My first hero guy and unforgettable character...

Caleb Gosa has the unique distinction of being the first unforgettable character that I encountered on this walk.
I was sitting in a McDonald’s, home of free wifi, this morning, in Savannah, reading all the nice comments that people have made on Facebook about my adventure, and a voice asked me, out of nowhere, “Excuse me. Are you homeless?” I looked up and there stood a tall, very Southern gentleman, wearing camouflage pants and cap and a jacket of some sort. He was holding a cup of coffee, and just fell into a conversation with me, whether I wanted one or not. He actually fell into about 25 different conversations, and the second or third line of each was, ”To make a long story short”…which he did not do.
He asked me what I was doing with a cart and all my gear, which was parked out front. I told him I was walking across the country, for myself and for a charity. He asked how was my walking going to make the charity any money, and I said that I hoped that by talking to people and handing out the WhyHunger cards that I have with me, that people would make a donation if the spirit so moved them. He proceeded to tell me a story that I just knew could not be true, until I realized that it was. He related to me that he had crossed the USA on foot, not once but about 30 times, sometimes taking rides if offered, but often just hoofing it. He struck me as the nomadic sort, in plain truth,and I doubted his stories, but as he went from one to the other, the little details struck me as sounding right on, and his eye for detail was remarkable. It was when he spied my John Lennon pin on my hat that I knew he was the real deal. He told me, “You know, up in New York, where Central Park West and 72nd Street meet, there is a little park there that is called “Strawberry Fields” and on the anniversary of {Lennon’s} death a lot of people gather there.” Old Caleb was right on the money.
It was another story that he told me that was much more poignant, and gave me some insight to human dignity, and how people can cast aspersions on those less fortunate, or feel that they are fodder for whatever comes along, whether they want it or not, just because their station in life is less than it should be.
It was one of the coldest winters in history, and Caleb was “living” in Springfield, Massachusetts. I say “living” because he actually was sheltered against the cold and wind by a board that was propped up between the two abandoned refrigerators that was a bed for Caleb. A cop pulled the board away,and said to Caleb, “There are some people here from the newspaper and they want to talk to you. Do you want to talk to them?” Caleb emerged from his spot and saw two people, a reporter and a photographer. He told them he would talk to them about their article about how the homeless deal with the cold weather, but that he didn’t want his photo taken. They agreed and left after talking to Caleb.
The next day, he was walking down the sidewalk when he saw the paper box on the sidewalk, with his face staring back at him from the issue behind the glass. The headline was something along the lines of “Am I My Brother’s Keeper” and he saw red.
I never did find out why, but Caleb Gosa, once a traveller, now is grounded, lives in Savannah, and runs a program called “Feed the Poor” that, he claims, has served over 50,000 meals since he has been in charge. I don’t know if he works alone, or much else about him, really, but we parted with a handshake and best wishes and a promise from me to call him occasionally to let him know I am okay.
But that isn’t the end of the story. After I left Caleb and headed down Victory Blvd on my way to wherever it is I am going, about 30 minutes later I hear the beep of a horn behind me, and there is Caleb in his small truck. He parked it and motioned for me to come over. He told me that he felt bad that he had spoken to me and had not offered me something to eat, and had just finished a pickup at a local store for his program. Needless to say, I left Caleb with not only a big bag of grapes, but nectarines, peaches and and a delicious entire cake. We shook hands again and I said to him, “So, are you gonna let me take your picture now?” He said, “Wait a minute” and rummaged through his truck, emerging with a black wool hat with the face cut out. It was the same type of hat/mask that he was wearing when the photographer in Springfield had snuck his picture years ago. He told me that if it was okay for her, then I could at least have the same picture.
The grapes are good. The peaches and nectarines are gone, and the cake is sitting here, almost pornographic in its call to be devoured…..
Now where did I pack my fork?