Knowing the young man's name wasn't important. By young, I mean 42. At least that is what he told me, and he looked about that age. I didn't need to know his name to enjoy our conversation which started while I was drinking my $1 cup of coffee with 2 creams and 4 sugars at the only place in town with $1 coffee, McDonalds.
"Hello, neighbor," he said as he leaned toward my table with a big friendly grin on his face.
"Hi," I responded in the same friendly manner while frantically going over the names and faces of people on my road. He didn't look familiar, although by the looks of his well-worn denim pants, and the suspenders over his orange tee shirt with some crazy logo across the chest, he certainly could have fit in with my neighbors. Even the pony tail worked for me.
"Looks like this sun is coming out for awhile" he observed.
"It sure is" I responded, then trying to pinpoint him, asked, "Where exactly do you live?"
"Tennessee. I'm heading back home. Hope to be back by Thanksgiving. I was in Alaska, but with the National Parks closing down, I decided to come back stateside."
This initial exchange of pleasantries led to two hours of conversation. We shared some things based on similar experiences: feral cats on Maui, riding camels in Cairo, staying in hostels in Europe, and flying in puddle-jumpers (small, single engine airplanes). As one thing led to another, we ended up talking about bush pilots in Alaska as well as pilots in Australia's outback. Then came clamming. He complained about our clam limits of five a day while extolling Alaska's "dig as many as you want" policy. He talked about hunting goats, deer and elk, and the rising price of hunting permits in Wyoming. We talked camping and hiking. We touched on roadside litter problems as well as the recycling programs in Washington State. When I left, he was still sitting at his table, checking his i-pad, and drinking his cold coffee before heading out. He was planning on camping in southern Oregon tonight.
And, just to assure you all, I did not let him know where I lived. I did not give him money (he didn't ask for any), and he didn't follow me out of the parking lot--I watched.
As crazy as this may seem, I thoroughly enjoyed the time spent kibitzing. I will admit, though, that I was on guard and kept asking myself whether or not this guy was a scam artist or just a young man who just travel and adventure. There was no sign of scam in the conversation, so I believe he was merely a friendly guy heading back to Tennessee.
Another question I have been asking myself is why I enjoyed visiting with this no-name stranger. I guess it was because I enjoyed reliving each and every memory I shared as well as listening to all of his. Many of my memories were of experiences my family already knows about, so I don't bring they out of their storage units anymore. Maybe I either need to make new friends, or else get serious about writing.
I have so many stories to tell, stories about flying, camping and hiking. Then there is my year in Israel and a visit to Athens and Rome and Pompeii to write about. There are tales of eating a tomato worm, being mean to the neighbor girl, seeing the body of a best friend in her casket, and marching (stepping high) behind the mounted posses and Native American warriors in Nevada Day Parades. So many stories to write.
I want to write those stories because somewhere in each and every one of them is God. That is what I would love to discover--where was God and what was he doing in my life at that time?
Knowing God is always present, always working,
Jan, Licorice and family (the kittens, 2 days old, are getting fat)
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