Veteran’s Day, 2007
On Veteran’s Day each year, we like to walk in our little gorge on the south side of Ithaca. My husband is a Vietnam vet. We find a niche in the rocks by the creek and light a candle there, out of the wind, to burn through the night to remember the soldiers and sailors who have died in service to our country.
This year we walked up the hill on Sunday, a beautiful bright day, warm for November. As we neared the crest of the hill, a dog came running down from the adjacent trail, an older husky, female and friendly. Her “owner” called her to no avail, so came down the hill to leash her. Meanwhile, we had discovered a camp.
“Somebody camping here?” asked the dog-walker. “Looks like it,” I said. We had seen campfires here before, signs of kids partying, but nothing like this. “Have a nice day,” our neighbor said, speedily exiting. “You too,” we replied, contemplating the scene.
It was a small camp: aside from the stone fire circle that preceded this encampment, there was just a hammock hung from two trees, covered by a camouflaged tarp. The tarp was covered by branches that made a good blind: a thin sleeping bag lay on the hammock; under it, a pair of sneakers and a few damp pieces of clothing were stowed. Around the fireplace, empty Chef-Boyardee and beer cans had been partially buried. The signs were clear: homeless, homeless, moonlight sleeping by the midnight falls…
We had never seen this in our yard, not in thirty years; we didn’t know what to do. We walked up to the trail, and then down the other side of the creek. There, we found stumps of half a dozen felled saplings, maples that the camper had apparently cut with an axe to fuel his cooking fire. Some of his empty cans had made their way down to the creek bed.
We got a marker and went back to the camp, and left a message: “Brother or Sister, this camp isn’t cool. Please move on.” Like farmers everywhere, when it comes to gypsies, we got territorial. My husband has taught me that fear breeds anger, we were mad and confused. What would (the proverbial) Jesus do? Of course, he didn’t have a house, let alone an extra room in it. But – it had gotten down to 20° the night before, we had noted the hard freeze on the leaves.
Next morning, I thought about what we could have done, what we should do now? Leave him a pair of sweats and directions to the homeless shelter, some garbage bags to pack with? But maybe he didn’t want our handouts, maybe he was proud of his independent lifestyle. And – how long could he live there with winter coming anyway?
On Tuesday afternoon, I climbed the hill from the far side of the creek. I wanted to see if the camp was still there; as it happened, I saw the camper – me crouching in the weeds so he wouldn’t see me spying on him. He wasn’t a runaway youth, as I had feared as the worst possibility; he was a brush-cut young man in a denim jacket, simply gathering his possessions into a black garbage bag, shouldering his backpack, and clearing the camp, in the few minutes I was there.
Last August we had a party for our son, who was leaving for California with his girlfriend. I wonder – was our camper on the hill that night? Did he hear the laughter of the young people, and wish he could drink a beer and share a joke with them? Was he there when later, after the party wound down, our young couple slept on the hill, like him, under the stars that night?
As Ithacans, we want to feel good about ourselves. We do our jobs and play our part in society. We are proud of our community, and the city’s good social services bring people here who are in need of help. We should be generous this holiday season, if we can be. And – of course – war is not the answer – 25% of the homeless people in America are military veterans.