A Homeless Druid

Elmer the husky and I strolled through a park with fantastic views of the Willamette River and resplendent with century-old Douglas firs and Oregon white oaks.

It was a late morning and dry.

Looking down a slope, I saw two bicycles of decidedly the homeless type leaning unattended against a picnic table. One backpack rested on the table.

Something to the right, up the slope, caught my eye. It was two homeless men, one white, one black, roughly 40 years of age, standing less than a foot away from an oak. Both men had one hand placed on the tree as if they were giving it a physical examination or performing a Vulcan mind meld.

This was a first for me in my countless observations of the homeless in Oregon. There are always new firsts.

The white man was holding a can that bore the unmistakable resemblance of either malt liquor or hard lemonade.

Elmer and I moved closer.

The white man was discoursing on the properties of the particular oak they were touching. I caught drifts of his lecture, if lecture is the word. He was clearly an expert—perhaps self taught from growing up on a Willamette Valley farm or a horticulture program in the Oregon State Penitentiary. Perhaps he was trained on the job. He might have even once been a former professional arborist. Any story is possible, at least with the homeless men and women I meet. I have long stopped stereotyping them or making assumptions.

They moved away from the oak and started walking toward the picnic table and bicycles. The white man saw me and said good morning and I said the same thing to him. They passed us and a few steps later, stopped at another oak, laid hands upon it, and the white man began another lecture. I saw him trace the grooves in the trunk with a finger.

Elmer began sniffing and maneuvering to take a possible Mike Johnson. I watched the men.

The white man continued to place his hand on the tree as he sipped his hard lemonade. The word oracle popped into my mind. Perhaps the oak was an oracle of some kind to the man. The Druids used to worship trees. We’d most definitely be a lot better off as a species if that tradition had continued.

The men soon left the tree and walked to the table. They sat down on it and began talking, presumably about oak trees, their lore and secrets. The men shared the hard lemonade as they talked.

I dearly wanted to join their conversation.

The Mike Johnson was a no go and Elmer tugged me out of my stance and we went on our way.