It's been a while since I've written anything here. Things have changed, and things have stayed the same.
The group about which my previous posts are written has evolved into a community based charitable organization, still doing good things in our little towns. They've done much to educate people about homelessness (and about addiction and mental illness) in our region, working from rented office space downtown, and then in a more suburban spot. They've continued the community dinners (until covid). I don't know what will happen with that, partly because I haven't been part of the organization for quite a while. You can check out what they're doing here http://www.greenwoodcoalition.com
I've ended up on staff at a local church--leading worship, looking after the techy type stuff, and starting a Food Bank Garden on our small plot of available land. Our building was built before Canada was a thing, and pretty much fills the land we're on. No parking lot or front lawn. But enough to grow some veggies. And we have a hose pipe on the south side that faces the sidewalk.
I've also been volunteering at the local foodbank, serving people who come in for food. Which is how I met (names have been changed) Enola and Ned, when they came in for groceries.
One day a couple of weeks ago, I was out by the garden and Ned walked by. He recognized me and stopped to chat. Then he pointed to the hosepipe and asked, "Is that on?" I said, "We turn it on when we want to use it. Why?"
He told me that they were living in a tent on the beach a few blocks away, and were looking for a place to get water. Could they bring their jugs sometime?
We arranged to meet the next day (Tuesday) when they'd be back in town to charge their phones (the local art gallery had given them permission to use their outdoor plug. Our very old building doesn't have one and, like, covid bla bla bla). The following week, Ned said that they'd run out of water and was there another time that would work as well? I said, "I'm here Sundays. If you come at 10..." "Yeah, that's good!"
Sunday rolled around and Ned didn't come. Enola did. She was "freaking out" because Ned had had a stroke on Friday. His right side was paralyzed and he couldn't speak at all for two days, but that was starting to come back. They'd agreed not to call a doctor or ambulance because they were afraid that if he got into the hospital he might not come back out. "If he's not in my life anymore..."
They've been together for nearly 15 years, in and out of homelessness for various reasons. This time they've been living in a tent for several months, in a few different locations, each time being eventually told they have to move on. Right now they're way down the rocky beach west of town, far enough to not impinge on anybody's family fun, but it's a small town and people know they're there. Trying not to be noticed.
Their campsite is organized. Clean. A home. She's hauled heavy flat stones to create a ramp from the beach up to the drier wooded area from which she's removed the scrub to make space under the larger trees. She's dug a cold cellar of sorts in which to store the tomatoes, potatoes and onions from the foodbank and from our church garden. "I just gotta be the man and make it work."
With Ned being unable to stand on his own or take care of himself, she's doing everything, including getting him to do physiotherapy in the tent. "I have doctors in my family, so I know about strokes." He squeezes a rolled up sock to strengthen his damaged right arm. He pushes his foot against a board that she holds up in order to strengthen his leg. She's got him playing cards to start building dexterity. She's stopped smoking because she knows that if she does, he will and that's not good for him. She supports him as he crawls out of the tent, onto the stone ramp, and across the ground to his lawn chair.
In the meantime, she's reading a mystery novel from one of the Little Libraries scattered around town because she wants to read better. "It's hard. Don't know if it's worth it." If she can't sleep, she either reads by her flashlight, or (if the night is right) by the light of the moon.
I know she's not perfect. I know they've lost their rooms at some motels because of things that were their own fault. I know that, like most in survival mode, they're probably opportunists.
But she amazes me. Like so many people who, living on the ragged edge, hold on by dint of stubborn spirits, brilliant minds, and the love that they find there, she challenges me.
I hope they stick around long enough that I will be able to call her "friend."
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