Like many town characters, Walter Rave was recognized by just about everyone but known by few.
For decades, the bearded, 6-foot-3 Vietnam vet was a fixture in Takoma Park, an imposing (many would say frightening) figure who invariably brandished a shocking personal totem: a “bloodied” fox pelt clamped in a steel leg trap that he swung from a long chain as he walked about the town.
The gruesome accessory was meant to provoke conversation about Rave’s campaign against animal cruelty. But for most, “the fox guy” was a local spectacle to be seen and not engaged. Plenty of pedestrians crossed the street to give him a miss.
Rave, 66, lived by himself in a lonely lair on Holt Place, nearly invisible behind an unkempt wall of bamboo. The porch was jammed with clutter. All doors but the front were blocked by the bamboo or the chain-link fencing he had long ago nailed across the back in a gesture of fear and isolation. It was a house to be skipped on Halloween.
The fire, investigators said, must have started near the front of the house. The porch went up like a bonfire.
They found Walt Rave in the front yard, burned over his entire body, barely alive, all alone. For many residents, the late-night blaze in early December was a tragic but not-so-surprising end for the town’s eccentric loner.
But there was a surprise to come. Rave survived for three days, time enough for a remarkable vigil to unfold in the burn unit at Washington Hospital Center. It turns out that the loner did have friends, lots of friends, standing-room-only numbers of friends who filled out a tableau at once horrific and heartening. Rave, blinded and blackened but at least minimally responsive to the end, lay at the center of his own eulogy, hearing the story of a troubled, fierce and single-minded life told by an unexpected circle of admirers.
They spoke for hours about a linebacker of a man who would weep over photographs of abused animals, who walked an unsteady line between advocacy and intimidation for his cause, who had surprising achievements for a natural recluse.
Ingrid Newkirk, co-founder and president of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, called Rave’s hospital room twice to say goodbye to an old ally. “I said, ‘Walt, you’re deeply loved and you’re a kind soul that no one will ever forget,’ ” Newkirk recalled.
Rave, one of the group’s first volunteer activists, designed the first PETA T-shirt, she said. “He drew two — a bunny sitting on a hill and an animal’s paw next to the Black Power fist. We went with the bunny.”
It was difficult to be in the room. Rave was unrecognizable; the smell was awful. But his visitors took comfort that a man who lived as a loner wouldn’t die that way.
“The only thing he could do was nod and shake his head, but Walt got to hear what dozens and dozens of friends thought of him,” said Paul Shapiro, who was in the crowded room with Rave when he died Dec. 10. “Not many people in Takoma Park knew that he did have a whole life beyond the fox.”
Chris Nordby still walks by the house five days a week. Rave’s closest friend for the past 10 years, Nordby was also his mail carrier.
The Post Most: LocalMost-viewed stories, videos and galleries int he past two hours
Loading...
Comments