(DON THOMPSON / iNFOnews.ca)

OPINION

It’s difficult to ignore someone once you know their name. I discovered that last week when my path crossed Joe’s in a truck stop parking lot in Omak, WA.

It was the last night of our week-long trip from Florida to B.C., and I was tending a portable gas grill…warming homemade leftovers rather than suffering the offerings of a nearby fast-food restaurant.

That’s when what many of us would simply call - a homeless man - walked past.

“The food smells good,” he said in a hushed tone…and then began reading aloud from the horse farm logo on the door of our Ford F-350.

“Endymion Farms…FPS Registered Friesians,” he said, pronouncing both the name of the farm and breed perfectly…words often mispronounced even by horse show announcers. He then turned his attention back to me and the grill…adding with a smile, “You’re doing it right!”

He waved, shyly…and abruptly walked toward the truck stop convenience store…so quickly it caught me off guard.

“Good luck,” I finally called out, but he was well on his way…and said nothing more.

It can be awkward encountering a stranger…especially - and let’s be honest - someone who is homeless. We are conditioned…socialized…to be cautious with strangers. But beyond that, we have a bias toward those who do not live as most of us do…safe and secure in a home with easy access to soap and water for bathing…with little worry about your next meal.

About 15 minutes later, I once again saw the homeless man wandering around the truck stop diesel pumps 50 meters away. Every once in a while, he would glance my way…careful not to stare…and trying not to act in any way odd or unusual.

By this time I filled an aluminum foil tray with the heated leftovers from our previous nights’ dinners…an eclectic buffet of barbecue pork and ribs, potato salad, and lobster Mac and cheese. I waved to the man…and started walking toward him. He did the same.

He was sleight in build…maybe 140 pounds…about 5-foot 8-inches tall. He was maybe in his forties. He had a six-inch long red beard. His clothes - jeans, a beige long sleeve shirt and a gray hoodie - all hanging loosely on his skinny frame were not all together dirty…cleaner than someone who might work outside all day.

As we drew close, I noticed he looked me in the eyes…and he wore a smile…like a friend you hadn’t seen for a while.

“My name is Don,” I said, “We have some extra food if you don’t mind sharing it?” I stuck out my hand…and he shook it…his smile growing wider.

“Hi, Don…my name is Joe,” he said, “This looks great!”

There was maybe two pounds of food in the foil tray, and when I handed it to him he said he hadn’t had that much food all at once in months. I apologized for not having utensils, but he said he could get a plastic spoon from the truck stop cafe.

Then Joe - in a warm and grateful tone - said what was on his mind…and in his heart.

“Thank you, my friend, I’m blessed that there are good people out here…people who don’t judge…they just help a fellow human. People like me aren’t throw-a-ways…we have a past, a present and future. I’ve had some problems…mental issues…but I shouldn’t have to live like this. Thanks…if enough good people keep helping we can all live better, don’t you think?”

It was not a rhetorical question, and I felt compelled to speak what was on my mind and in my heart.

“I do, Joe, I truly do.” He smiled, and turned…heading to the cafe to get a plastic spoon.

I saw Joe again…about half an hour later as I was cleaning up the grill. We waved…and when I noticed him walking toward me…I met him halfway near the diesel pumps.

“That was the best food I’ve had in a long time,” Joe said…again, a smile on his face, adding almost incredulously, “Lobster Mac and cheese.”

I asked him how long he had lived on the street, and he seemed unsure before answering, “Over a year.”

I noticed the back of his left hand had the word “HOPE” carved into it.

“I did that with my pocket knife,” he explained. “Sometimes I cut myself.” He seemed puzzled by his own behaviour…as he rubbed the jagged scar with his right hand.

I could only muster, “We must never give up hope.”

He nodded in agreement…once again shook my hand, and smiled before walking away.

I turned and walked back to our truck and trailer. Questions entered my mind…I should have asked where he was staying…a shelter…in a doorway…in a field? How does - not someone - but Joe, get that way…living on the street…hoping for scraps and the kindness of strangers.

I wanted to know more…but I would not. That was the last I would see Joe…meandering across a truck stop parking lot in Omak, WA. I felt empty…saddened that I did not do more…that I didn’t have more of a sense of who Joe was.

Sitting in the truck with Bonnie at dusk, I noticed another man at a bench at a bus stop at the edge of the truck stop parking lot. He was older…maybe in his sixties. He walked with a limp…and teetered as if he might fall. There was no bus service on Sunday…so I wondered why he was there.

Every five minutes or so, the man - wearing jeans and a long sleeve shirt - would get up and like a guard…pace one way, then the other. I noticed he took exactly 16 steps each way…and would do this for five minutes or so before returning to the bench.

Just before dark a couple on a yellow vintage motorcycle with a sidecar pulled up to the bus stop and talked to the man for a few minutes…then left. Ten minutes later the couple returned and the driver got off…handing the older man a small duffle bag. Maybe clothes, I thought?

The yellow motorcycle and sidecar sped off…and a few minutes later the old man wandered off, as well…now wearing a jacket and with the duffle bag in hand. I found myself wishing I had approached him…asked his name…helped if I could.

It’s too easy to become insulated from those who don’t live as many of us live. Spending time noticing and helping others…whether in a truck stop in Omak, WA or on the streets we call home…Vernon, Kelowna, Penticton, Kamloops…wherever…is an obligation.

People who live on the street - so-called homeless people - all have names. We would do well to engage them…and do the best we can to help them navigate life that we find challenging… but are so much better equipped to manage.

— Don Thompson, an American awaiting Canadian citizenship, lives in Vernon and in Florida. In a career that spans more than 40 years, Don has been a working journalist, a speechwriter and the CEO of an advertising and public relations firm. A passionate and compassionate man, he loves the written word as much as fine dinners with great wines.

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