Guests of Chance

Psalm 90:12 "So teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."  KJV

                   

Our oldest daughter and her husband sold all their worldly goods and set out on a grand adventure.  With the knowledge they gain from traveling the world, learning wisdom from anyone who will teach them, they intend to return and open a restaurant in Amherst, MA.  They are backpacking around the world, starting with the United States and all that it has to offer them.  Their blog, www.theguestsofchance.com , is the story of their journey.  She has graciously consented to be my guest blogger as their story unfolds.  Join us as we share their travels.  Below is one day on their journey.

Richard

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

We spent three days crossing South Dakota. Days two and three involved The Corn Palace, Wall Drug, The Badlands, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse and some cliff jumping. That’ll be in the next post. 

On day one we met Richard.

That first night we camped near Sioux Falls by the border of Minnesota. That morning we were taking a walk before breaking down camp. A little man, maybe in his sixties, was hobbling by with his wooden cane. 

“Wanna make ten bucks?” he called out as we passed. “I can’t get my pop-up put together myself, and my wife is in the hospital…”

I’ll admit that, much to my shame, my first instinct was to be wary. Living in the city (as a woman) for fourteen years tends to thicken your hide (whether you like it or not) and I was afraid that maybe it was all an act – that this little old man would suddenly throw his cane to the ground, shove us into his truck and drive away. 

I was wrong, and I’m glad I trusted Justin’s instincts on this one.

He introduced himself as Richard. 

“I was in Vietnam,” he said as we walked to his campsite. “And now I’m just an old man with an old wife I’ll probably never see again. I’ve got cancer, probably from that Agent Orange. I’ve got a lawsuit goin’ against the government because of it, but I guess they’re just waiting for me to die.”

We were walking slowly, at his pace. “They gave me ‘bout a month to live. Looks like this’ll be my last summer,” he said.

He didn’t have a vehicle of any kind, just a pop-up camper, rusted and peeling. It was the color of a ‘70s shag carpet: dull tan and orange.

We got to work cranking and latching and putting up the door. 

From behind, he looked like a teenager. Tiny, thin arms. 

Stringy, shoulder-length hair. 

We got the camper assembled, his small box of canned food pulled out from under the bed. He had a brown paper bag with cigarettes, and another with beer. He grunted as he moved around, and swore under his breath as he tried to lift things and couldn’t. He looked despondent… and resigned. 

“I gotta give you somethin’ for your trouble,” he muttered as he reached for 

his wallet.

We wouldn’t let him. We waved goodbye, admittedly feeling a twinge of guilt for our working legs, our strong backs. Our vibrancy. 

“I think he came here to die,” Justin said. I agreed. It just seemed so plain.

For a man who, as it looked, will leave little-to-no lasting imprint on the world, he left a huge mark on our lives from the brief minutes he was in it. We are grateful for his service, and we know this, at least: if he did go there to die alone, we hope our thoughts and our spirits will be fair companions. 

Have a good summer, Richard.

Written by Alyssa Hendrix (together with Justin Hendrix)