Not everyone has been fortunate all their lives. I was once homeless.
Everyone’s life is unique, and I never felt that mine was necessarily unusual. Living and working on the land in Bury for 36 years afforded me a full time occupation and a roof over my head, if nothing else. My wife, all those years, insisted on maintaining control of the family finances as well as strictly determining the course of our daily lives, work and obligations.

She had never been in perfect health. All our married life she relied on me to tend to the gardens, farm animals, and woodlot. It was a lifestyle choice.
Following a terminal cancer diagnosis in her late 60s, a whirlwind of tests, operations, doctors, nurses, hospitals, caregivers, and social workers utterly and irreversibly transformed our existence. With no immediate family we were fortunate to have caring neighbours, friends, and a reasonably effective medical care system to help us through the worst of the rough patches.

It was not until near the end of her ordeal that a previously diagnosed psychological ailment came to the attention of those on the medical team, although I had been dealing with the repercussions of it for decades. To make a long story short, in her rapidly deteriorating physical and mental capacity, she came to the determination that I was no longer worthy or deserving of « her » land, house, or decades of accumulated wealth. She set her mind to give it all away to virtual strangers while she was still considered, legally, to be « of sound mind. »

What is the point of my publicly sharing such personal information?
Without warning, in spite of all those years of hard work and devoted care-giving, I was informed that I was no longer welcome in my home of 36 years and would be arrested and charged with a criminal offence should I attempt to set foot on the property without her express permission.
In the blink of an eye, I found myself « out on the street, » alone, homeless, and destitute, owning nothing more than the clothes on my back.

I discovered, in short order, that I was not alone. The road to homelessness may be long and slow, or short and sudden. The particular circumstances may vary, but the end result is much the same.
I received directions from a social worker to the only men’s shelter in Sherbrooke. I soon learned the routine of standing in line for the potential, but not guaranteed, chance to procure a temporary cot in a shared open hall to rest, if not sleep, for the night… but only until 7 a.m. when everyone would once again be turned out onto the streets to fend for themselves.

My own experience ended soon and happily, thanks to the generosity of compassionate friends, and neighbours. (They know who they are, and that I remain eternally grateful.)

Many out there are not so fortunate. It has become quite common, in the lead-up to the holidays each year, to increasingly see and hear public-service ads and impassioned pleas for donations of food, clothing, and cash to aid local and regional service organizations in their efforts to assist those in need.
In fact, they need our support year-round.