Addict Cleans Up, Joins Charitable Organization, Helps Others

Captain Hugh Augustus Pillsbury knows how the skin crawls across bones of dirty, starving crack addicts who walk into the Salvation Army Adult Rehabilitation Center looking to change.

Pillsbury's been where the devil sleeps -- under bridges on cold concrete -- in the dreams of addicts who will steal their grandmother's silver to get a fix.

But the men who walk into the center at 130 N. Danny Thomas don't see that when they meet the easy-smiling, 6-foot, blue-eyed blond who is quick to touch them. They'll learn about that later, about how the 45-year-old Pillsbury faced down his demons with the help of God and his army. For now, a simple word.

Welcome.

The center houses 86 men, mostly drug and alcohol addicts. At night they take classes learning about relapse and how to function in the world.

They work eight hours a day emptying trucks loaded with the donated discards of other people's lives.

Pillsbury is patient and compassionate, but he's firm. Break the rules and you leave. No exceptions. He spends at least 12 hours a day working alongside them, sorting through thrift and ego.

They sift bric-a-brac, hang clothes, move sofas. The center exists off the proceeds from the thrift stores.

One of the most productive ways of "re-habiting" a man is through work therapy, Pillsbury said.

An angry man gets angry. A lazy man shirks work. If he has a self-esteem issue, he will be a workaholic. If it's a pride issue, he will insist on his own way.

"A man can fool a counselor saying just the right things at the right time, but put him to work -- especially work where he gets no reward or advantage -- and his genuine character will quickly reveal itself."

Pillsbury grew up in Texas, a child spawned from generations of tambourine-slapping, drum-banging salvationists. He clapped his hands at his grandmother's church in Galveston, a Hallelujah roundup, loud and safe.

"HughBoy was a good kid. He ran away a couple of times when his mama made him do something he didn't want to do, but we'd find him and bring him home," said 87-year-old Rosamond Alley, Pillsbury's grandmother. "He didn't become a problem until later on."

After earning a bachelor's degree in theology, Pillsbury worked a few odd jobs. He smoked pot with his friends, drank beer. He trained horses, earned a lot of money, bought a nice house and truck. He started using cocaine. When that lost its power, he turned to crack.

He burned through money, became a skeleton at 140 pounds, lost everything except his truck. He moved in with his grandparents and mother in Galveston.

"I would beat on my mother's door until she gave me some money," Pillsbury said. "I'd make up something about owing a drug dealer and how he was going to kill me if I didn't pay."

He'd be back an hour later for more. He slashed her car tires once when she wouldn't give him money.

Alley hid her cash. Pillsbury always found it. He stole her silverware.

She kicked him out. He moved to San Antonio. Stole tools, slept in his truck or under a bridge away from prying eyes.

He was arrested for theft. A judge sentenced him to community service and sent him to a Salvation Army shelter.

"I was done. I was tired. I was desperate, so desperate. This wasn't me. I didn't want the drugs, but I didn't want to be off the drugs," Pillsbury said.

That's what he looks for in the men that walk through the door of the Memphis rehab center.

Surrender.

Pillsbury did his community service raking leaves and picking up branches at a cemetery. For the first time in five years, his mind cleared. He looked at words on the headstones. Beloved. Devoted. He wondered what would be on his.

He became more involved at the shelter, moved up to the front desk. He told the staff he wanted to be a Salvation Army man.

Pillsbury worked his way through the Salvation Army for the next few years. In 2002, he graduated as a soldier. His mother and grandmother were there.

Soldiers in the Salvation Army commit to a life without alcohol, tobacco, drugs, gambling. They sign "articles of war," a declaration of a Christian dedicated to helping others.

The following year he married another soldier, Melissa, a brown-haired, patient woman who also works at the center.

They live in a Salvation Army-owned home in Germantown, but they're rarely there except to sleep. They drive vehicles left by former residents. The furniture stays when they leave. They live off $165 every two weeks. They eat most of their meals at the center with the men.

They'll only be in Memphis a few years. The Salvation Army moves its officers around. They get a call and about six weeks to pack and leave.

The couple will spend Christmas Eve at the center. They've bought presents for the men to open Christmas morning.

Pillsbury knows he can't save everyone. He passes men on the street that he wants to help.

But while he's here, his goal is simple, to change the Memphis community, 86 men at a time.

-- Cindy Wolff: 529-2378

By Cindy Wolff
The Commercial Appeal
December 19, 2007