Homeless Whittler in the Snow (Part 1)
Light snow fell. It was seven in the morning on a Thursday. Half a world away, Russian paratroopers were dropping into Ukraine and most likely in the snow. The invasion was on. Paratroopers? Was it 1944?
I relished a walk in the snow so I donned the pea coat and 50-year old stocking cap and set out.
The flakes floated down with Hallmark Christmas movie perfection. I kept moving. I picked up the pace. I paralleled the creek and admired the ducks. The homeless encampment was dead ahead. I cruised through it and saw a man emerge from a RV wearing a backpack and wielding a flashlight. A woman near him was inside a shattered sedan and trying to move things around. On the hood of the sedan rested four full 24-ounce bottles of Coke.
The noise of heavy traffic from a nearby boulevard filled the air. I hit the park and took a path among the oaks and conifers that bordered the boulevard. A train passed. Then another.
Down the path, a hundred or so yards away, I saw a man bundled up in a heavy coat walking his bicycle. He wore a backpack. It all evinced the unmistakable vibe of a homeless man walking in the snow.
I figured I'd catch up to the man and we might have an opportunity to talk. A few seconds later, the man stopped near a stately oak tree flecked by snow, took off his backpack, leaned his bike against the trunk, and sat down.
A minute later he saw me approaching and looked my way. I stopped and said, “Hello. How are you doing?”
He appeared anywhere from his 30s to 60s. His face was of the streets and living outdoors but not a face deranged by certain drugs. I can tell the difference.
“Hello,” he said, as he set out a plastic container of stew and a bottle of water. “I'm doing fine. I like the snow.”
And that was all it took to begin a half hour conversation.
In short order I learned that he was not residing in the encampment but staying in a friend's camper near the golf course. He didn't want to check into the nearby warming center because he didn't want to take up space and there were men and women that couldn't take care of themselves and needed it a lot worse.
He was hoping to get off the streets soon and check into a motel paid for by a voucher program run by a non profit. He'd used it before and it had helped.
The man had grown up in the area, attended the local high school, and had even trespassed on the golf course many times in his wayward youth and paid the price for it. He laughed about that.
“My name is Matt,” I said.
“I'm Mark,” he said.
“Just like the Apostles.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. He got the reference.