Over thirty-two years ago, at the age of seventeen (October 1973), I found myself literally living on the street. Being homeless for the first time, with nothing to lose, no place to sleep or rest and with no clue about where to seek assistance, my thumb was held out to get farther up the road.

After hitchhiking much of the United States eastern coast down and back on my own without money or food and, only the clothes that I wore upon my thin bony frame, I was beyond being exhausted and hungry.

Nearing the end of the return leg, I had serious doubts about ever being able to reach my chosen destination. Hope eventually faded. Negative and scary thoughts concerning my fate took over, pounding away over and over within my already aching head.

The next thing I knew, a commercial short-haul truck pulled over to give me a ride. Opening the passenger door, I cautiously sized up the situation as best I could before climbing in.

Easily sensing how guarded I was, with firm assurance and compassion in his voice that did not fail recognition, the driver offered a ride as far as he was going to his next stop a little ways down the Interstate. As we traveled down the busy highway, he casually engaged me in conversation along with also asking questions about my journey and circumstances.

Once he had my trust enough for it, assistance was offered. Without being asked, he graciously went extra miles and beyond; making sure that I ate a good hearty breakfast – my first in days – as well as, among other things, ensuring that I made a call to those family members of mine whom I was heading up to stay with. Just as if I was a member of his own family, he made sure that I would have somewhere to go and would safely get there.

We parted company shortly after, though not before he had me promise to take good care of myself. It is to this person’s credit that I was able to get to a place where I could actually begin doing so.

There are never enough ways to thank such people for doing something like that, except to make sure that we graciously go extra miles and beyond for those in need who cross our path as well.


Morgan W. Brown, whom has lived homeless off and on over a period of several years in many of its various forms since his initial experience with homelessness, resides within Central Vermont.


This essay is dedicated to the person mentioned anonymously above as well as all others who graciously go the extra mile and beyond on behalf of those in need who have crossed their path.

 

[*Note*:  The above essay is actually an updated and slightly edited version (Thursday, January 31, 2006; posted, here [via Annual Homelessness Marathon blog) drawn from an original one of mine, which was written over three years ago, during the early autumn of 2002.]