My small, beat-up suitcase in hand, I stood on a sun-drenched sidewalk in downtown New Philadelphia, Ohio, pondering what to do next. Surly buildings loomed over blocks of deserted streets, a reminder that it was sabbath Sunday, on a glorious summer weekend that warranted celebration, except when one had no idea where one would be sleeping that night.

Just hours earlier I had startled up from a restless night, my last one in my room above the bar, and rushed to get dressed with my eyes half closed. Then, throwing all the remaining loose stuff in my suitcase, I had zipped it shut and dragged it downstairs and along the uptown blocks to the Greyhound station. Only after I had clambered into my seat and the bus had lumbered out of the station, down the quiet streets of the college town on break, and onto the open highway—only then had it sunk in, increasingly more dire by each traveled mile, the reality of my situation.

“It will work out all right, one way or another. Just you wait and see.” I had recited this comforting mantra to myself throughout the whole trip while staring out the glass window in a daze, desperate to believe my own words yet somehow not quite convinced. But convinced or not, I simply must make it work. My upcoming schoolyear was riding on it.

And on that brilliant Sunday in June 1976, I had staggered off the Greyhound coach in this unfamiliar town in Central Ohio, a hobo with no place to go.

Craning my neck this way and that, hoping for any sign of rescue, I spotted a gas station up the block. Its garage was open, and inside a mechanic was peering under the raised hood of a car. I hurried and trudged over to him, the suitcase bumping against my leg with each step.

“Pardon me, sir,” I said, out of breath. “Which way is the Department of Transportation?”

Straightening up, the middle-aged man turned and stared at me curiously.

“I only have this address.” I set the suitcase down, fumbled through my pocket, and fished out the folded DOT pamphlet that I had received in the mail with the paperwork package. “I start work there tomorrow, Monday.”

He squinted at the printed sheet, tossed me another gauging look before waving down the empty street. “A couple, three miles that-a-way. You driving?”

“No, sir. I rode the bus up here this morning.”

“Where you staying?”

I scratched my head. “I don’t have a place yet. Do you by chance know any place for rent?”

The man’s eyebrow arched. He reached for an oily rag, wiped his hands on it before tossing it back down. “Just wait here. Be right back,” he grumbled, then traipsed into a cubicle office in the corner. Through the glass enclosure, I watched him dial the telephone.

Upon returning, the man said with a shrug, “Can’t help you, son. But hang tight. The police will be here in a jiffy.”

The police! I didn’t think this qualified as that kind of emergency. I was still in disbelief when minutes later a patrol car turned off the street and pulled up in front of the garage. A fairly young-looking uniformed officer jumped out and sauntered up to the mechanic, who greeted him like a long-time acquaintance. They chatted briefly, the older man motioning his head toward me a couple of times, then the tall officer headed my way.

“Starting at the DOT tomorrow, eh?” he said with a smile that set me at ease. “Need a place to stay then, don’t you? I happen to know this lady from church who rents out spare bedrooms in her house. What do you say we go check with her? It might just be your lucky day.”

As we drove to Mrs. M.’s, the kind officer remarked that her house was mere blocks away from the DOT. “It’ll be a nice stroll to work for you,” he said, nodding approvingly. And no car or bus needed. I exhaled in silent relief. It sounded too good to be true.

Indeed it was. My tense shoulders slumped when Mrs. M., a grandmotherly-looking lady, informed us that both of her spare rooms had been rented. Watching the despair on my face, she tapped a finger against her lips, reconsidered quickly, then said, “Well, I do have an extra bed up in the attic. It isn’t much, but it’s yours if you want it. You can use the bathroom and telephone in the second-floor hallway. No cooking, though. I can give you a good deal for it.”

I almost dropped my suitcase to give her a big hug.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much,” was all I could muster, my body weak from relief.

That first night in the squeaky small bed in Mrs. M.’s attic was one of the best night sleeps I’d ever had. The next morning, I reported bright and early for my first day of work at the DOT.