Joei Carlton

Homeless at the Flying J

I’ve been on the road as an RVer too long to be nervous about the little things that can and sometimes do go wrong but the old mint green chevy that was parked behind my camper at the Flying J in London, Ontario on that late August day produced just a twinge of…..I don’t know exactly what…..but I didn’t like the feeling.

I had arrived around three in the afternoon and pulled into a parking spot directly under the lamppost that I knew would shine brightly once night arrived.  For me, it was a great place to read in bed without turning on the light that would run down my old battery. I just had to pull back the drapes and it was like being on stage with me in the spotlight. I did it all the time.

It was still early when I stopped for the day. I had already driven over two hundred miles and had, on too many occasions, driven the last hundred and thirty miles to Niagara Falls, Ontario bleary-eyed with fatigue, fighting to keep my eyelids from slamming shut over my windows to the world. I just didn’t want to go any farther and Flying J’s are just about my favorite spot to free camp. Within minutes I had purchased something to munch on and a 20 oz cup of half cappuccino, half decaf coffee and was in the truckers’ lounge watching a movie on the big screen.  If I was going to doze in a seat let it be during the slowest part of the movie and not behind the wheel of my truck.

It was around five when I went out to my camper to get some money for dinner. That’s when I first saw the slightly beat up car with the man sitting behind the wheel. Other than noticing him I just sort of put him out of my mind…..he was just resting before getting back out on the road, I thought. People did that all the time.

It was eight before I went back out to my camper. The man, somewhere in his fifties or possibly sixties, a day or two growth of beard, wearing clean clothes was still there.  I felt only slightly uncomfortable. I wasn’t scared because it was still relatively early in the day. I wasn’t overly nervous because there were lots of other people around. Besides….he was just sitting there. I went back into the lounge and settled in to watch another movie.

It was eleven o’clock and bedtime for me. I walked back out to my camper. The parking lot was illuminated by many lampposts just like the one I was parked under. The mint green chevy that had seen better days with the man, whom I assumed had also seen better days sitting behind the wheel, was still there. I just couldn’t ignore him anymore. He wasn’t going away. I approached from the passenger side, peeked inside and noticed that he was watching a little television set that was plugged into the cigarette lighter.

“Are you planning on spending the night?” I asked, expecting a barrage of swear words along with some nasty comment about “What’s it your business, lady?”

His voice was soft. The words were clear. His face was expressionless.  “Yes,” he said. “Will it bother you if I stay here?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “This is my camper. I have lots of pillows and an extra blanket. Would you like them?” That is not what I expected myself to say. My answer surprised even me. He would have been much easier to ignore…..or better yet…..forget completely had he sworn at me.

“No,” he answered. “Bless you for asking. They took my house away from me today,” he said almost as an afterthought to the only person left in his workd that was listening to him.

“Can I help you?”

“No,” he answered simply.

It was a long night….longer for him, I’m sure, than for me but I didn’t sleep well.  I looked out several times to see him sitting there. I opened my camper door at around six. He was gone. I scanned the parking lot. Sometime during the night he had moved over three rows and was parked behind a larger motorhome. I approached from the driver’s side, no longer afraid of what he might do.

“I’m going to get a cup of coffee,” I said to him. “Can I get you coffee or a juice or breakfast?”

“No,” he said softly. “I don’t need anything. They took my house away from me.”

“I know,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

I returned to my camper, my heart aching. I stood there in the doorway wanting to do something-anything and in that split second I knew what to do. Several years ago a friend had given me a Bible when I was in pain. Someone needed it more than I did now. I grabbed the Bible from the shelf, put a few dollars into the pages, hoping he find them after I had gone, and went back outside. In those few minutes he disappeared. I don’t know where he went.

I have thought, worried, prayed and shed more than a few tears for him over the years.  I will continue.

A Time Remembered

I had hoped to send this story off to a magazine called The Spotlight but between my move to a wonderful, new and larger apartment and a joyous family gathering in downtown Vancouver I missed the deadline so I’m posting the essay in my website. 

A Time Remembered - by Joei Carlton Hossack

How unique we are as human beings that a word or a gesture of even a moment of quiet reflection will conjure up a memory from so long ago.

We were not a religious family.  Dinner Friday nights were the same as any other night except that there was no school the next day and we could all run out in different directions when it was over.

Although both my brothers had been Bar Mitzvahed we did not attend Friday night or Saturday morning services. Holiday dinners,  however, were another matter. It was a reason to get together with family - brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles.

Hannukah, 1950  -  Montreal, Quebec, Canada

I was, and still am, the baby of the family, aged six.  Mona was eleven years old. Harry, the bane of my parents’ existence, was sixteen and Nathan, the quiet one, was eighteen.  I sat next to my favorite brother, Harry.

Harry, the brother who took me to baseball games and babysat with me while my parents worked until all hours. He was the wild one who worked as a news agent on the train and took me along with him to Cornwall, Ontario from time to time. Harry, the same brother who was now whispering in my ear “I’ll give you a dime for every glass of wine you drink.”

He poured. I drank. My parents never noticed until it was too late. Just before giggling and cracking my head on the plate under my mashed potataoes I heard my mother yelling something.

Could that have been the time we discovered that red wine produces the migraine headaches that I have been plagued with for over sixty years?  I hope not but I still maintain that Harry owes me sixty cents PLUS interest.

He doesn’t remember.

How I lost 3 pounds in 30 years of dieting without going hungry - excerpt

There are few foods that I think are worth risking life and limb. For those who know me you know that seafood with a hard (crab legs, lobster, oysters, mussels, clams) or a soft (shrimp, scampi, soft-shelled crab) shell are the mouth-watering exception.  In a pinch I’ve been known to try and boil away a ton of Georgia mud to savor the unique flavor of a pound or two of crawdads.  That is how I ended up at the oyster festival in Fulton, Texas on a day not fit for dogs.

The day started out as raw as the oysters that I planned on consuming by the plateful or bucketful or (hopefully) truckload. I left the Island RV Resort in Port Aransas, on Mustang Island, and spitting distance from Corpus Christi, assuming, of course, that one is a champion spitter, with a gale force wind at my back. I looked in sheer terror at the canal I had to cross on the ferry. Between the whitecaps and giant swells I was sure we were going to be bowled over and after floundering on our side for days would surely sink down to Davy Jones’ locker.  There were only a few brave souls ahead of me in line as I drove on board - fear shriveling my heart to the size of a green pea.