I was smooching his little face and listening to his contented purrs. He was an orange marmalade, standing taller than his canine toy poodle brothers and outweighing them too. Even though he'd spent several winters outside after being kicked out for repeatedly sharing the fruits of his successful hunting trips with his family, he had the manners of a king. When I met Buddy, I wasn't in the market for a new pet, much less a cat.

We had just moved to the big city from a much smaller, some might say backwards, area of the country. Even though it was a good opportunity for our careers, I was homesick from the day we started packing. Trying to imagine what it would be like to live in the city, I took a judgmental stand with my wardrobe, home decor and hobbies. Would I wear this? No! Put this up on the wall? No! When it came to my photography equipment, I couldn't decide. I had carefully collected pieces over the years, looking for sales. I had a good collection of backdrops and few studio lights, plus a couple of 35 mm film cameras and a prized medium format. But when would I use them? I considered giving them to my good friend, who, a photographer and journalist in her own right, would put them to good use. Back and forth, take them or not? At the last minute, I threw them in.

I was sure the city would be cold, anonymous, impersonal, leaving no time for making friends. This had all but been confirmed by friends and colleagues who lived there. "Don't make eye contact on the subway", "If you talk to people randomly, they'll think you're strange", "Work is much different here". And on it went.

For the first few months, I lived in a constant state of anxiety and homesickness. It really was different here! Then, one day I came home to find a little orange cat outside my door. He looked friendly and I thought he must belong to one of the neighbors. Several days that week, he was outside my door when I got home. One afternoon, fixing myself some tea in the kitchen, I glanced out the window and there he was, neatly tucked into the window ledge. 'Mayow', he mouthed. He must be hungry, I thought. Rummaging around in the cupboard, I found a can of tuna and quickly put it on a small plate. Setting it and a small bowl of water outside the door, I watched as the small orange cat delicately nibbled at the offering.

That became our daily routine. I began to look forward to going home. Eventually, he let me pet him a bit as he was eating. It was then that I realized how thin he was. Practically skin stretched over bone, covered with dull orange fur. Poor thing! If there’s one thing I feel compelled to do, it’s feed people. Friends and family would say I have a problem with food (and possibly a portion control issue with potatoes), although they kindly indulge my obsession by visiting so I can cook, and taking leftovers even when their fridges are full.

I immediately adopted the little orange cat’s stomach. Food was needed! I’m on it! Weeks went by, cat kibble crept into my grocery cart, and the little orange cat started to look a little healthier. One day, I happened to come home at the same time as my neighbour and took the opportunity to introduce myself. Glory! She was from a small town too! We talked. She knew of the small orange cat, said he was friendly. His name was Buddy. Neighbours in one of the townhouses had adopted what they thought was a de-clawed, indoor cat. He had been on his own for about a year and a half now, she said. We started to visit when our time off schedules coincided. I continued to feed the (slightly larger) orange cat. The weather started to get cooler. One day, I let him in. You know how that worked out.

In the course of starting a new job in the new city, I met some wonderful ladies, one of whom wanted to learn photography. Could I teach her? She would find us some opportunities, she knew some people. Sure, I said. And so it began. I met so many wonderful people, got to enjoy my hobby with a new friend and learned that the big city wasn’t so impersonal after all.

Years later, we had the opportunity to return to our little corner of the world. Buddy came home with us. By this time, he was well integrated with the family. The dogs didn’t give him a second thought, but kept a wide berth from his occasionally sharp claws. My patient husband had forgotten that he didn’t want a cat either, and now reminded me to pick up cat food on my way home, and oh, don’t forget the litter.

I’ve had many perspective-shift inducing moments in my lifetime, but I have to say that meeting Buddy changed my life. He made the big city bearable. He reminded me that we all need each other and that small kindnesses matter. He gave me some perspective on what’s actually important, and that life is what you make it, good or bad. And so, Some Perspective is dedicated to Buddy. I hope you enjoy my photography, and if you get the opportunity, that you’ll lend a helping hand to make your community a better place.

“You go ahead,” he said, “I’m not in a hurry.”

I looked up to see smiling eyes twinkling back at me. “No, it’s OK, I’m not in a hurry either,” I said. I was on my way home after a weekend visit with friends. Although the distance between our homes was relatively short, a mere three and a half hours for most people, I seemed to find a reason to stop about every hour or so, making the trip take even longer. Driving isn’t my favourite thing and today, I’d decided to stop at a popular truck stop for lunch and a little break from the monotonous scenery.

We were in the lineup to the restaurant. “I’m retired,” he said. Then, pulling out his wallet, he extracted a newspaper clipping and showed it to me. “That’s my wife,” he said. “She died nine years ago.”

“Oh?” I murmured sympathetically.

“A massive heart attack,” he said. She’d been in to see the doctor two weeks before as they were planning a trip, he said, and got a clean bill of health. It was totally unexpected.

He’s lonely, I thought, needs to talk. Dragging myself away from my texts and social media updates, I asked him about his family and former career. “I was a truck driver for 10 years, 864,000 miles without an accident,” he said proudly. “I almost didn’t get my license though. I’m blind in this eye,” he gestured. He explained that he and his brother had had infant paralysis. His brother had died but he was lucky, he had only lost the sight in one eye.

By this time, we were almost at the counter and he was still talking. “The food’s good here,” he smiled. “Are you here by yourself?” Now, I’m used to travelling alone and have been known to strike up random conversations with complete strangers. A few minutes of small talk, an occasionally engaging interaction and I’m off the plane or on my way to the next deadline or destination. But today, I decided to keep the conversation going.

“Do you want to have lunch together?” I asked.

He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Carmen*. Nice to meet you.” “I’m going to buy her lunch,” he explained to the hostess who was looking at us quizzically. “Table for two.”

“I’m having lunch with an old man I met in line at the truck stop,” I texted my daughter. “Not weird at all,” she responded.

Our server was a middle aged lady who obviously knew Carmen. “I’m buying her lunch today,” he told her. She looked at me a little sideways. I smiled and said we had just met in line and how nice he was to invite me to lunch. As she left to get our drinks, I could tell she would be keeping an eye on me.

“I’m gonna have the fish n chips. I always have it here,” he proclaimed. Setting the menu aside, he added, eyes down, “I don’t read so well.” Surely, I said, you must read a bit, recalling that he had been a truck driver. “Well, I only got a Grade 5 education,” he explained. So how does a half blind, functionally illiterate man come to spend a decade on the road driving a mega-ton truck, hauling over 50 feet of cargo?

Someone had helped him learn the written driving part, he said, which he passed. Then came the eye exam. He could see perfectly out of the one eye. But the other eye didn’t even have partial vision. He considered memorizing the letters with his good eye, then repeating them when it came time to do the exam with his blind eye. But at the last minute, he couldn’t. Asked by the examiner if he could see, he told the truth about being blind in one eye. And got his license anyway.

Were you always a truck driver, I asked? No, he said, he’d been a plumber for a few years before that. He was self-taught and worked with some good people, he said. Then someone he knew was looking for a truck driver and suggested it to Carmen. He’d met his best friend while working as a truck driver. “But if I saw the bastard in the woods today, I don’t know if both of us would come out,” he said grimly. Uh oh, I thought, I’m having lunch with an axe murderer! I quickly texted my friend, telling her where I had stopped for lunch, and with whom. Just in case someone needed to know where I was last seen.

“I saved his life,” he continued. “And I’m not sorry I did. But if I met him today….” he trailed off. Fascinated, I heard the story of how a course he’d once taken helped him save his friend from sure tragedy as he worked on his furnace, and how recognition and reward for Carmen’s good work had led to jealousy and ultimately, betrayal by his best friend. Carmen, I suspected, was experiencing short term memory loss as he had told me about his wife, his driving career and his daughter’s ex-husband’s drama at least four times in our short conversation. But his long term memory was still sharp, as was his remedy for taking care of those who crossed him.

Hoping to change the subject, I asked him what he did with his time now that he was retired. He spent a good deal of time driving his Grand Marquis, he said. He had bought it from an older couple who spent their winters in Florida. The car had never seen a winter until he got it, he said. “I take it over there on the flats and burn it out sometimes,” he said gleefully. “I got it up to 140 once.” KM’s per hour?! The man is 86! And blind in one eye. Good gravy!

Our server came back with more coffee. “I’ll take the bill,” I said quietly. While Carmen was regaling me with tales of a lovely lady he’d met after his wife passed away, I surreptitiously managed to pay it. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “Long drive ahead.” Amid much protesting over the bill, I managed to take my leave. After a quick stop by the restroom, I headed to the door. And there was Carmen, waiting by the door. Uh oh. Maybe I had misjudged how safe it was to have lunch with an old man.

“You shouldn’t have paid the bill,” he said. “I gotta pay you back.” No, no, I said, it was my pleasure. He followed me outside. And to my car. I managed to get inside, followed by Carmen’s protests over the bill. Finally, he seemed to give up. As I lowered the window to say goodbye, he pushed some coins at me, “I’m going to give you a tip!” Wanting to leave, I thanked him and said I would donate his tip to a good cause. He smiled and walked off.

In our brief conversation, I was reminded once again how short the distance really is between lives lived and lost. That taking a few minutes out of your day to say hello to a stranger is good for your soul. That we must look up from our lives and quiet the hustle and bustle to rediscover our humanity. Carmen, you’re an inspiration. You found a silver lining amid all the challenges. You consider yourself lucky and you never took ‘No’ for an answer. You worked hard and didn’t let your limitations define you. I’m sure glad I met you.

I did donate Carmen’s tip to a good cause, The Humanity Project, an organization that’s helping homeless people get back on their feet. They’re doing some great work helping people find shelter, providing them with food and advocating for better facilities and services. Like Carmen, they keep finding a silver lining and don’t take ‘No’ for an answer. Check out their Facebook page here: https://www.facebook.com/TheHumanityProjectCanada/ and help them out by donating or sharing their story.

*Not his real name, of course. All names are changed for privacy reasons, and also because I often don’t remember names.