When I worked in Arkansas with Head Start, I met a lot of interesting characters. I always remember the man who stood proudly and waved his arms to encompass the surroundings.
"It's all mine," he said. "Everything you see." Rusted freezers, a broken baby carriage, piles of trash. The decaying remains of a camper trailer. There was nothing there worth anything except maybe the land.
"It's all mine," he said again, pleased with his accumulated wealth. "Everything except the land."
I was reminded of this old man the other day when I saw another like him. Lori and I took our kids to Salt Creek to play on the beach. The creek empties into the Straight of Juan de Fuca. The beach on one side of the creek is for the public and on the other side, apparently, is private, though I didn't see any signs posted.
Lori and I settled on one side of the little river and the kids waded across to build a sand castle on the other side. They were there about a half hour before an old man ambled down the beach and shoed them and some other children back onto our side of the creek. "I'll invite you to take yourselves to the other side." Jessica, Bethany and Hannah scrambled across the creek.
We were there for a couple more hours. Each time anyone ventured across to the other shore, he stood up and chased them back across.
As I looked at our side of the stream, I saw families flying kites, digging in the sand, laying in the sun, exploring tidepools, playing and laughing.
On the other side of the stream, one old man sat alone on a log, valiantly defending his territory.
The lone homesteader defending himself against enemies, weather and hardship is part of our American mythology. We salute the individual who stands up for himself. But I've got to say, when I think about that bitter man sitting alone defending his space, I'd much rather share my space with those I love.
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