, in from Oklahoma for the funeral, was fielding calls and jotting messages in a spiral-bound notebook. "Thank you for calling," Mrs. Colbert said again into the receiver.
Some of the callers were friends and relatives. Others were wondering where their window washer was. "His clients don't know," Mrs. Gillum said. "They're expecting him today."
Joe Gillum, of Georgia, and Ollie Colbert, of Oklahoma, met nearly 49 years ago in a Harlem nightclub on Eighth Avenue. He was working in a hospital morgue then, and she was setting fake gems in costume jewelry at some factory. They talked about where they came from, how they had wound up in New York City - jobs, basically - and what they liked and disliked. At some point she revealed her love for apricots. Next day, here comes Joe Gillum, bearing apricots.
They married in 1957, and shared more fruit, bitter and sweet. The first child, Joe, died in infancy. The second child, Sabrina, would give them three grandchildren. And one of those three would give them a great-grandson.
The years can blur into one long workday. But Mrs. Gillum said she is sure that her husband started his own window- and floor-cleaning business in the mid-60's, because it was after President Kennedy's assassination and before Martin Luther King Jr.'s.
After 30 years of wrestling electric sanders over parquet floors - those machines have minds of their own - his back hurt so much that he decided a decade ago to concentrate on windows. By then he had built up a good clientele, which meant that every spring he was out, and up.
"He never was afraid of heights," said Mrs. Gillum, her eyes looking for distraction from a muttering television.
"That was his life," said her brother, Nemiah Colbert. "That's what he did for a living."
The telephone rang again. "They're calling for him to come to work today," Mrs. Gillum said to the television.
LAST Thursday morning, the Gillums made plans to go food shopping that evening. Mrs. Gillum told her husband that she might be a little late from her job minding an apartment on the Upper West Side. "His last words, and it was so soft," she said, "was, 'I'll be right here waiting for you.' "
Then Mr. Gillum headed for a job at a nice brick apartment building at 430 East 57th Street, carrying, his wife recalled, "his belt, his pail, and his squeegee." When asked whether her husband ever updated his equipment, Mrs. Gillum slowly shook her head and said, "Uh-uh."
By 11, he was dead. By noon, his blood had been scrubbed and sprayed from the sidewalk by one of the building's employees. And by the afternoon, a neighbor of the Gillums who had spoken to detectives had taped a note to their door, saying, "Please see me, it's an emergency."
A funeral service was held at Canaan Baptist Church in Harlem yesterday morning, followed by the long ride out to Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island for the burial of a fallen window washer.
For the record, his name was Joe Gillum. Joe L. Gillum.
las flores del vicio
