A Donut Shop Encounter

A familiar sight on downtown Urbana streets (and sometimes Champaign as well) was Bill Walton, a homeless man. My memories of him go way back to the early 1980s when we had our early morning newspaper vending box route and I would see him striding down the streets at 5:30 AM, carrying a rolled blanket and other possessions.

Bill Walton

I first saw him while coming out of Christie Clinic on a blustery fall day, having just had a prenatal appointment. He was walking on the sidewalk across from me, loudly calling "hello" to people he passed and then adding an obscenity to the greeting. Needless to say, I clutched Sarah and Jessica's hands a little tighter and hustled to my car, not sure that we were safe.

A drawing from The News Gazette (artist uncredited)

But I soon discovered that he was very much a part of the community's culture and that most people knew of him. Bill could be found taking shelter during the day in public places such as the Urbana Free Library or the bus depot, and was generally seen as harmless and not someone to worry about. Rumor had it that he was a Vietnam War veteran who had messed his mind up on drugs, was an alcoholic, and had wealthy family in town who gave him money to live on, but that he preferred the street life. (Those rumors later proved to be true.)

One day I had a very powerful teaching moment as a mom that involved Bill. I was running our early morning newspaper delivery route, and one of the stops was Ye Old Donut Shoppe on Vine Street in Urbana. I had Jessica in the car with me - the kids thought it was a treat to get up at 4:00 AM and help, especially since we stopped at several donut shops to fill newspaper machines and I would get them a donut.

As we pulled up and I grabbed the newspapers and prepared to hop out, we noticed Bill around the corner of the donut shop. He was by the dumpster, and was eating discarded food from it. I felt dismayed at the idea that he was eating thrown out food, and wanted to help him.

I was nervous, though. I had a child with me and it was early morning with few people around. If rumor were wrong and he WASN'T harmless (after all, I had heard his obscenity laced calls a few years prior), I had more than just me to think of. But I was also acutely aware that my child was watching and that this was an opportunity to teach about compassion and caring.

So, we got out of the car together, loaded the newspapers into their respective vending boxes, then went inside. Jessie got to choose her donuts, but then we selected milk and some donuts for Bill.

I had Jessie get back in the car, locked it, and then walked over to Bill, holding out the milk and donuts to him. His response surprised me.

"No, ma'am, I can't accept that," he said softly.

"I bought it for you; please take them and enjoy them," I said, surprised.

"No, ma'am, I can't accept those." And he turned away from me and continued digging through the dumpster.

I acquiesced to his wishes and returned to my car where Jessica had been watching our exchange. I explained to her that he had refused, but that we had done the right thing in offering the milk and donuts to him.

I remember feeling tension drain out of me as I turned the key in the ignition. I had been more nervous about approaching Bill than I had realized. But I also remember feeling a quiet warmth inside. I knew we had done the right thing, and that my daughter had had a personal experience with reaching out and caring for another person. And even though that caring and kindness had been rejected, it was still the right thing to do.

We've been in Indiana for nine years now and I have wondered occasionally what had happened to Bill. Then, this past June, I saw his obituary and that is how I discovered those rumors about him were all true. He was a Vietnam veteran who'd strung out on drugs and alcohol, and he did have a wealthy family who had tried repeatedly to help him. In fact, they, with help from the Urbana community, had finally gotten him moved into a nursing home for the last few years of his life.

Bill Walton, Urbana icon, is gone now. But I will always remember our encounter at Ye Old Donut Shoppe and the powerful teaching moment that Bill provided - for Jessica AND for me.

Rest in peace, Bill.