Flashback to 1968

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My first encounter with a panhandler was, when I moved to Toronto in 1968, to live with Jack, my brother. Being a storyteller himself, he viewed panhandlers as follows: If they present you with an interesting, unique story of why you should give them money, that story has value and should be rewarded accordingly.

The corner of Dundas and McCaul,  was a place I had to pass each morning on my way to work. There was no way around it. Standing there, every morning, was Sam, a panhandler. He wore slippers, his clothes were ragged, but neat and clean. I’d guess his age to be in the late seventies. Each morning, Sam had a different hard luck story to tell me, ‘Good morning, could you spare a quarter so that I could buy something to eat. My stomach is rumbling. Do you hear it? I’m diabetic, so it’s imperative that I eat on a regular schedule, or I could go into diabetic shock.’ How could I say no?

At that time bus, streetcar and subway fares were a quarter. By comparison, an adult fare is now three dollars. I always made sure that I had an extra quarter for Sam. One morning, just for fun, I ran up to Sam and said, ‘Can you spare me a quarter! I’ve been late for work twice this week; if I’m late again I’ll be fired!’ Sam reached both hands into his pockets and they came out full of quarters. ‘Here, take all you need,’ he said. I graciously accepted a quarter.

From then on, I just gave Sam a quarter every day and asked about his life. ‘What time do you come out here, Sam?’

‘I’m here for the six o’clock morning traffic, people walking to work. When rush hour is over I work my way along Dundas to Gerrard where I have lunch at the Yonge Street Mission.  After that, I go to St. John’s Bakery on Broadview. I have my cart, so I pick up bottles along the way; anything I can find a use for. I’m good at fixing things. I get a lot of good things on garbage day. I look for cigar butts. Once a week I’ll treat myself to a new cigar. I work my way north to College, turn west and arrive at the Scott Mission, on Spadina, for supper. I follow the same route every day. I’ve gotten to know a lot of people, so there are plenty of opportunities to stop and chat for a while. A friend of mine owns a restaurant, so I stop there for tea.’

Through our discussions I learned that Sam had his own room. He didn’t drink. He had a woman friend, but liked his independence. He earned  a living, but he worked hard for it.

My girlfriend, Sydney and I were walking along College Street on our way home from work, in the financial district, downtown. It was a warm sunny day and we had decided not to take the streetcar. Unexpectedly, we met Sam. He winked at me and said, ‘Excuse me ma’am, I’m trying to collect enough money to visit my sick sister in Hamilton. Could you help me out?’ Sydney reached into her purse and pulled out a handful of change. Sam continued, ‘My sister is in hospital.’ Sydney pulled out another fistful of change. ‘She has to have a very serious operation.’ She shook her purse and gathered the last bit of change and handed it to Sam. ‘My mother’s also sick.’ Sydney handed him a twenty. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘This is all the money I have.’

‘Thank you very much ma’am. My mother, sister and I appreciate your generosity very much. We’ll all say a prayer for you.’

‘What a nice man,’ commented Sydney ‘I hope his sister and mother have a successful recovery.’ I was doubting that he had either a sister, or a mother. By this time, Sam had turned away, pulling his cart behind him. It had been a good day for him.

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