His name was Carl : Creative Writing

written by Poet : louis_in_nc

His name was Carl, a simple name for a simple man, and I happened upon him by sheer fate that day. I was rolling out to a job in Timmonsville, South Carolina, and had just left the fast paced north to south frenzy that is know as Interstate 95. Near the ramp was an older gentleman, even from a distance you could see his age by the silver locks that were sparse upon his wearied head. I have always had a proneness to stop and pick up hitchhikers, perhaps it’s because I am no newcomer to walking myself, but for whatever reason it was, I stopped at his outstretched thumb.

 

     I let him know I was just going as far as Timmonsville, to which he replied “That will work for me”. I told him to hop right in and we introduced ourselves to one another, two strangers meeting by fates will. He had a certain “down home” manner about him, and a heavy southern accent to match. He was wearing an insubstantially thin pale blue T-Shirt that matched the color of his eyes, which were eerily close to the same shade as my own.  His tattered and threadbare jeans looked as if they had seen far too many seasons, and his shoes seemed to have too much wear upon them to be considered anything more than just scrap.

 

     As we talked, I deciphered from his heavy dialect that he had been on the road for 4 days, trying to make his way back home to St. Paul’s North Carolina from Florida. I pondered how it must have been hitching rides all the way from Florida, it seemed unbearably far putting it into that particular perspective, so I told him I was just going to Timmonsville for a job that shouldn’t take me any time at all to do, and after it was completed, I would be more than happy to take him there, after all, it would be on my way back to Fayetteville. He confided in me that he had been down to Florida to bury his Mother, a woman who lived for 81 years and finally succumbed to a combination of the frailty that comes with age, and disease. I thought about my own mother in that instant, and her own failing health, and wondered how long it would be before I had to do the same.

 

      Carl had that religious bias that many devout Christians do about life, and the way things happen. He had a pride about himself that conveyed itself to me without him even uttering a word. He was worn out, hungry, and by the undiluted aroma that came from him, you could tell that his claims of being on the road for 4 days had to be in earnest, yet he didn’t complain, and never once did he ask me for anything more than a simple ride. When we arrived in Timmonsville, Carl stepped out and took a seat on a near by bench patiently waiting for me to complete the job that brought me there. I completed my work, and Carl once again slid into the passenger seat of the van, and off we were on our commute to St. Paul’s.

 

     I could tell that Carl was hungry; he had that look in his eyes which I had seen many times before, but usually in third world countries. I stopped at a gas station and told him I needed to get something to drink and asked if he wanted anything. There was a smidgeon of foolish pride I could see welling up within him, the type of pride that makes people not accept help, even if they desperately need it. I myself am far too familiar with that kind of pride, so before he could answer I simply said “Tell you what, let me run to the restroom, grab yourself something to drink and a snack”, and I disappeared into the back, not allowing him to refuse.

 

     When I came back out, all this simple man had chosen were a bottle of water and a pack of stale donuts, despite the fact that he was obviously and overwhelmingly hungry.  I surmised from knowing this man less than 30 minuets that there was definitely no greed in this mans heart, by his actions, and his words, and I was humbled by this fact. He thanked me, not overly, but in a manner that made me truly feel he was thankful, and that kind of “thanks” is something you rarely get anymore these days. We settled back into the van and hit the road for good ole’ St Paul’s.

 

     We made some small talk starting off that later transitioned comfortably into the sharing of personal experiences, and parts of the lives we had both had. I listened as he talked about growing up in North Carolina in the mid 40’s, working the fields and the textile mills. The calluses on his rough leather skinned hands told the tale of a man that knew what a hard days work was and the lines on his face told the story of a man made wise by long years and even longer trials. His blue grey eyes looked through the years to envision his past with vibrant recall, and he shared with me the story of his life.

 

 

 

     There was a moment when I could almost see Carl in his 30’s, a man making a living, able to handle what the world threw at him, then his eyes turned foggy, and they seemed to pierce the barrier of time, they acquired that long off stare that people get when trying to pull up distant memories with great detail, and he told me of his wife, a woman of extraordinary character. He pulled a photograph out of his doddering backpack, and as I looked at the picture, I felt my heart stutter and drop. The photograph was old and worn out, there were stains on it that masked portions of the background and creases that ran perpendicular to one another from a multitude of times when it had been folded neatly for safe keeping, but the face I saw staring back at me was one that I somehow knew, or at least the resemblance was uncanny to someone I know all too well.

 

 

 

    The drone of the highway disappeared for awhile as I listened to this very humble man speak of the wife he was married to for 22 years. He recounted the past with such joy and happiness that I found myself drawn into his tale, and yearned to hear more. She was a German immigrant that came to the states due to the violence in war torn Europe, hoping to make a better life. He recanted tales of how they met, and the courting that followed. I listened as he chronicled the life that they lived together, the love they shared, and the devotion that they each had for one another. It was an epic tale of true love, they type that movies are derived from, and my spirit cried for sheer longing to have that type of love in my life.

 

 

 

     Mariele, his wife, passed away in 1999, hospitalized for health problems that she ultimately succumbed to, but the way Carl talked about her gave me the distinct feeling that he knew emphatically they would be together again. There was serenity within Carl each time he told me another detail about their life together, and as I listened, I thought about my life, and the love I still had for another. The love Carl had for his wife was not the forlorn type of love lost, but rather the continuing love of a truly devoted heart. This unpretentious soul still loved his wife with every ounce of his being, every molecule of his anatomy still abounding with the power of the love he had for her.

 

 

 

     I felt somehow unworthy to bear witness to such purity of love and wondered if I would ever again feel that overwhelmed by loves grace. The passion with which he talked about love and life was truly spiritual, and I couldn’t help but think of the times in my life when I was truly in love. Those are the best memories any of us can ever hope to have, the ones that are filled with love and happiness, the ones that firmly cement our hearts to the life of another. Carl taught me something about the kind of love I wanted in my life, the kind of love that lasts beyond the reality of death. In the short 80 miles we shared, I learned another truth about love that I know will stay with me until my time upon this earth has come to an end.

 

 

 

     When we arrived in St. Paul’s, we bid farewell to one another with a handshake and mutual thanks for the conversation we shared. I watched as he slowly walked away, still feeling the emotions that his stories had drawn up within me. I would be dishonest if I were to say his plight had not touched me, and I found myself imagining Carl being reunited with his beloved Mariele beyond the veil of death. For the remainder of my trip back to Fayetteville, I was lost in thought about my current situation, and the fact that I felt detached from love. The old photograph he had shown me was still vivid in my mind, the long curly black hair, the gleaming, yet dark colored eyes, the olive complexion of her skin, and it made me weep because of the similarities to someone I knew and loved still.

 

 

     His name was Carl, and we met by sheer fate that day, and by fates will, I learned a little more about life and love. I still feel the love that radiated from him for his Mariele, and it still makes me long to be loved as she was loved by this simple man. You may travel many roads in your life, and you may run across many souls who are trying to do nothing more than get home. Don’t pass up an opportunity to help a fellow human being, for they might help you find out more about who you are, and what you want, than what you currently know. Wisdom can come from anyplace, even from a stranger, and love, love is one of those universal occurrences that we all understand, we all feel, and we all long to experience. Hold on to the memories of love you have, for they are the best parts of your life, and can see you through even the toughest of times, at least if you happen to be lucky enough to have them.

Originally Posted On Site: 2007-05-03 06:37:53
Last Login: 09.28.07

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