“Urban Hobo”
I never knew his last name. I knew his first name only because every time he saw me, he extended his hand, saying, “Hey Preacher, how are you? Donald’s the name.” Then off he would go, sometimes unsteadily, up the stairs to the food pantry. I often had to escort Donald right back down the steps and out the front door with a gentle, yet firm admonition to come back when he sobered up. He’d come back a day or two later, smiling, hand extended, “Donald’s the name.”
Donald was, for all intents and purposes, a hobo. In an earlier era, Donald would have called the rail yards home. He would have hopped trains, slept in a rolling boxcar, and carried his worldly belongings in a bandana tied to the end of a pole slung over his shoulder. Cue Roger Miller’s “King of the Road.”
Absent trains to hop, Donald got a bicycle. It was an old red Schwinn with balloon tires. Every now and then, I spotted Donald peddling through the Shaw neighborhood wearing his floppy engineer’s cap, sporting a Cheshire cat grin, one hand on the handlebar and the other holding a rake. He was an independent contractor of sorts. Leaf raking was his specialty, though he would do pretty much anything for a day’s wage. Some folks on Flora Place took Donald under their wings, employing him regularly, so I saw him raking yards up and down the boulevard throughout the fall.
When June, Compton’s secretary, spotted Donald ambling up the walkway to the church, she’d holler to me, “Here comes Donald!” I would in turn ring upstairs to the Five Church Association office, “Donald’s on the way!” as if we were air traffic controllers tracking incoming aircraft. He’d enter with his mile-wide grin, extend his hand, say, “Hey Preacher, Donald’s the name,” and be on his way.
Sure, Donald could be a nuisance. Yet, there was something endearing about him. He was the big, playful mutt that shows up on the doorstep out of the blue. You feed him once out of sympathy, thinking he’ll go on his way, but he jumps up and licks you profusely, big paws on your chest, tail wagging. You push him off and go back in but as he gallops off down the alley you hope he’ll be all right … and you’re relieved when he shows up again a few days later. So it was with Donald. Word had it someone in the neighborhood let Donald store his beat-up balloon tire Schwinn in their garage for safekeeping, so he was endearing to others as well. Donald, the “have rake, will travel” urban hobo.
One fall, the leaves that fell on Flora Place were left for another’s rake. Donald, last name unknown, was killed by a hit-and-run driver. One of the ladies on Flora Place whose leaves Donald raked was summoned to identify the body. There were no known next-of-kin. He left behind a bicycle and rake.
Each year, as cooler temperatures arrive and leaves begin to fall, I think of Donald breezing through the neighborhood on his balloon-tired bike, grinning, rake slung over his shoulder. I think of the parable Jesus told about the king who hosted a banquet and invited the poor, the lame, and the blind (Luke 14:13-23). Surely Donald is on that invitation list to the heavenly feast. God knows his last name.
I smile as I envision him ambling up to the pearly gates (perhaps unsteadily) with rake slung over his shoulder, hand extended, saying, “Hey Peter, how are you? Donald’s the name.” Grinning. Welcomed. Redeemed. He rides through the gates atop his now shiny Schwinn, into his eternal inheritance.
