humbled

We went fishing, Soren and I, down to the public pier just north of downtown Seattle and away from the tourists. 
"Do you think Terry will be there, Dad?" Soren asked, a pole in each small hand.
"I don't know, Son, we'll have to just wait and see."
I knew who Soren was referring to.  Terry was present at the pier last time when Soren pulled up a starfish.
"What IS this thing?" Soren asked, eyes full of wonder at the bright orange creature, the size of a dinner plate.
"That's an eighteen-legged starfish, boy."  Terry stated, coming over to show Soren how to take him off the hook.
And that was the start of an afternoon full of Terry showing an eight-year-old boy how to fish salt water for ling cod, salmon and the occasional cabazone.

When we arrived pier there was no Terry.  Sor pretended not to be disappointed.
"Maybe, he'll show up later." I offered as we baited our lines.
And he did.  Pulling up on his bicycle, pit bull on leash and pulling a homemade trailer contraption filled with garbage bags came Terry.  He sported a fishing lure on his baseball cap and a snap swivel as an earring.
"Hey there, Kid!"  And so another afternoon of teaching started.
I gave them some space and went over to fish on the other side of the pier next to a couple of other guys.

"Terry wouldn't ever tell you this," said an older guy with a bent over nose, "but he lives under that bridge over there in a tent.  That's why he's here all the time."

About that time, Soren came over to proudly show me both the pocket knife--every fisherman needs a pocket knife, Terry told him--and a fishing pole--both presents from Terry.

A homeless person gives his fishing pole and a pocket knife to a kid.  Freely, easily, without a second thought.  I grip my stuff so tight my knuckles are white from lack of blood.