A Man on the Trail

This picture was taken on the Helen to Hardman Heritage Trail about five years ago, before Joe had a beard. This has become our favorite local trail, because of its accessibility and beauty — a lovely, wheelchair friendly path built on an old railroad bed, meandering through the North Georgia woods along a river. Around the time this photo was taken, we had an experience on the trail that I hope to never forget.

As usual we parked at the Hardman Farm lot on top of the hill and worked our way down the long, multi-tiered wheelchair ramp to the trail. About halfway to Helen, we saw a guy walking kind of funny from the other direction. He was clutching a camera with a long lens and he looked at us closely, like he knew us and wanted to say something, but all he could manage was an awkward, “hey,” which we returned in kind.

I didn’t trust the man. His smile seemed false. I realize now that in a way it was false, but not for the reasons I had imagined. Right then, I thought he was unsteady, possibly wasted. After our brief greeting he stared at us for an uncomfortable moment, looked at Joe, kept smiling. So we moved on and when I glanced back I noticed he was still looking, his hands on his camera. I thought he was going to take our picture. Anyway, I put myself between Jane (who was pushing Joe’s chair) and Joe, and we continued on our way.

On the return hike to Hardman here came the guy again. This time he stopped us, looked into my face and fumbled for words between nervous chuckles. “I was just noticing how much your boy reminds me of my son,” he finally said. “He had cerebral palsy, too.”

He guessed, or knew, that Joe has cerebral palsy. But I was stuck on the word, “had.”

“He loved being outdoors, he would have loved a trail like this,” the man said, again punctuating his words with a nervous chuckle. “He was 29 when he died.”

Right after his son died in May 2017, the man explained, his wife was diagnosed with cancer. She died last October.

“Can I … can I say hello to your son,” he asked, inching closer to us.

Jane and I had been standing between Joe and the man, with Joe pointed in the other direction, which is sometimes an instinctive move for us when other people get caught up in staring at the kid in the wheelchair. Some looks are fearful or pitiful or cruel, which are sometimes all the same thing. But some are sincere and honest curiosity. Some are love and grace. And some, I now know, are about loss and longing.

“Sure,” Jane said. “He enjoys fist bumps.” Because Joe often keeps his hands in raised fists, fist bumps are an appropriate greeting, better than shaking hands, although we’re working on that, too.

The man, who was visiting the area from South Carolina, came around and gave Joe a fist bump, smiling, saying, “hey Joe, hey buddy,” and all the while nervously chuckling, probably to keep from crying. I know that move. I’ve used that move.

The man didn’t have to tell us how much he missed his wife and son. It was all right there on his devastated, smiling face. Finally, I did the only decent thing I could come up with and offered my hand, said we were pleased to meet him, said, “God bless you, man,” even though I’m not sure who or what or if God is.

It seemed like the appropriate thing to say to this man, like maybe it was what he wanted or needed to hear, this smiling, shattered man who looked like he wanted something from us, who did want something from us. A reminder, a connection.

He ambled on toward Helen. We rolled back to Hardman, up the twisting ramp, then drove home. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the helpless man with the nervous chuckle. I thought, “God, bless him. Please. And while you’re at it, send him an angel.”