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You will
not be
forgotten

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I would like to take a
moment to remember some
of the brothers we have
lost along the way.

By Dustin LaPres

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Growing up in a middle class home, I never dreamed that
I would live the life I have, of homelessness and addiction,
and it has been a very tough life.

Those who know me well can attest to that. And yet, I can
honestly say, if I had to do it all again, I would do it the
all the same. I say this not because of the brutality I have
experienced, or the multiple incarcerations, the periods
of gnawing hunger and near frostbitten extremities, the
day-to-day filthiness that I have had to endure for lack of
clean clothes and shower facilities, nor the shame which
was an ever-burdening companion during my days living
publicly. I say this and can say it unequivocally because of
the people I have met along the way. If I had done one
thing differently, I may never have had the chance to know
some of the most beautiful people I have ever been graced
with the opportunity to share a bottle or a campsite and a

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meal and the occasional adventure with. Let’s pay homage
to some of the old school hobos who taught me as a young
man to survive and thrive on the street.

When I was about twelve, I met my first homeless
friend. His name was Ralph Laymette, and he was a fifty-
something-year-old Vietnam vet who camped here in
town during the summers and then hitchhiked to Florida
for the winters. The day I met him, he invited me to his
campfire and shared a fish with me which he had caught
out of lake right around the trestle (long before they
developed that area) which used to be the prime camping
area for the hobo culture as it was an abandoned, unloved
part of town, and most people stayed out of there. Ralph
and I began to hang out regularly.

Ralph taught me how to dumpster-dive and to go canning

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(collect cans), how to build a shelter or look for a natural
one. He told me stories about his life, and he loved me like
a son—something I badly needed in my life because at just
twelve and thirteen years old, I was contemplating suicide
because of my problems socially as well as at home. As I
grew older, I spent many summers with Ralph and shared
many forty-ouncers over a campfire. He loved me at a
time in my life in a way that I like to think now probably
saved me. I needed that friend at that moment in time.
Ralph died while I was away in prison around the turn
of the millennium. After 30-plus years of fighting with
the government over his benefits as a Vietnam Veteran, he
received a settlement for a large sum; and that same week
as he was riding into town to go to the store, the vehicle he
was in was destroyed.

Ralph didn’t make it.

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Another close friend was Steve Gunn. Steve was a lot like
Sam Elliot—a tough old long-haired biker cat with a hard
attitude and a heart of gold. I met Steve when I was 15
and hung out with him almost daily for a few years. He
and I had some great adventures canning, and his stories
always chased away the loneliness and fear that were
always so pervasive during those young street years for me.
Steve had been a roadie for the Grateful Dead, amongst
other things; and in his rugged biker/cowboy way, he was
a very loving friend…always ready to fight at the drop of a
hat to protect his friends. Steve befriended me and stuck
with me during a time when I had nobody and nothing—I
was sleeping in the Civic Center bathroom some nights
and outdoors other nights. Nobody was really there for
me except him and my homeless friends. Had he not been
there, I may not have made it. I had every reason to give
up, but men like him kept me going.

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Steve died while I was away in prison in 2005-2006. He
went to the shelter on a sub-zero night, and they turned
him away for being drunk and refusing to leave his bottle.
He made it a few blocks away onto the State Hospital
grounds and fell in the creek and froze to death. He was
one of the smartest men I have ever known.

Larry Delater was probably one of the most steadfast
friends I have ever known. I met Larry when he moved
here shortly after I was released from prison A sweeter,
gentler human being I have never known. Larry was
homeless much of his life; and toward the end of it, he
received disability and medical housing.

I saw him nearly every day the last ten years when I was
not locked up. He always gave me a place to sleep, food to
eat, lent me a few bucks. He adored me. To Little Larry,

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was a rockstar, and he would sit and listen to me play for
hours, tickled to death.

I had a lot of problems after the better part of a decade in
institutions, and yet Larry always accepted me the way I
was. He was my brother, and I loved him. The post-prison
days were initially very tough for me. I had nobody and
nothing, and once again, fate smiled on me and put this
goofy little streetkid right there beside me to become my
best friend. I learned so much from him about how to love
people again and how valuable we all are as humans.

Larry passed last June while I was away in treatment. It
crushed me, but he left behind a legacy in our memories.
He was a diabetic and died due to complications at only
39, but he lived such a rich life. I wrote a song for him
upon his passing that my wife and I still play daily.

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These lost souls, this generation of lost people who were
so undervalued by society and yet shone so brilliantly in
my life and the lives of those who took the time to get to
to know them. Times are changing. The era in which we
all came of age as homeless men has passed. Back in those
days, there was no good shelter, no places for homeless
kids or teens, and no breakfasts and very few meals. The
people back then were even colder to us and the police
were even harder. We had no one, nothing, and nowhere
except each other.

When most of my friends were going to proms and
driving new cars, I was on the streets thinking seriously
about ending my life so young. And yet at exactly the right
moments, these people came into my life and accepted me
and showed me love and taught me and protected me. I
am what I am today because of all of them.

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So, no. Ask again and I will tell you again, I wouldn’t
change a thing.

If you ask me, these were the brightest stars of their
respective times—these tarnished diamonds in the rough
who never failed to be their brother’s keeper and who lived
so worldly in terms of their vices, yet so Godly in terms of
the way in which they were unattached to the material life,
and as ever-so-intent upon loving their fellow man.

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