Glimpse

Early this morning a leathery man with many bags and an assumed Irish accent was sitting outside the Supermarket, snaring awkwardly smiling passers for a chat, when my kind-hearted partner was comandeered into giving him a lift.

A rich odour of rollie tobacco, spirits and a life-lived-hard filled the van and he spun a rich brocade of stories, limericks, songs and conversation, delivered in a mixture of Irish, Serbian, and Italian accents, and under it all, Australian.

He had asked for a lift to the river and the next minute, he had us moving him and all his belongings from a hostel to the river- a move I understand, but when he started giving directions like "turn left at the rock that turns into a rabbit", it became a little hard on the driver...

So, down at the river with his life lined up beside him, he offered me a bright blue back-pack for being kind. He insisted fervently and I had to accept. In the bag were books of writing and manuscripts, which I returned and he sprouted tales of fighting in Vietnam, Serbia and other places, finishing a story of being shot by a sniper, from a tree, by lifting his glasses to reveal a missing eye and that "They call me One-Eyed-Jack!"

These revelations were not with self-pity, or anything but matter-of-factness to illustrate a story...
...and he told so many stories...

It was the beginning of a beautiful day and he was there to live, now.
Not institutionalised, or homeless, but living by the river.
A beautiful day and so much need to express himself. I told him "if they throw rocks at you, carve them into sculptures. Write your stories down!" He asked me to write it down on the front page of his book. I wrote, gave him a pen and left..and he gave me the bright blue back-pack...
minus his manuscripts...

The Murrimbidgee River, Wagga