Non-fiction / Starbuck's Traveler

I noticed him as I parked in front of the Starbucks around the corner from work one day. I had craved a caffeine fix and stopped by on my lunch hour. He seemed so out of

place, I just sat and watched him for a minute, almost ashamed at my interest.

He had a hiker’s, stuffed to the seams, backpack next to him, the kind with the rolled up sleeping bag on top. His clothes where neat and clean, but you could tell they were

worn, probably bought used at an Army surplus store, or even given free from a night shelter in some strange city.

There was an old dog sitting at his feet. The dog in it’s self was unusual looking. He was a grey and black spotted mix ‘farm dog’ with differing layered tuffs of hair. Some were

short and kinky like a poodles, some was straight. He was sitting quietly on a leash and had a faded red bandana decorating his neck. His eyes did not leave his companion’s

face.

This is not a site you see outside a Starbucks in Richardson Texas. He looked very out of place amongst the business suits, pastel sundresses, crisp tennis outfits and privileged

“teen’angsters” wearing designer grunge.

His hair was thick and wavy, but clean. He had a beard growth on his face, but it was neatly trimmed and clean. Everything about him looked well kept, but you could see he

was a “traveler”. He was sitting quietly eating a sandwich on a white china plate and drinking his beverage from a white china cup and saucer. He didn’t look either dainty nor

uncomfortable using china, which judging by his dress, he should have. (NOTE to self: I must watch preconceived stereotyping of people, I could lose out)

He ate half of the sandwich, white bread, a meat, lettuce and tomato, and then broke the other half into pieces for his companion waiting patiently at his feet. Then he pulled a

bottle of water and old plastic bowl from his pack and poured the water into the bowl and waited until his companion had finished his half of his meal, and placed the bowl

down for him to drink. After the dog had finished, he picked the bowl up and poured the remaining water back into the bottle which he then placed back in his pack. He

carefully wiped his mouth and hands with his napkin, folding it neatly and placed it on his plate. He stood up from the chair and picked up the white china coffee cup and saucer

and the white china plate with the white cloth napkin folded neatly on it and turned to take it back into Starbucks. His companion stood too but laid back down when his master

gave him a hands down signal.

I watched him place the china on the counter and thank the person who picked it up with a smile and a nod. He came back out and sat down again and petted and talked to the

old dog. You could see the genuine fondness they had for each other. He started to gather his things together and I noticed he was picking up a walking cane. The reason this

caught my eye, is it was handmade out of a chokeberry tree root like my Great Aunt makes. It was all worn and smooth on the handle like it had been used for a thousand miles.

The wood gleamed from top to bottom.

By this time I had gotten out of my car and was about to walk past him when I decided to ask him where he had gotten his cane. He said he found it in the trash at a truckstop

somewhere in the panhandle. I explained to him why it had caught my eye. He agreed that it was beautiful. He said it felt good in his hand and he had grown to appreciate the

craftsmanship that went into making it so it felt just right as you walked along. Some canes feel more of a bother than they are worth, but this cane had become at one with his

hand and it felt very natural.

He must have seen the interest in my eyes as he talked of his travels. He asked me if I wanted to hold it. I did. It was well cared for. It felt warm and alive. The wood was so

smooth and I could almost hear it’s song as I held it in my hand. It felt like sunshine and clean breezes. I could also hear the lone coyote cries as it laid with the man and his dog

on velvety starry nights as they dreamed next to a campfire. It looked like it had indeed gone thousands of miles. I handed it back to the man and our eyes met and for a

moment, I could see he understood my appreciation for a finely weathered piece of art.

I stepped back and wished him safe journey as he and his companion walked past me with bundles in tow. He tipped the ball cap he had donned and was on his way.

I wondered what his story was. He was well spoken and educated. He was well mannered. Yet here he was living as a “traveler”. Was it by choice? Or had some event in his life

chosen this lifestyle for him? He could be a soldier back from war where the atrocities he had seen had killed something inside him he had to find again. Or maybe he liked the

bohemian lifestyle. Some people just are not meant for any form of conformity. It stifles the flame in their soul and they become sick inside when held in one place for to long.

Who knows what his story was? It is interesting to think about though. It is also interesting to think that out of the 15 minutes or so I sat there watching him, not one person even

acknowledged his existence. Usually people smile, even if it’s the fake smile, as they pass each other. He was sitting at a table where you had to go around him, to get inside

the restaurant, yet no one said anything. There was nothing in his demeanor that appeared threatening at all.

Here this man sat outside of the icon of “Yuppydon” in his faded clothing with his army boots, back pack and old very mixed breed dog, and no one even acknowledged him.

Where has our humanity and compassion gone? When did we begin to feel so threatened by someone different, that we chose to ignore their existence when they are literally

standing directly in our path?

What if that had been their brother, uncle, son, friend who had for reasons of his own, taken to a life style traveling on foot. In years gone by, this was not uncommon. I

remember, what my Grandmother called Hobos, coming to the door of her home on the highway and asking to do chores for a meal, or to sleep in her barn. And she always

treated them with kindness and respect.

I do understand the caution against doing that in this day and troubled times we live in. It is too dangerous. But something my mother taught me a long time ago always comes

to mind when I see someone less fortunate than I am. “But for the Grace of God, go I.” And I want to add to that now for your consideration. “But for the Grace of God, goes one

of my loved ones.”

The kindness of your smile may help a person in difficult circumstances feel like a human being again. It just may make that next step a little lighter.

May God Bless us all.

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