OUR neighbourhood has a new resident.
He’s a nice chap, always says hello with his gummy grin, gives Wags a pat during our walks, and offers a friendly wave if we’re too far away to converse.
He introduced himself one day, but my fading brain doesn’t store names as it once did when it was compelled to work for a living.
Call me ignorant if you will, although lower-functioning brain cells are my wont at this stage of my life.
I don’t mean to call you Harry, Dick or Tom when you’re name’s Mark. I mean well, and the guy in the park will just have to take whatever comes his way until he corrects me.
Regardless, we exchange pleasantries when we pass, he tells me life’s okay, and I move Wags on to the next tree.
Every night, this same man, maybe aged in his late 30s or early 40s, rolls blankets onto the picnic table which sits under a council-funded structure.
He does it with the precision of an army soldier, and the care of a hospital nurse. He kicks off his shoes at the end of the table, and sleeps through the night.
We have basketball courts where games often bounce their way into the darkness.
Our man doesn’t seem to mind. He sleeps at dusk and wakes at dawn, and allows the world to move around him without fuss or intrusion.
In the morning, he’ll make his way to the park toilets, wash his face, and change his top.
He’ll then fold his blankets neatly, stacking them under a tarpaulin which he keeps tucked in a corner of the under-cover area to keep them dry on a wet day.
It’s also out of everyone’s way, because it’s not his table. Others will share, choosing to play chess, or wrap a sausage into some bread, or chat.
Rarely can he be seen during the day. He remains active, walks the streets and harmlessly fills his day until it’s time to join the afternoon crowds of school children and families.
He’ll nod and smile to those who pass, never uninvited, and he’ll sit watching from the seat of his picnic table where he’ll wait for the sun to set behind the adjacent creek.
I don’t know how he got there, or what sort of life he had before he did. Maybe that’s true cause to call me ignorant, for I’ve never asked. Maybe I’m scared to know.
There’s part of me that doesn’t want to dig too deep, doesn’t want to be dragged into a saga, doesn’t want to be guilted into becoming part of the solution.
And I don’t think I’m alone. I’ll see the occasional roast chicken, a packet of biscuits, some cereal from the supermarket on his table of an afternoon, waiting for him to return.
There will sometimes be small packs of sausages he can cook on the council barbecues, or simply bread and milk. I’ll leave him the occasional few dollars I have in my pocket.
Remarkably, nobody touches it which reminds me “good” remains in our world.
We give, because that’s the easy way out. It’s within our comfort zone.
We could open our homes, offer our washing machines, share our bathrooms. But we don’t.
And I think that’s okay because we’re best to find ways to empower those who are trained to help, who know the landscape, and the associated problems that come with it.
Meanwhile, we point our finger at failing governments. Wellcamp and other rooms remain empty, and the man in our park and others like him, remain homeless.
Maybe he likes our park. He seems to take life in his stride. And he’s harmless, so people don’t mind him being there.
But there was one word he uttered which made me think there’s a little part of him that thinks things could be a little bit better.
“How are you today?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, alright,” he said. “Considering.”
Considering. I guess he just figures he’s been dealt a rough hand.
Hey Wanda, have I told you what I’m grateful for today?
