New: Facebook has blocked all Canadian news. Join our mailing list to stay in the loop.

New: Facebook has blocked all Canadian news. Join our mailing list to stay in the loop.

The_Wreck_By_the_Road

LAND O

LAND O'LAKES NewsWeb Home

Contact Us

The wreck by the side of the roadby Bill RowsomeIt was a long hill, and he had dismounted in order to push his overloaded bicycle along the shoulder of the road. To ensure his safety, and better observe the ragged traveller, I slowed down, stopped, and opened the power window to speak, offering a lift of his bike in my empty trailer. His glare and gesture left no doubt that he didn't want help, and I drove on in my air-conditioned comfort musing about life and his in particular. What drives him and his urban brethren to their wanderlust existence? Are they rejected by society, not tolerated because of their eccentricities, and forced to wander unloved along the byways and alleys of the world? Or are they individuals who personally reject the artificial trappings of society to be themselves and do their own thing? I would like to think the latter.

We are encouraged no forced by culture to conform, and part of the process is to look askance at anyone who strays from the conduct dictated by society, particularly if he or she is ragged and smelly.

Obviously he is somebody's son, and well could be the father of many. I would hope that at one time he was welcomed into the world and showered with love and affection, or was he? Is he one of those unfortunate persons, who through experiences of rejection, for whatever reason, has in turn rejected his fellow man. It is impossible to love if you haven't been loved. No, this could not happen in a caring society that should accept every human no matter how pitiful he or she may be. Has he not heard of the government programs to help the old, infirm, and outcast, or was he been turned away, their limited quota filled?

His image in the rear view mirror receded in the distance, and I pursued the more pleasant thought that he was an independent nomad, a willing wanderer through life, who thinks more highly of the wind's breath in his face than the frigid caress of the air conditioner. The paraphernalia of society is not for him; he is happy with the basics. Food can be begged, stolen, found, and even earned when necessary. Shelter, in the form of a ragged piece of canvas, is carried where his whims guide him. Conversations with oneself are often more satisfactory than small talk clamoring through a crowd. Alone, one is in the best of company.

He is a contented traveler, but when he ages what will happen? How will he cope? Who will look after him? No offspring will find and hold him while he breathes his last. No hope of that, but he has his own finality solved.

He will expire in a ditch by the side of the road; his last breath laced with the smells of the earth that he would soon rejoin. Better that than the antiseptic climate in a house of the living dead, warehoused by family and society until his Maker is ready. Better the fragrance of sweet clover than the whiff of a urine- soaked and abandoned compatriot in a nearby bed.

Bon Voyage, Happy Wanderer; of some of your life I am envious.

With the participation of the Government of Canada