Note: The following is based on my April 9, 2015, journal entry from our Wabash River to the Gulf of Mexico (source-to-sea) kayak trip.
A storm chased us to the tent, resulting in a few hours napping and journaling — forced relaxation.
Without realizing the change, the world appeared brighter. Here comes the sun! (That should be a song.) Even though I was enjoying my forced relaxation, I was ready to leave our quaint little dwelling and venture into the wet out-of-doors. I unpacked a Grand Trunk compact stool from the back hold of Work. I unfolded it, placed it on the stones, and continued journaling. I relish my time journaling because, as I capture the moments of our trips and my life, my writing grants me the opportunity to reflect. These reflections and memories provide a record of special times in my life. Since John and I have been married, we have embarked upon a variety of adventures, ranging from Italy to the Arctic Ocean.
I continued writing and reflecting until John woke up and joined me.
“I think I will shave.” (Who doesn’t shave outside after a thunderstorm?) He gathered his razor and shaving cream. He had started lathering his face with shaving cream when he realized he was missing a crucial shaving basic — a mirror. Picture this … John standing outside wearing his long johns tucked in his black, knee-high paddling boots, lather on his face, looking bewildered about his predicament. Imagine his astonishment when tires crunched on the stone path. Embarrassed to be caught in such a state, John ducked behind the tent. The driver of the vehicle honked the horn, causing John to duck his 6-foot-1 frame farther behind our small, two-man, 4-foot tent. His face said it all: “Seriously?!” When I realized our intruders were Tom and Candy, friends of ours from Fort Wayne, I blurted, “It’s Tom and Candy.” John came out of hiding.
Tom parked their gold minivan next to our stools. John moved to the vehicle and checked out the reflective surfaces. I could almost hear his mind working: Hmm… Which surface would give the best reflection for shaving — the outside mirror or the smoked back windows? He chose the back windows and began shaving. Having overcome the embarrassment of his state of undress, John chatted with our friends while he shaved. As John finished wiping the shaving cream remnants from his cheek, Tom lowered the window. Candy smiled, motioned to the back seat, and announced, “By the way, I’d like you to meet our son-in-law and grandson.”
I wish I had a picture capturing the wide-eyed look on John’s face. “Nice … to … meet … you.” John greeted them and was secretly glad Tom and Candy’s daughter wasn’t present.
After the four visitors climbed out of the minivan, we explained our trip to the younger guys and relayed some events of the past five days. As the group prepared to leave, Tom and Candy’s son-in-law confessed, “Yeah, when we pulled up, I couldn’t figure out why Tom and Candy were bringing us to see some homeless people.”
If homeless is defined as having no home or permanent place of residence, then living out of a tent in a different location each night could indeed be considered homeless. If Tom and Candy hadn’t told him otherwise, how would their son-in-law have treated us? With pity? With judgment? Would he have ignored us? For the next few months, I will not look, smell, dress, or live like the rest of civilized society. Will others assume we are homeless? How will they receive us? If I met us, how would I react?
As I mused about how I would regard us if we were homeless, I remembered an event a few years ago when John and I visited Seattle. Instead of taking public transportation, we walked everywhere. While we explored the city, we stumbled upon many homeless people sleeping under heavy blankets, sitting on the sidewalk, or leaning against the buildings. Since I grew up and still live in a rural community, I have not encountered many homeless people. John often says, “We are all one crisis from being homeless.”
One evening a brown-haired woman in her 40s approached us as we were waiting outside a Seattle restaurant for an available table inside. She peered at us with desperation in her eyes and pled, “I’m not a typical homeless woman. Honest. Could you give me some money for … ?”
I don’t remember why she said she needed the money. I do remember, however, the conflicting thoughts in my head. She didn’t look homeless. Was she lying? What if she was telling the truth? Should we give her money? Should we invite her to eat with us? Could I ever be her? Was I judging?
She walked away.
Here’s the Thing: By the loose definition I created, I experienced homelessness for three and a half months. But, I haven’t come close to undergoing the hunger, lack of money, nor discrimination this group faces. Even though I wasn’t truly homeless, I looked the part.
The lady I encountered in Seattle didn’t look the part, but swore she was. My fear of being taken advantage of kept me from feeling and acting.
If one crisis could cause me to become homeless, how would I convince someone I was in need and not a scammer? If I met this woman today, would I help her? I hope so. I hang my head in shame when I remember her drooping shoulders as she walked away.
Since I don’t come across many homeless people in my part of the world, who can I help and not simply watch walk away? How can I avoid becoming, as the Pink Floyd song says, “the turning away”?
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — LaNae Abnet, Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Kathy Schwartz, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
