Lingering On Cold Breath of Winter Still: Memories Of Mr. Lincoln Highway

He never bothered anybody. Never begged. Was never seen causing any raucous. He just walked, as far as we could see. From can’t-see-in-the-morning ‘til can’t-see-at-night.

By John W. Fountain

HE WALKED UP AND down this life’s thoroughfare known as Lincoln Highway, toward or away from the sun, omnipresent for seasons. We saw him. Or we didn't. He was either flesh and blood, heart and soul, or else a mere shadow of homelessness.

Then suddenly, he was gone, like an unexpected hard summer’s rain whose scent lingers long after the storm has passed. And yet, my memories of witnessing him each season, particularly here lately, are stirred by the cold breath of winter.

We called him, “Poncho.” Others called him, “Mr. Lincoln Highway.” We all saw him as a man.

For years, his path snaked from Matteson to Olympia Fields to Chicago Heights and up and down South Halsted Street to Homewood and back again. He was a fixture. I saw him, as did many others, despite the tendency amid the hustle and bustle of daily life—amid the chasm that exists between the haves and the have-nots, the housed and the unhoused—to render certain people among us as invisible. But for many around here, Poncho was not invisible.

Tall and slender, his sandy salt-and-pepper beard, long and scraggly most times, he ambled across the buzzing south suburban highway, dodging motorists who either paused or else didn’t.

Smothered by layers of clothes in winter, or wearing in summer a T-shirt and oversized pants with a belt that I can still see him pulling tightly, he walked. The mileage showed on his tattered shoes. The toll of life was etched in the lines on his chocolate forehead. In the lines beneath his often-wearied eyes.

Tireless Soul Man

HE WALKED AS IF a determined man on an endless solitary journey. Poncho’s walk was a dignified, deliberate two-step with a rhythmic bobble to which his entire body moved, his head—adorned with unkempt locs—and slightly bowed as if passing in sincere humility.

He passed politely, minding his own business and with what seemed to be an unspoken respect for this world and all of its inhabitants.

At night, Poncho could be hard to decipher in between glaring headlights and the shadows. We learned to look for him. To look out for him.

Many knew him as “Mr. Lincoln Highway,” the tireless soul man who meandered daily from one far south suburban town to another, sometimes nodding a “hello,” though sparse on words.

He never bothered anybody. Never begged. Was never seen causing any raucous. He just walked, as far as we could see. From can’t-see-in-the-morning ‘til can’t-see-at-night. Everybody knew him, even if they didn’t.

Rumor had it that he had been a star athlete once upon a time before something happened. Before something changed him.

Once, after buying him a cup of coffee, the journalist in me inquired about doing a story about his former life. “I don't want to talk about that,” he answered.

Good enough.

I have lived long enough to understand that life is what happens when you make other plans. That there but for the grace of God go I. That it is better to love than to judge.

Apparently, many people felt that way about Poncho. They gave him clothes, shoes, coffee, food. He never asked, perhaps too proud. An anonymous customer at a local Starbucks kept a gift card there loaded for him to cover whatever Poncho wanted whenever he came in, a barista later told me.

Except, ever since that winter’s day four years ago Poncho hasn’t been back in. Hasn’t been seen other than in a photograph of him from a news article pinned by a barista on a community bulletin board in the coffee shop in his remembrance.  Thank you for reading 50 Cent A Word. This post is public so feel free to share it.

He Was 64, He was loved, He Walked

SOMETIMES HE SHOWED UP at the local Starbucks, looking fresh—clean-shaven, his hair trimmed, and wearing new clothes and shoes, his eyes clear.

Sometimes, on especially brutal winter days, local merchants let him sit and warm up, or cool off on tortuous summer afternoons. He was ours. Our local wanderer, our friend, our neighbor, our guy, our dude, our Poncho.

I was out of town in January 2020 when I got the news: Poncho was dead, killed three days before NBA legend Kobe Bryant along with his daughter Gianna and seven others who died in a helicopter crash in Calabasas, California. News of the deaths of both men brought me to tears. But Poncho’s death hit home.

He had been walking near Western Avenue and Lincoln Highway when he was struck and killed Jan. 23, by a Hyundai driven reportedly by a 23-year-old woman charged with aggravated DUI involving death.

I learned then that Poncho’s name was Joe Townsley Jr.

News of Poncho’s demise, in a world driven by fame and fortune—a world in which the lives and deaths that transpire beyond the veil often disappear quietly like a wisp of breath in the freezing cold—found its way to the ears and hearts of some of those who had witnessed his perennial walk. They expressed their sense of loss:

“Joe was thee sweetest and most polite person ever!!!! This truly breaks my heart,” one admirer writes on Facebook beneath a post. “May you Rest In Peace Joe Townsley.”

Another writes: “Used to see him walking down Route 30 and at the McDonald's on Western. R.I.P. The struggle is over. …No more walking up and down RT 30. Walk amongst the clouds... RIP young man.”

Writes another: “First saw him in ‘96 when I was working at McDonald's in Matteson. He would come in to wash up in the bathrooms, get some food and go about his way. We never knew his real name so we dubbed him Lincoln Hwy since that’s the main place we'd always see him throughout the years.

“I last saw him in summer or spring. I wanted to speak to him, but I couldn't do it. Kinda makes me sad now, but he is in a better place. Glad to see he has so much love coming from so many people! You will be missed by many! R.I.P. Joseph Townsley aka Lincoln Highway!”

That February, at his funeral inside a small church in Chicago Heights on a winter Wednesday as I paid my respects, I learned a lot of things about Poncho.

But what I will say here—so that I may grant him as a writer the same respect and privacy in death that I showed him in life is this: He was 64, he was loved, he walked.

And he is missed for having graced our lives with his noble walk for many seasons. Even four years later, memories of Mr. Lincoln Highway still linger, like the cold breath of winter.   

Email: Author@johnwfountain.com