The Daily Ardmoreite
October 9, 1977
By Rusty Lang

Recluse Yields to Interview
Disavows Unrequited Love Tale


He could have lived at any place at any time and from the stories that go around
about him you would believe he has.  There are probably a multitude of stories
hidden behind Coleman Jones’ gnarled white beard that he thinks is just easier
to let grow than to shave off.  Same goes for his old patched clothes and bicycle.
Coleman says he doesn’t have any need to dress or act for society, though at one
time he had.  Coleman Jones, Ardmore’s man-myth, isn’t really that different - more
than likely every town has someone a little like him.  An old man or woman people
invent all kinds of stories about.  He could be an eccentric hermit who keeps
millions of dollars buried in cans in his backyard.  Or an unkempt old lady who
lives with cats or dogs and all of the children say is a witch.  A storybook ogree
or a benevolent Kris Kringle, depending only on how far one’s imagination can
stretch.  Coleman says those stories about him aren’t true, but his blue aged
eyes, shining with life’s experiences, seem mischievously to contradict his
denial of the rumors.  “I hear stories all the time”, said Coleman, parking his
bicycle by the broken-slatted front porch of the once stately house where he was
born.  The house now so overgrown with bushes it appears to be abandoned.  “A
youngster about 8 or 9 came by the other day and began telling me things about
myself.  It was right interesting”, he said, beginning a rare interview possibly
meant to dispel the legends.  Probably the most widely told story is that the
man, now 72, was a Harvard law student, who after being jilted by a beautiful
woman, became a recluse.  He supposedly walked every day to the post office and
mailed a letter to his lover at precisely the same time.  The woman never married
him though, and Coleman himself has never married anyone.  “I don’t know where
they dug that one up - that I have a hermit lifestyle because of unrequited love.
There is nothing to that but imagination”, said Coleman, shaking tobacco from a
cotton pouch onto a slightly crumpled cigarette paper.  The soft voice and wide
vocabulary of the man, however, are echoes of his eastern schooling and he admits
he did attend Dartmouth and study engineering.  Though born in Ardmore and reared
as the step-son of Charles Carter, congressman and descendant of the county’s
namesake, Coleman says he was bounced across the country as a child, beginning
his widely-varied life.  He was enlisted in the U.S. Air Force for 15 years in
the weather services.  He was also a pilot for several aircraft companies and
flying services.  He has held many technical positions he prefers to leave as
vague memories.  “I’ve done many forms of work in many parts of the country.
I have never stayed in one place too long”, he said, sealing, then lighting his
hand rolled cigarette.  Coleman is still consistent in liking to be on the move.
Ardmoreites can see him almost anytime, solitarily riding his bicycle, pronounced
bi-cycle across town even as the scorching southern Oklahoma sun bleaches his
beard even whiter.  His basket is full of rags or bottles.  He won’t say
exactly what he does all day, but admits he helps out friends and neighbors
with errands, chores around the house or yard, or buying groceries.  “I like to
do anything I can to help people out”, he said, carefully dusting the ashes from
his cigarette.  His chambray shirt is worn, but carefully patched and his khaki
pants held up by suspenders.  This summer’s straw hat will soon be replaced by a
wool stocking cap or maybe a bandana until its winter.  “I know people think I’m
a peculiar looking creature”, he said with a laugh.  But the old man still
carries his tall frame with dignity and his scruffy appearance can’t hide a
once-handsome face, now weathered and lined.  The man, intelligent, educated,
and from all accounts probably once very wealthy could have been anything he
chose.  Why then has he rejected the trappings of conventional society?  A very
practical answer lies behind all these seemingly strange things, according to
the old man.  He rides a bicycle to stay active.  “Once upon a time I could walk
from here to Main Street in 12 minutes.  I can’t do that now so I ride this
thing”, he says of his old Schwinn which has a special strap across the basket
for his cane.  “I think I need only the bare necessities”, he said.  “I’ve
never had any want or desires for anything you might call luxuries.”
Re-lighting what is left of his cigarette with a Zippo lighter, Coleman makes
one wonder how his whole beard keeps from going up in flames.  “That has been
a point of interest to many people,” he jokes.  “They expect the whole
conflagration to go up at any minute.”  Coleman says during his lifetime he
has had a full beard three times.  “I used to shave with an electric razor,
but it was rather inconvenient.  I thought confound it, I’m going to quit this,
so I did.”  Haircuts kept getting more and more expensive so Coleman eliminated
those too from the military pension budget he says he lives on.  “I’m old
enough and contrary enough to know I don’t need to dress for business
appearances, so escribe himself, Coleman says the image of him as a hermit
is especially wrong.  “I couldn’t be with as many people as I know.  All the
old bunch has passed away, but I still keep in touch with their families.”
Since Coleman’s father died when he was only three, he says he learned of
death early.  Still he grows a little melancholy as a funeral procession
passes his house and he mentions names many people have heard only in the
obituary pages.  “This hot spell nearly got me,” Coleman said, once again
mounting his chrome-lated Schwinn.  “I tried to get the doctor to tell him
I’ve got a heart problem, but he wouldn’t do it.”  True to his philosophy
of living each day as it comes, Coleman reminds himself that he can’t just
sit in a rocker and pat his foot.  He’s got to be on the move.  And with a
kind parting word, the man peddles off for some unknown destination.  The
rumors denied, but the mystery still intact.