Having been chastised by the Cassini sisters for not blogging, your humbled scribe sits down with quill in hand and awaits the muse.
They've been in town for a short interval between south and east. Their volunteer mission to Cambodia has fallen through and they're waiting to see what God has for them instead.
Their young 'un, who looks like Christopher Robin, was having a great time hanging out on the front steps with a few of the guys. One of them was A., still reveling in his new life out of the Motel, but still coming to Dinner every week.
A. is a 6 foot something, gangly, eagle faced guy, greying and wrinkling. Christopher Robin is as tall as a bookend, bright eyed and quick. A. was smoking on the steps and Christopher Robin looked up, looked wa-ay up, and asked him, "Are you good?"
A. answered, "No, I'm not. I'm an old buzzard."
Christopher Robin replied, "Well. No old buzzards are allowed in here."
A. burst out laughing, and came in the room to tell us all, tripping over a chair on the way.
We've all noticed the change in him since he got his apartment. The cloud is gone and he seems lighter. One woman said, "Such a small miracle makes such a big difference."
The place was packed tonight. We have 65 chairs and everyone of them was occupied, plus a few take-outs.
SW sat at the piano and played for us until someone came to fetch him, needing a ride somewhere. I wonder sometimes where else he feels welcome.
I hadn't seen anybody much in a couple of weeks, so I spent most of the time chatting and catching up. Apologizing to C. (who has also moved out, but still comes to Dinner) for being so slow in editing chapter 5 of the novel (have I mentioned she's writing a novel? She is.), catching up with CL and hearing about how PA is doing, what they've got for the baby, and when the next sonogram is. CL is honorary Grandma.
She had a rough week. Threw her back out and couldn't work for several days which, for some of us, is torture.
I talked with the Cassini sisters, planned with J., compared travels down east with R., heard (in detail) (lots of detail) how L.'s surgery went.
Lots of conversation.
Problem is, I have to make myself focus on the conversation for its own sake. The writer in me is always looking for material. Which is so wrong. Sort of.
On one hand, I think that maybe by reading some of these stories, people who have never known these people might get to know them, might get to understand what they've been through, might look twice the next time they see somebody sitting on the sidewalk with a paper cup and a cardboard sign, or somebody riding a bike down the highway, piled high with groceries, or somebody paying for something with a voucher or food stamps, or somebody who smells like beer.
On the other hand, it seems very disingenuous to be listening and taking notes at the same time.
I'd make a lousy reporter. My head would go off in one direction, and my heart in the other.
But it's interesting to be writing one of these posts and seeing how the links I put in from one story to the previous one carry over, sometimes from one year to the next. To see how long I've known these people and been sharing their stories and how we've gone up and down together.
I wonder sometimes who I'd be if I hadn't had all of this extra life to live, if I'd never crossed the line and actually done this thing. I'd be less - something.
And, yes, sometimes the writer in me clashes with the friend and the would be friend and I'm very aware of the way I balance my writing between the knowledge that very few of the people at the Motel have ever read any of this, and the knowledge that they very easily could.
I guess that's just the vagaries of writing my memoirs in real time instead of 20 years later.
r
They've been in town for a short interval between south and east. Their volunteer mission to Cambodia has fallen through and they're waiting to see what God has for them instead.
Their young 'un, who looks like Christopher Robin, was having a great time hanging out on the front steps with a few of the guys. One of them was A., still reveling in his new life out of the Motel, but still coming to Dinner every week.
A. is a 6 foot something, gangly, eagle faced guy, greying and wrinkling. Christopher Robin is as tall as a bookend, bright eyed and quick. A. was smoking on the steps and Christopher Robin looked up, looked wa-ay up, and asked him, "Are you good?"
A. answered, "No, I'm not. I'm an old buzzard."
Christopher Robin replied, "Well. No old buzzards are allowed in here."
A. burst out laughing, and came in the room to tell us all, tripping over a chair on the way.
We've all noticed the change in him since he got his apartment. The cloud is gone and he seems lighter. One woman said, "Such a small miracle makes such a big difference."
The place was packed tonight. We have 65 chairs and everyone of them was occupied, plus a few take-outs.
SW sat at the piano and played for us until someone came to fetch him, needing a ride somewhere. I wonder sometimes where else he feels welcome.
I hadn't seen anybody much in a couple of weeks, so I spent most of the time chatting and catching up. Apologizing to C. (who has also moved out, but still comes to Dinner) for being so slow in editing chapter 5 of the novel (have I mentioned she's writing a novel? She is.), catching up with CL and hearing about how PA is doing, what they've got for the baby, and when the next sonogram is. CL is honorary Grandma.
She had a rough week. Threw her back out and couldn't work for several days which, for some of us, is torture.
I talked with the Cassini sisters, planned with J., compared travels down east with R., heard (in detail) (lots of detail) how L.'s surgery went.
Lots of conversation.
Problem is, I have to make myself focus on the conversation for its own sake. The writer in me is always looking for material. Which is so wrong. Sort of.
On one hand, I think that maybe by reading some of these stories, people who have never known these people might get to know them, might get to understand what they've been through, might look twice the next time they see somebody sitting on the sidewalk with a paper cup and a cardboard sign, or somebody riding a bike down the highway, piled high with groceries, or somebody paying for something with a voucher or food stamps, or somebody who smells like beer.
On the other hand, it seems very disingenuous to be listening and taking notes at the same time.
I'd make a lousy reporter. My head would go off in one direction, and my heart in the other.
But it's interesting to be writing one of these posts and seeing how the links I put in from one story to the previous one carry over, sometimes from one year to the next. To see how long I've known these people and been sharing their stories and how we've gone up and down together.
I wonder sometimes who I'd be if I hadn't had all of this extra life to live, if I'd never crossed the line and actually done this thing. I'd be less - something.
And, yes, sometimes the writer in me clashes with the friend and the would be friend and I'm very aware of the way I balance my writing between the knowledge that very few of the people at the Motel have ever read any of this, and the knowledge that they very easily could.
I guess that's just the vagaries of writing my memoirs in real time instead of 20 years later.
r
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