The Santa Claus Man

The true story of Patrick will move you to tears

I stopped him on the street to check him out – see if he was wanted.  Little did I know that it would take me years to unravel the mystery that surrounded him and what I found would change my life.

By Kent Wyatt

I first noticed Patrick in 2007 as he was walking along Highway 54 in front of Meade Lumber. I could tell he was a transient, as we in law enforcement referred to the ones who wandered from town to town – or as they are more commonly known “the homeless.” I would later hear someone describe Patrick as “a gentleman of the road.” I could tell his condition in life by the old coat he wore with all the pockets bulging and the large bundle of blankets he carried. He was dirty but not filthy. His hair and beard were long and mostly white. He was a heavy man and with the pack on his back and he looked like Santa Claus.

I stopped and asked to speak with him. We always check on transients that come through to make sure we don’t have a dangerous person coming into town. He was quiet and seemed afraid of me but he knew the drill. I am sure he had been through it many times in his life – I could tell he was elderly. He said that he had no ID but he gave me his name, Patrick Sassaman, and date of birth when I asked. I noticed that he used very short sentences and he seemed a little mentally limited. I was used to that. Transients are usually suffering from a mental deficiency or illness of some sort. It is not illegal to be mentally ill but it is socially unacceptable. Anything that is wrong with your body from the neck down seems to be tolerable but the human brain is separate and any ailment that strikes that part of the body is considered, somehow, the fault of the person inside. Not to say that sometimes, through drugs or other abuse, it is not true, but the cause does not seem to matter to us as a culture. You can’t help it if your kidneys or liver stop functioning but there is no excuse for your brain not to work correctly.

Everything checked out with Patrick and we quickly parted company because it appeared he wanted it that way. The rest of the day, I saw him at various, entrances to businesses, begging I thought, but I never saw him approach anyone and since he was discreet, I did not bother him – he seemed harmless. Later, I would learn that Patrick never asked for money, he just looked pathetic enough that people gave spontaneously. “He has it down to an art,” I thought. The next day, Patrick was gone.

Over the years, I saw Patrick many times. He would come through several times a year in the warmer months and I would stop him just to be sure that he had not acquired some warrant for himself somewhere in his travels. Eventually, I checked for warrants infrequently but I still stopped to talk because Patrick seemed so gentle and vulnerable. I began to develop a fondness for him. He was like a stray dog that comes around for scraps that you eventually get attached to. I would always say, “Hi, Patrick,” and he would raise his hand slightly and make a minor bow of his head as acknowledgement of my greeting. I never got more than a few short sentences out of him but it was enough that I considered it my relationship with Patrick.

In February of 2013, I noticed Patrick in town again, here and there. The next day he was still in town – not unheard of. As several days went by and the weather got colder, I knew that something was different. Perhaps Patrick had decided this was his home. But as I watched him, I noticed that something was wrong. Patrick was moving slower and his walk was more of a staggering progression. He had never been anything close to fast, but now I could tell that he had a problem. When I spoke to him and asked him if he was all right he gave his normal raise of his hand and patted the air just slightly. I had come to know this as his signal that he was okay – but I was not convinced.

The weather was predicting frigid cold and a significant accumulation of snow, and there was Patrick. I found him stumbling along a downtown alley. He gave his air-patting-slight head nod response to my concern. I explained about the storm that was moving in. “Where will you stay?” In his short sentence style he told me that he would find some place out of the wind. He took the information about the storm with resignation. It was interesting to me that he showed more fear on his first contacts with me than he showed for the coming storm. I am sure that it was true that people had always been the biggest threat to Patrick – he had weathered storms before.

But, I was fearful for Patrick. I drove away and called my wife. What could we do with Patrick? My spouse had her own handicap. She had shattered her leg and could not leave her bed. I could not ask her to bring a homeless man, which I knew only from my brief street contacts, into our home when she was completely helpless and I would not be there. Can we afford to put him in a motel? Not really, hospital bills had taken a toll on us the last few years, but what else could we do. My wife was a veteran at sacrificial giving – she had grown up desperately poor, the daughter of a traveling preacher. She had often survived on the kindness of strangers. She was quick to make the commitment.

When I went looking for Patrick, however, I could not find him. Calls came in and took my attention away from the search. It was getting dark and the cold was blowing in. I asked another officer to help me find him and eventually the officer radioed and told me that Patrick was sleeping in a recessed doorway of a downtown business. When I found him, he was propped up against his bundle of blankets, still wearing his heavy coat and stocking cap. The blankets were more to keep the cold from seeping into him from the ground then they were to cover him from the air. Living on the street is an art all its own.

Later, another officer would share with me an experience he had with Patrick. The officer had seen Patrick sleeping in such a situation on a cold night and before morning he noticed that someone had laid a coat over Patrick in the night.

It was an expensive heavy duty work coat, I am sure the benefactor had thought it was just what a “gentleman of the road,” would need. The Officer said that in the morning the business complained and wanted Patrick moved. When the Officer explained the situation to Patrick, he got up without a word and gathered up his belongings and started to leave without taking the new coat. The Officer told him about it and Patrick said, “That’s not mine.”
“I am sure someone wanted you to have it,” the Officer said giving Patrick leave to take the contribution. But Patrick explained that the coat was too heavy for him to carry. Patrick left and the coat remained in the door way, no doubt an eventual gift to the owner of the business that had sent him packing.

Seeing Patrick in the doorway that night, melted my heart. “Patrick,” I said, “I want to take you to a motel and get you a room. I don’t want you to stay out here tonight. He hesitated a moment and then began to get up and gather his things. I had a hard time getting him into the front seat of my patrol car.

The seatbelt would barely fit around his large frame plus the heavy coat stuffed with all his belongings. I finally won the battle, forced Patrick’s bundle into my trunk and drove him to the Budget Inn, the most inexpensive motel that I knew of. I paid for two nights. The owners, knew Patrick – they had helped him before and were glad to get him set up in a room.

The storm rolled in and Patrick did not leave his room for several days because of the ice. I was worried he would fall. The weather continued to be cold and I continued to pay for Patrick’s rooms and groceries but was running out of money. I began to look around for other people to help Patrick. One of the other officers helped and that bought me a little more time. Then I met Janice Glass, the new Adult Protective Services, worker at the Kansas Department of Children and Families. She was able to find emergency money from the State, solicited donations from the community, and even put in money of her own. Walt Stockwell also became a new friend as he came on board personally and through Pass-it-Forward of Pratt. Many churches began to help and Patrick was able to stay in the room at the Budget Inn.

Often, when I came to tell him that we had found money from some new source, he would start gathering up his things (before I could say anything) thinking that I had come to tell him he had to get out. Patrick always kept track when I told him that someone had paid for his room. He would remember far better than I could, when he was scheduled to have to check out. He would tell me that he had to be out on such and such a day and he would be ready to leave.

This was the first time I started to notice that despite Patrick’s obvious mental handicap he had an extraordinary ability to mentally keep track of times and days. At the time, I attributed it to years of living on the road. It was not until later that I would add this with a number of other clues to unravel the mystery of Patrick.

At the present, I was busy thanking God for little miracles and trying to figure a plan for Patrick. Each time he was on the verge of having to check out, someone would pay for a few more days. The owners of the Budget Inn would often give a room or two for free when someone else would pay for some rooms. I knew, however, that it could not go on.

So, I persuaded Patrick to go with me to meet with Janice Glass. I told him the date and time of the appointment not really expecting a man who had no watch or calendar to know when that was. I also wondered if he would trust me – would he even be there when I arrived to get him or would his fears have pushed him down the road again, despite his disabilities? When the date came, however, I was surprised to find Patrick waiting with his motel room door open. I seemed to be gaining his trust – later I would realize why.  Patrick put everything he owned in his coat pockets just like he did each time he left his room. Years of moving from place to place, no doubt, had taught him that he had no guarantee that his things would be there when he returned so he had better take them with him. I also suspected that he never knew, when he left somewhere, if he would be returning to that place. I tried to tell him that he would be coming back but he still loaded up his belongings making it even harder to get the seat belt, of my compact car, latched around Patrick.

In Janice’s office, Patrick, answered her questions as best he could in his short sentence style. He was even able to pull out a ragged social security card as identification. I filled in what I could and we were able to get the paperwork completed.

We discovered that Patrick had worked at a job in California long enough to collect social security. It was difficult to tell from Patrick’s description of the type of work he did but I think it might have been at a warehouse of some type. Patrick also told us that he was in the Marines but Janice could find no record of this so we dismissed it as perhaps a little delusion setting in – I was used to homeless people telling far greater whoppers than that.

As I listened to Patrick talk to Janice, I began to notice something else that would, later, fill in pieces of the puzzle. He was not ignorant, though he said he could not read very much. At times he would use unusual words revealing a more extensive vocabulary. He once told me that he needed to “procure” some tobacco for his pipe. But Patrick had a hard time making those words come out. He would say the first part of a sentence with little difficulty and then come to a dead-end that he could not get around. He would stammer and stutter and become so frustrated that at times his face would turn red. He would hold his hands out in front of him like he was holding a bucket ready to fill it with words that never came. In obvious agony over his inability to tell me what he wanted to say, he would work his hands up and down searching desperately for a way to get his ideas out. It was torturing to both of us that such an inquiry as, what type of lunch meat he wanted me to buy him, could end in such exasperating defeat. I would make suggestions, hoping to hit upon the words he was searching for but it always seemed to make matters worse as Patrick became more and more perturbed. I finally gave up trying to have any long conversations with Patrick. I designed my questions so that he could respond with short simple answers – often just yes or no.

It would take many more weeks of paperwork and phone calls before we could get Patrick out of the motel and into a house. Most of the churches in the area helped, either on their own or through the Ministerial Alliance, in paying for Patrick’s room at the Budget Inn, while we waited. Janice and Walt Stockwell spent much of their own time and money searching for funding for Patrick while we waded through the slow government process.

I kept him in groceries and my shopping for him led to my next revelation about Patrick. He seemed to be picky about his food. At the beginning, I provided him with some plastic bowls and silverware and bought Ramen noodles and baloney sandwiches. I did not know how long I would have to keep him in the motel on my own so I figured “beggars can’t be choosers” and told myself, at least he has food. His motel room had a microwave. For some reason it was unplugged, so I plugged it back in and showed him how to use it to heat his noodles. Patrick watched without comment.

One of the women that cleaned at the motel saw me bringing things to Patrick and related a story to me. She said she had brought him some groceries one time but had determined not to help Patrick anymore because of what he did. She explained that she had held out a bag of food items that she had purchased for Patrick – nice canned soups and microwave entrées – and asked him if he could use it. Instead of taking the items with thankfulness, Patrick began to pick through them and returned most of it to the woman. She was, as you can imagine, shocked and appalled. He must not need the help if he would turn up his nose at her offerings. I came away disappointed in Patrick. Had he no gratitude? Perhaps he had become a junk food junkie from all the fast food meals he had been given. Well, I would still help him because he was old and simple but I would look for an opportunity to try to correct such ungrateful behavior and I certainly would not be spoiling him.

Fortunately, Janice was able to get him a food stamps card fairly quickly. I determined since it was Patrick’s card he could do his own shopping. I would give him a ride to Wal-mart and show him how to use it and just see what he bought for himself. Patrick seemed nervous in the Wal-mart; even scared. He found the canned food aisle and picked out the cheapest potted meat and canned spaghetti and meatballs and then picked up the cheapest loaf of bread. He was ready to leave. He obviously did not realize how much money he had to spend. I encouraged him to buy more so we did not have to come back so soon. I grabbed him a more expensive can of soup. Patrick rejected it for a different can, one with a pull tab – I began to wonder. “Patrick, do you have a can opener?” Patrick shook his head and told me he did not. No wonder he had rejected the woman’s soup – he had no way to open it. I thought all transients had a can opener but Patrick did not. “Do you want to buy a can opener, Patrick?” He shook his head again. In his slow faltering way, he explained that his hands did not work right. It was hard for him to use even such a simple device. Arthritis, I suspected. Later, I would learn it was more than that.

When we got his groceries back to the motel room, Patrick immediately took out a can of soup and pulled the pull-tab top off and began to eat it with a spoon, right out of the can. I thought boy he must have been hungry. Then it hit me – on the road, he had no microwave – this was the way he always ate his meals. I looked at his microwave and noticed that it was unplugged again and the small coffee maker that was supplied by the motel was plugged into the outlet instead.

I began to take stock in his food choices; they were all things that he could eat right out of the can. He even expressed to me once that he did not want anything that he had to cook. With Patrick, it was not laziness; it was habit and perhaps more of his disability. I thought the mystery of the microwave was solved – but, again, there was still more for me to learn.

I was always learning something new about Patrick. I constantly found people who were helping him that I did not know about. It seemed when I would describe the Santa Claus man to someone, they would recognize the description immediately and tell me of sometime when they gave him a meal or a ride somewhere. It was touching to see how many people had helped him, but the tone in their voices always betrayed the fact ladieathat the experience helped them as well.

Each Christmas season, Pratt’s hospital placed a Nativity Scene on their property, at the corner of one of the main intersections in town. One man told me of a time that he had seen Patrick just standing there staring at the Manger Scene. It seemed to have moved the man.

Whenever I spoke to Patrick about God he said he “didn’t know about that stuff.” Patrick might not have known about God, but God sure knew about him and seemed to use him wherever he went.

His popularity was also amazing. I took Patrick to Don’s Servateria for Easter dinner. When Patrick came through the door, the waitresses were, “Hi Patrick, where do you want to sit Patrick, here is some gravy for your potatoes Patrick, how about a piece of this pie Patrick? Patrick was the king of this smorgasbord. No wonder he liked it.
As we left, I asked one of the waitresses how often Patrick came in and she told me, “Oh about every day.” No wonder they liked him.

I began to wonder if an elderly homeless guy was pulling a fast one on me. I didn’t eat this good. Perhaps Patrick was a wealthy eccentric roaming the back roads. How was he paying for this? Then the waitress explained that they kept a running tab for Patrick and people would donate to it. That was how Patrick kept his Santa Claus figure. Again, everyone seemed to feel good about helping Patrick. As, I walked him out to my car, I realized that a good meal was all Patrick had in this life – who was I to think ill of him for it.

I felt affirmed in that when I soon saw the other side of Patrick’s life. Janice Glass took it upon herself to get Patrick a haircut. During our many paperwork sessions, in the fight to get his Social Security benefits, she had stared at his tangled hair and ratty beard and decided something had to be done. She came back with Patrick unchanged. She confided in me that the barber she had taken him to would not let Patrick in the shop because of the way that Patrick looked. I guess you have to be beautiful to get beautified.

In Janice’s efforts to help Patrick, she ran across other strange vignettes of prejudicial hypocrisy. One of the liquor stores would not donate to Patrick’s motel bill because Patrick came in and bought a bottle of alcohol sometimes. I ran that one around in my head a few times but never could understand it. That was the first time that I discovered that Patrick drank.

When Tiffany Brown, from the Pratt TLC (an organization that provides services to the elderly) heard about Janice’s experience at the barber, she was appalled. She came and got Patrick, and carted him to another barber and never gave them a chance to refuse him. She marched him in and sat him down and instructed the barber to cut. Patrick came out freshly shorn and clean shaven. He did not look like himself. But it was good for Patrick’s crop to get a fresh start. In a few months, he had his old Santa Claus beard back, looking better than ever.

Finally, the day came that Patrick’s Social Security came in. We got Patrick a small house that used to be a chicken coup. It was tiny, but it had been fixed up very nicely and it was all he could afford on the meager benefits he was getting. Yet, it was a mansion to Patrick. As I got him settled, I told him over and over that this was his house and he would not have to leave. At first he seemed doubtful and still wondered when he would have to check out of this new place. It was over a month when I finally noticed that he stopped loading up his belongings in his pockets when I came to take him some place. It was a huge milestone – perhaps Patrick was finally home.

Other habits would die with Patrick. Walt Stockwell had worked hard to find Patrick a bed, through Pass it Forward. It was a nice full size bed that fit Patrick’s small bedroom perfectly with a small lamp stand beside it. When I showed it to Patrick, he laid down on it and I think he slept on it one time. After that he used it as a place to store his clean clothes. When I came early or when I caught him napping, I found Patrick on the floor of his tiny house, just inside his door, lying propped up against his same bundle of blankets. In warm weather, he would have the door open with his back to it. Patrick was still sleeping in a doorway but I guess it was enough that at least he had moved inside.

But it was everything Patrick needed or wanted. He had just enough to pay for his rent and television. Patrick liked to watch television sometimes but usually it was the radio. We had a small table top radio that we did not use so we gave it to Patrick and he immediately took to it. It was an old dial type and Patrick seemed to know how to use it. Most times I would come to see him, Patrick would have the front door open and the small radio blaring. I deduced that Patrick had some hearing loss from several clues, including the volume of the radio. He had grown up in the sixties and Patrick loved the classic rock and roll station. He was the loudest thing in the neighborhood. But his neighbors loved him. The tiny house had been a home to unsavory characters before Patrick had come and the people living around were grateful to see the gentle Santa Clause man shuffling in and out and sitting by his front door, in his porch chair, listening to his old rock and roll, and smoking his pipe.

The pipe was another interesting look into Patrick’s disabilities. He loved to smoke his pipe. He would sit in his recliner (which he never reclined), and smoke and listen to his radio. But something had to be done about Patrick’s pipe.

It appeared to have been an expensive pipe at one time with silver designs around what used to be the bowl. But the bowl of Patrick’s pipe was almost gone – burned away from what appeared to be years of use. I determined, for Patrick’s sake, I would make a trip to the Pratt Cigarette Outlet, the only “smoke shop” in town. It was a place I had never been in, off duty. The ladies in the shop were nice and they knew all about “that Santa Clause looking guy.” He would come in every so often and purchase the cheapest pouch of pipe tobacco they had and a lighter. Before Patrick got his house, he would sit in the park or on the concrete in front of a convenience store, propped against his bundle of blankets, smoking his burned up pipe. One of the ladies told me that before she helped Patrick in the store, she had helped him on the street. She had given him food.

But Patrick was a man with means now and he needed a new pipe. The ladies ordered in a pipe for Patrick. We chose a brier wood pipe because it seemed to be the most popular. It was carved on the sides and a very elegant smoking device if I did say so; Patrick would be smoking in style. I presented it to him and he nodded and air patted in appreciation. A few days later, I checked on Patrick, I was anxious to see how he was getting along with his new pipe. To my astonishment, his new pipe looked just about like his old one, in less than a week he had burnt down the sides of the bowl.
Before I caught myself I said, “Patrick, what have you done? That was a $40 dollar pipe and you’ve ruined it.” Patrick was visibly shaken. He bowed his head to me more than usual and I could see fear in his eyes. His outstretched patting hand, seemed, this time, to be trying to calm me.  “I smoke.” Was the only explanation he could muster and he said it in a way that seemed to be begging me to understand.

Patrick had some vices that was clear, but I did not mind a little pipe smoking. Eventually, however, Patrick asked me to pick up some alcohol for him. I told him I did not drink and that was something that I could not help him with. After that, I noticed that Patrick had a bottle of alcohol in his refrigerator upon occasion. One day, my son Kwinn and I came to get Patrick his groceries. When he did not come to the door, I used my key. (I had established with Patrick that it was fine for me to come in and make his grocery list even when he was gone). We were surprised to find Patrick lying in his usual place in front of the door but something was wrong. It was much more difficult, than usual, for him to get up. Then the odor of the booze hit us. I had never seen Patrick drunk before. I saw the empty bottle of alcohol on the table beside his recliner.   “Patrick. That is too much alcohol. You cannot be drinking that much,” I told him. He listened without a word – I’m not sure he could speak. But, I never saw him drunk again and I never saw alcohol in his house anymore.

I learned many things, about Patrick, over the coming months. His shopping trips soon ended. When I told him I was going to take him to Wal-Mart, he did not want to go there. When I asked him why, he told me there were “too many words,” as he gently patted the space in front of him as if he was patting my head to soften the news for me. He had told me the same thing, early in our relationship, when I had asked him why he did not go to Wichita where there was more help for the homeless. I did not know if it was the labels and signs or the words people spoke, but it was another clue. Patrick obviously saw the world differently then most of us did.

His strange perspective led to some difficulties between us. Every week or two I would come to Patrick’s with the express purpose of making his grocery list. I gradually learned what he liked and kept the list of these items that I would just check or un-check as he ran out of them. There was chocolate pudding, lunch meat, cheese and bread of course, coffee, creamer and sugar, Jell-O fruit cups, milk, and orange juice (I got the kids kind with added vitamins and calcium to introduce as much nutrition into his limited diet as I could). These were all some of his staples. Other things he wavered back and forth on. In search of his likes and dislikes, I would, from time to time, try introducing something new into my purchases for him. Sometimes with great results and other times he would either give it back to me or it would sit on his refrigerator shelf until I removed it to make room for something else. I learned that if Patrick liked something, he sometimes binge on it until he was sick of it. Ice Cream bars were a huge success on first try. I bought him numerous types of bars for his freezer but after the first round he gave the next round back to me – I never found out why, but I wondered if something on television or radio spoke against ice cream.

I noticed that Patrick was influenced by such things and took them very seriously. One day, I noticed that Patrick had not been out walking. Even though it was a challenge for him, Patrick would usually head downtown everyday. I think it was a habit for survival that he could not break – in his mind; his job – everyday – was to be where people could help him. He would bundle up in his long sleeve shirt and heavy coat, no matter how hot it was. I tried to buy him light weight summer shirts but he gave them back to me saying, “Long sleeve is good.” He said that he needed to be covered.
“Yeah, but Patrick it’s 102 outside.”
“Long sleeve is good.”

And so it went. People would call me or the police department, Continuously, “Patrick is out walking in this heat with a heavy coat on!” But there was nothing that could be done. On some issues, Patrick was determined. Perhaps it was another radio spot on the dangers of UV rays. As I said he took those things very literally. I wish I had known why at the time.

One day I noticed that Patrick seemed to be hold up in his house and I was puzzled.
“Patrick are you going out today?” I said, just to gage his response.
He was at his door, holding it half closed and looking out as if he was looking for snipers. Then he finally revealed the source of his anxiety.
“Are those lions still loose on the streets?”
Oh boy, I thought. More delusions, just like his like his fantasy that he had been in the Marines. Well, I reminded myself, that is to be expected. Most homeless people are suffering from delusions. I should be thankful that Patrick did not display it often. I assured Patrick that there were no lions on the street.

He soon resumed his trek downtown, which consisted of going blocks out of his way. When I had first helped Patrick get into his little house, I had made the mistake of showing Patrick how to go to a convenience store that was nearby. I had thought it would be easier for him to go to this store to buy the few items he might need, between grocery runs, and it would keep him off highway 54 so he would not get run over. I had driven him over the route several times to make sure he knew it. I then found out he was still going to Don’s Servateria (his favorite restaurant) by taking this route which was a half mile of extra walking. Over and over I explained how to just go south from his house to get to Don’s and not go the long way round, but he would never take that route. Why wouldn’t he go the shorter way? He took the longer route faithfully, just as I had showed him, and seemed to have no trouble. Then something started to click in my brain, “showed him.” I had showed him the longer route, now I was trying to “tell” him the shorter route, which was far less complex.

Patrick was not deaf. He spoke English fine. Why was it so difficult for him to understand people. Why was it so hard for him to change his habits? Things started to nag at me in my brain. All of this was pointing to something important about Patrick and I wanted to figure it out. I knew he was not schizophrenic, I had dealt with plenty of schizophrenics on my job – I knew the signs. Likewise with bipolar disorder – it wasn’t that. He was not mentally handicapped in any of the ways I was used to seeing – something was different about Patrick.

Those differences caused Patrick and I to face many challenges, as with the battle of the fly spray. With Patrick’s door open most of the time, his home was plagued by flies. Patrick announced to me one day that he needed “fly-spray.” I bought him a can of flying insect spray. When I returned the next day, the can was empty and he said he needed more. Again, I over reacted. “Patrick, you can’t be spraying that much fly spray in this small house. It is not good for you.” I offered to get him a fly swatter but he rejected that idea and repeated his desire for “fly-spray,” which he said in a comical short clipped fashion. I think flies were another of his phobias. On my next “Patrick run” to the store, I picked up some fly strips to solve the problem in a safer manner. I explained to Patrick how the strips were designed to attract the flies and then they would get stuck to the strip and die. Patrick looked doubtful but said nothing. I attached a strip to the ceiling in the corner of his living room. When I returned the next day, I saw the strip outside the front door and I was a little perturbed.
“Patrick what happened to the fly strip?”
“It only caught one fly he said,” and he reiterated his need for “fly-spray” I again lectured him on the dangers of poisonous chemicals in a closed environment. This time Patrick dug his heals in. Every once in a while, I saw Patrick get angry and this was one of those times. His face was red and strained and he worked his hands up and down in that same bucket holding gesture that demonstrated his frustration.
“I – need – some – FLYSPRAY!”
Apparently this was a serious need. I searched the pest control isle of the Wal-mart and finally located a possible solution – A botanical insect spray which was safe on kitchen counters. I decided he probably could not poison himself with that. When I brought in the bags of groceries and handed him over the fly spray, Patrick was like a kid running off with his new toy only with a more serious man-on-a mission type look on his face. He began shuffling around the house searching for flies. When he found one, he took careful aim and soaked the critter. I began having to make two cans of fly spray a regular purchase. Patrick also expressed concern over spiders. I was in luck because the botanical spray said it was also good for arachnids. Next, I saw Patrick move to the pile of clean clothes on his bed. He pulled up each layer of the pile spaying each article as he went. I was certain, no flying, creeping or crawling thing would be hanging out with Patrick after that. I secretly wondered if Patrick splashed the spray on like after shave each morning.
I was more understanding during the next battle over the microwave.

I had arranged for a woman from “Elder Care” to come in once a week and clean the house because it was getting too much for me to manage each week. Patrick was of course opposed when I brought it up. He did not need anyone to help him. Patrick always balked at any change or contact with new people. I finally told him that we had to do it and I arranged for the woman to come over. The first day she came, I was there to help ease the tension. But two things got past Patrick’s resistance. First the young woman was pretty and Patrick did not seem to be immune to female charms. But what really clinched the deal was breakfast. The time-honored route to the man’s heart was well paved and broad in Patrick’s case. And, Patrick particularly loved breakfast. I had no idea my strategy would work so well. When I informed him that the young woman would fix him a big breakfast when she came and then clean afterward – I became wall paper that faded into the background behind the smell of sausage and hash browns. I slipped out unnoticed, confident that Patrick and the new addition would get along fine.

A few days later, I bought Patrick a microwave to facilitate the cooking at his house. It seemed that Patrick was nervous as I set it up even when I assured him that he did not have to use it. When I came back a few days later, the microwave was unplugged just as it had been in Patrick’s motel room only there was nothing he needed to plug into the outlet. I ignored any discussion about the issue that day, but I began to wonder.
When I came back again Patrick brought up the subject.
“Does this have to be here?” He asked, pointing at the microwave.
I played my best card right up front, “It’s for the woman to use who cooks your breakfast.” But there was no sausage and hash browns cooking that day and I was on my own and very much in the foreground.
“Yes,” Patrick said, firmly establishing the irrelevance of my statement, “but does it have to be here.”
I began to realize that even if I had eggs benedict pop out of the microwave at that moment, it was still not going to be an asset to Patrick. Now I was sure of something that I had begun to suspect.
“Patrick are you scared of the microwave.”
“Yes,” Patrick quickly acknowledged, “I’m scared of it.”
He seemed to be relieved, rather than embarrassed, that I finally understood. It was a landmark in our relationship. I had understood Patrick beyond the barrier of his limited ability to communicate. I knew he was not being difficult. Somewhere he had encountered some information about the hazards of microwaves and I knew that it was forever fixed in his mind. He would never be comfortable with it in the house. I removed it that day and I think Patrick appreciated it more than he could ever convey.

But it would not be the microwaves or the heat or even the fly spray that brought Patrick down. This resilient man would survive to see the latter two problems fade as autumn moved in. It was during this time that an idea seeped into my head. Something I had seen or read must have sparked it but I cannot even remember it now. It began to grow and I began to do some research. Everything was falling into place as I compared my finding with what I knew about Patrick. Finally, I announced to my wife, “I think Patrick is autistic.”
I read to her the list of things that I had compiled. Autistic people have difficulty with communication and social interaction. They see things differently than most people because they cannot comprehend abstract concepts – no wonder he could remember what I showed him but not what I told him. Studies showed that people with autism  probably understand far less, of what people said to them, than the people realized because autistics cannot interpret all the subtle body language, tones, jokes, facial expressions that the rest of us take for granted in our communication. It seemed clear to me why Patrick and I did best when I was straight forward and matter of fact with him. I tried to imagine the world that Patrick lived in with “too many words” all around him. I realized I could not. It was not really all the words; it was everything that came with them. That is how his vocabulary could be so high and he still had trouble communicating. I could see now why it was so frustrating to him when our communication broke down. But still he stuck with me because autistics generally bond firmly with caretakers that they trust.

They are not delusional – I discovered that there had been a news release of some lions that had escaped from a zoo in another city, around the time that Patrick had been scared to leave his house. Patrick could not understand the concept of it being somewhere else and not affecting him. As for the being in the Marines, who could blame Patrick for a little harmless daydreaming?

They avoid social settings not because they are anti-social but because of all the dynamics they cannot take in. When I read that they avoid eye contact, Patrick’s normal face floated in my mind – head down, eyes averted.

Emotionally, they can turn a minor incident into a major crisis. I remembered Patrick losing it over the fly spray, over trying to tell me what he wanted from the store. The autistic can get stuck on insignificant tasks such as organizing things. I could still see him going behind me and reorganizing everything I had just put in his refrigerator and never realizing the social error of doing it right in front of me. My readings said that autistic people do not do well with change – the milk being on the left side of the fridge instead of on the right was a major event to him.

Autistics can demonstrate extraordinary abilities. Whenever I told Patrick I was coming at a certain time, Patrick was ready. I remember telling Patrick that it seemed like it had been almost a year since he moved into his house. Without a thought, Patrick said, “Nine months.” And he was right. A lot had happened in that time. The holidays were approaching and the seasons were changing. We had settled into such a routine with Patrick and we had learned so much that we did not know that things would soon change drastically for Patrick as well.

It was late November. A lot had happened in that time. My wife, Rebekah, and son, Kwinn, had gone to Patrick’s house to invite him to our place for Thanksgiving Dinner. She knocked on the door, but he did not answer. Well perhaps he had gone downtown – it was not unusual for us to stop by and find Patrick not there. What was unusual was for my wife to go herself to talk to Patrick. She did the paperwork end of the Patrick responsibility, paying his bills and keeping his checkbook but I was the one that dealt with Patrick because he seemed to do better with one person that he trusted. But something moved my wife to go that day and take Kwinn with her. She would also never knock more than once but for some reason this day she kept knocking and knocking – she just had a feeling. Suddenly, she heard Patrick call out, from inside, that he had fallen. Inside, they found Patrick on the floor. My son was in the Registered Nurse program at the local college and a quick assessment of Patrick led him to call an ambulance.

Dr. Zook explained that tests at Pratt could only tell that he had a stroke. He transferred Patrick to Wichita where better equipment showed that it was much worse. Patrick showed evidence of multiple strokes. No doubt it was an earlier one that had affected his ability to walk and stranded him in Pratt. He also had multiple aneurysms – one so large that it threatened his life at every moment. If it burst he would be gone but it was too large to operate.

Dr. Jensen, the neurologist that helped with Patrick’s case, was so good with him. Making faces and cracking jokes. It was like he and Patrick were old friends. He asked Patrick if he had been in the military and Patrick told his usual tall tale about being in the Marines. This time he even told Dr. Jensen the year that he enlisted. Rebekah did some mental calculation and realized that he could not have gone in then because he would have only been 17. I explained that there was no record of Patrick having served but Dr. Jensen acted like he believed him anyway. It made me smile.

But, while all this was going on around me, I could not help thinking that it all seemed so wrong to have this happen just when Patrick was all settled in his house. He had his bills paid, his groceries provided, and he even had his breakfast cooker/house cleaner coming in. Why was this happening now? I needed more faith – in Patrick and in God. Then I was reminded (I could say that it just came to me, but we all know better than that) that God has different priorities. Perhaps Patrick needed a little time to rest up for his next big journey – time to get his mind off of survival long enough to think about more important things. Was he ready to leave this life? After all that was the only thing that really mattered. I had tried to talk to Patrick about the Lord but I never seemed to get too far.

As I stood over Patrick’s bed in a Wichita hospital, I prayed, “Lord, you know Patrick. You made him and you can reach him. He may not understand everything I say but please help him understand this.” I told Patrick that his illness was very serious. I told him that it was time for him to get ready to meet God. I told him that he had sins that only Jesus Christ could take care of. I told him it was time to talk to the Lord and ask him to forgive him and I would help him to pray. I asked him if he understood. Patrick looked me right in the eyes with the only eye that he could open and nodded his head. And I prayed.  I felt like, in his own way, Patrick had made his peace with God. The Lord knew Patrick intimately. He was the only being that really knew what Patrick could comprehend and what he was going through and I knew that the Savior would run to meet him right where he was at.

Patrick seemed poised on the edge of this life. If his time was near, there was one thing that was still unresolved. Whenever I would ask Patrick if he had any family he would always say no. But with Patrick so close to death, Rebekah became determined to find them if they existed. We had done a little searching with the information that we knew of Patrick but had found nothing. But, earlier that night, after the ambulance left his house, Rebekah had been thinking. I had never been too pushy with Patrick – at first because I did not want him to head off down the road and later out of respect. I had never messed with his pack that he slept on or his personal papers that he kept in a worn tobacco pouch. That night Rebekah wisely said, “Grab the pack and the pouch.” We went through the papers that Patrick had and found one that we had never seen before. It was an application for a passport with Patrick’s father’s name. Rebekah noticed that it was spelled differently than we thought. We had seen a copy of Patrick’s birth certificate but it was so worn that the names were hard to make out.

With the new information, Rebekah began the search for Patrick’s relatives again. She sat for hours in Patrick’s room at the Wichita hospital and surfed the internet looking for some connection. She sent Kwinn and I off to eat and when we returned she was a flutter with excitement. She had found his father. He had passed away, of course, but she had also found siblings.

I used one of my police resources to look up a phone number for a possible sister in California. Soon the phone was ringing and a woman answered. I asked if it was Michelle Sassaman. She seemed struck off guard and said that she had not used that name for years. When I asked her if she was Patrick Sassaman’s sister she was floored. I could feel her shock through the phone. I explained what was going on and she told me that she would have to call me back so she could be sure this wasn’t a hoax. I gave her the name of the Pratt Police Department so she could look it up on the internet and call to verify my story.  After some time we got a call from Patrick’s older brother, Michael Sassaman, from New York. He told me that he had called the police department and was surprised that everyone knew about Patrick. He was not used to a small town.

Over the course of the next few days, we would have many phone conversations with Michael and Michelle. They repeatedly expressed their gratitude. We shared our backgrounds with each other and our stories of Patrick. We learned that Patrick had asked Michael to drop him off in downtown Philadelphia almost 30 years ago and he had vanished out of there lives for the most part. Michelle had brief contacts with him. She said that the last time she talked with him was when she told him she was going to have a baby. She never heard from him again until I called.

Michelle told us that the family always knew that Patrick was slow and when he came home from the war he was even worse –
“Wait a minute. Patrick actually served in the military?”
“Yes,” she explained, “In the Vietnam War.”
Michael filled in the details. Rebekah told him about the date he had given that would make him only 17. That was true. Patrick’s father had signed a waiver for him to enter the Marines at the age of 17. More research revealed that Patrick served over four years in the Marines and was in Cambodia and Vietnam during the beginning of the war.

When he was discharged, he never filed his paperwork when he returned to his home state and there was therefore no record of his service. Michael helped us get his military records. Patrick received 2 Good Conduct metals and was discharged honorably. Patrick served his country, he was not delusional and he had not lied.

We shared pictures back and forth with his family and we told them what we knew of Patrick’s life. Patrick was even able to speak with them a little over the telephone. There was so much healing of souls, but Patrick’s body still remained very sick.

Patrick could not go back to his house. His left side was not working. He could not stand or use his left hand. We arranged for him to go to the Deseret Health and Rehab center in Pratt. He held on for months more and even gained back some of his left side. He worked hard at his rehab because he constantly told me he wanted me to take him back to “that address” as he called his little chicken coup house.

They gave him medicine for the pain, but he often said his head hurt. They say a restlessness sets in close to death. When Patrick gained enough of his left side back, he used the hand rails to pull himself around the facility in his wheelchair, groaning continuously. The facility was not legally allowed to strap him in and he kept trying to get up on his own and falling out of bed. We had some trips to the emergency room because of it but no major injuries. They tried everything to keep him in his bed. They tried mats on the floor under his bed, but slippery eel Patrick as Rebekah came to call him, found away around them all. In the end they put his mattress on the floor – Patrick was back to where he was used to sleeping.

In March, his kidneys began to fail. Soon, he could no longer leave his bed and then he stopped eating and later drinking. His belly was gone, but he still had his Santa Claus beard. Rebekah spent hours at his bedside while I had to work. She prayed and sang hymns and talked to Patrick long past the time he lost all responsiveness, because the nurses said that the hearing was the last thing to go. Kwinn came and spent his own time with him, and prayed with him again and encouraged him to talk with God even in his unconsciousness.

Michael and Michelle were able to fly out and see Patrick. He was not able to acknowledge them but they spoke to him. We took them all around Pratt and showed them all the places that Patrick frequented. I could tell it was closure for them despite the sadness.  The hospice nurses, who came to make sure Patrick got enough medicine to manage his pain, told us that they had often seen that the loved one would wait until their family and friends were not in the room before they passed on. For some it is a private thing, no doubt between them and God. We left our vigil and went home to get some rest. On March 30, less than a month away from his 70th birthday, the Santa Claus man-made his final journey to his eternal home.

Some might ask, what was the worth of Patrick’s life? Why did God create him for such a miserable existence? If God truly made him, why was he formed with the handicaps he had? Jesus was asked a similar question in the ninth chapter of the gospel of John …“who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind? Jesus answered, “Neither…but that the works of God should be revealed in him.”

Scripture teaches us that this earth is cursed because of our sin. I am sure the genetic DNA flaws that have formed over the years are a part of that curse because it also tells us that everything was “very good” when God originally created it. Autism may be caused by just such an error in the DNA code. But God will show his works and make something beautiful out of the flaws and errors in this world.

I saw that in Patrick. That was the gift that the Santa Claus Man gave. He touched people with his flaws. Something inside of them, that they did not intellectually comprehend, moved their compassion on a spiritual level. God demonstrated his compassion not through what Patrick gave but through what Patrick needed and what we were compelled to give him. And if we will, we see in Patrick – ourselves – flawed and broken by the sin that so easily seeps into our lives. If we allow ourselves to look, we see our need – our need for a Savior – someone to reach down and have compassion on us, to raise us up, clean us up, and give us a home…a home where Patrick waits to greet us.

Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison and come to You? And the King will answer and say to them, “Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

Matthew 25:37- 40

Below is the text of the Program for Patrick’s Memorial Service during which he received full military honors.

Patrick Sassaman, “the Santa Claus man,” finally ended his years of wandering and went to his eternal home on March 30, 2014. Patrick would have been 70 years old this month and his friends would like to celebrate his new birth.

Patrick was “a gentleman of the road” and often dependent on the kindness of strangers. It is believed that Patrick was born autistic and therefore faced challenges that most of us cannot understand. But he still managed to live on his own, traveling the United States in the later years of his life with meager resources. Through Patrick, God gave many people the privilege to serve the Lord by meeting the needs of one less fortunate.
He came to rest in Pratt when his body began to give out on him after the years of travel.

Many people in Pratt and the surrounding area knew this large round gentle man, with the white beard and bundle of blankets over his shoulder like a pack. Most have a story of when they helped him with money, or food, or a ride somewhere. He was quiet and communicated his gratitude with a slight patting of his hand and nodding of his head.

Patrick could be seen traveling the main streets of Pratt always dressed in a long sleeve shirt and coat, no matter what the weather. He would take his leisure lying on the sidewalk in front of local businesses, propped against his bundle and smoking his pipe as people passed him going in and out. Frequently they reached down and offered him aid in one form or another.

Patrick was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on May 24, 1944. Few knew that Patrick was a veteran of the United States Marines and served his country in the Vietnam War. He received two good conduct metals and an honorable discharge. His disability, which worsened following the war, led him to separate from his family almost 30 years ago and they have searched for him ever since.

Patrick accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior as he lay in the hospital after multiple strokes and aneurysms, The Lord, mercifully granted him sanctuary in Pratt as he ended his days. He also miraculously reunited him with his family shortly before Patrick left this world.

Patrick was preceded in death by his parents Frank and Eileen Sassaman. He is survived by his older brother, Michael Sassaman, his younger sister, Michelle Veasman, and his younger brother Kevin Sassaman. The family would like to thank everyone who helped Patrick over the years.

Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me. Matthew 25:40

Order of Service

Opening Prayer by Robin Colerick
Scripture Reading by Robin Colerick
Hymn – “How great Thou Art” sung by Hallie Colerick
Thoughts on Patrick by Kent Wyatt
Open time for sharing about Patrick
Hymn – “Amazing Grace” sung by the congregation
Closing Prayer by Robin Colerick
Military Honors by the Marine Corps Honors Detail

We hope you enjoyed hearing Patrick’s story. We would love to hear your comments below.