NASHVILLE — The 14-day notice was ominous.
Gary Jackson, a man whose full white beard and kind blue eyes often inspire comparisons to Santa Claus, was going to be evicted.
For nearly 20 years, Jackson has played the part of the jolly old elf, ringing the Salvation Army bell up to eight hours a day during the holiday season and using his robust "ho, ho, ho" to collect change from passers-by.
But at home, away from the bustle of busy shoppers, Jackson's collecting has manifested in a different way. Jackson is an extreme hoarder, a condition that earlier this year put him on the brink of homelessness.
He has succumbed to the disorder for decades, packing his east Nashville apartment with keyboards and clock radios. Movie posters and multiple TVs. Bouquets of silk flowers. Dozens of duffel bags. A rainbowed array of belts and suspenders.
"The real Santa Claus stereotype."
But despite all his possessions, Jackson, until recently, didn't have what he truly needs.
Only now, with the help of the Legal Aid Society of Middle Tennessee, has he started to understand his disorder and find hope in dealing with his hoarding.
HAS LITTLE, OWNS MUCH
A 63-year-old veteran who served in Korea during the Vietnam era, Jackson lives alone in subsidized housing. He's commonly found riding his bike around town or eating meals at local churches.
He doesn't have insurance. He receives no assistance other than food stamps. He works only one month a year, ringing the Salvation Army Bell six days a week for $1,500.
Inside his second-floor apartment, narrow pathways wind through the stacks of items, some that rise higher than Jackson's head. As he weaves past a collection of tool boxes, he talks about his mother and sister, both of whom displayed the same hoarding tendencies as himself.
But he doesn't see himself as mentally ill; it's just a different way of thinking, he says. He sees things as useful to someone else or repairable.
Jackson tried — in his limited way — to comply with his landlord's request to clean up.
But even after his attempts — which included bicycle rides transporting bags and boxes down five blocks to the church thrift store — the dangers posed by blocked entryways and piles of debris were still too much.
So, the 14-day eviction notice was posted.
"I have no place to go," Jackson said on the four-page handwritten letter he submitted to the Legal Aid in a request for help.
Jackson's is one of thousands of cases Legal Aid takes on to help low-income people keep affordable housing, but his story "touched a nerve," says paralegal Janet Rosenberg.
"He's fallen under the radar because he's not been a problem to anyone," she says.
Still, he needed a solution.
So Rosenberg called in a professional organizer to assess Jackson's situation. Then she asked everyone she knew to donate money for the professional cleaning services needed to de-clutter his home. In a matter of days, Legal Aid helped raise more than $3,000.
In all, 15 loads filled a pickup truck. But lightening the clutter left his heart heavy.
"I got rid of stuff I wanted to hang on to," Jackson says, sitting at the bus stop waiting to catch a ride to the Salvation Army church.
In the 8 a.m. chill of an overcast day, that loss resonates. This isn't the life he anticipated, he says. He wanted to be a marriage and family therapist, and, he jokes, to find a Mrs. Claus.
"But time goes, and I'm standing still."
It takes him more than two hours by public transportation and then Salvation Army van to get from his apartment to the Franklin Wal-Mart, where he spends Thanksgiving to Christmas.
But once in front of the store, his Santa persona takes hold.
In the glass of the sliding doors, Jackson combs his white beard, giving it a fuller appearance. He dons a tall black hat and slips his Salvation Army apron over his red sweatshirt, which has a decoration of Father Christmas carrying a sack of toys.
He certainly catches people's attention.
"Excuse me," one stranger says as she approaches from the parking lot. "I want to take my picture with you and show my kids the true spirit of Christmas."
Of course, he responds, directing the woman to the Salvation Army sign underneath which his red collection kettle hangs.
The days here are long, but when he returns home soon it will be to a little more help than before. Legal Aid is in the process of securing Jackson additional benefits and, once he has insurance, Rosenberg plans to set Jackson up with counseling to help work though his hoarding.
But here, giving out candy canes to little kids who look at him wide-eyed wondering if he is the real Santa Claus, there is only a man who collects donations and inspires smiles.
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