a Saturday morning chat
“Are you okay?” Those were the first words I uttered as I approached the ragtag tent erected next to the creek in our old folks’ community green space.
“Yes.” The voice was that of a woman.
All I could see of the person was the Vibram sole of a boot and a portion of her pantleg. There were some dishes or something clustered next to where she sat. “Do you need anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure."
I had been alerted to the presence of this camper while engaged in my daily forty-minute exercise route on my bicycle. Seems I need to strengthen a game knee and riding the stationary bike in the community gym lacks both fresh air and scenery. Pedaling, a woman I know had just been walking her pup on the paved trail that traces the creek. “You know the little park down the way?”
I nodded.
“Well, just across the path, next to the creek,” she began whispering, “there’s a homeless person in a tent. What should we do?”
“I’ll check it out.”
It was a lovely spring Saturday morning. First time in weeks warm enough to wear shorts while riding the bicycle. I pushed it down the path ~ No Bicycles on the Walking Path! ~ and, sure enough, came across the tent, draped with a brown plastic tarp, tucked behind some bushes next to the whispering waterway. A perfect place to camp, I thought, except it was on privately held property, and some in the ‘hood can be pretty grumpy about homeless people setting up camp in our greenspace. This, I felt, I needed to share.
“I’m not a grumpy person, but you may find there are some pretty grumpy old folks living in the neighborhood here and I really don’t want you to get busted.”
“I’m getting ready to leave.”
“Okay. You sure you don’t need anything?”
Muted: “I’m sure.”
I finished my exercise ride and upon returning home, emailed the neighbor who’d expressed the concern, relating my interaction. Adding, “…there but for the grace of God…” perhaps unnecessarily. But it was my thought.
About three years ago, I volunteered to help with my little town’s homeless census. That’s an annual event where someone like me is teamed up with an unhoused individual – an individual who knows where the best camping places are. We volunteers were given explicit instructions about how to do the count and asked not to interact with those living in tents, cars or busted down motorhomes.
My guide had been homeless for quite a period of time. As we visited, he explained: “I had a pickup truck and two lawn mowers and an edger. I did yard work, trimming and mowing and stuff for about 20 clients a week. I even paid a guy to help me out in the summer.” We drove up a winding road toward the lake past a large house on acreage. “That was one of my places,” he said, his voice emoting a degree of pride. “When the drought hit, I lost some customers and I had to let my helper go. Then, my landlord raised the rent. I don’t blame him though. It’s his place and I could make ends meet pretty good.” There was a pause. Then, as if it were a lyric from a country-western song, he continued: “Then my truck broke down and I couldn’t pay to get it fixed and cover the rent. The wife figured she could take my boy and move down to Monterey and crash with her folks for a while, save me some money on groceries. But with my truck broke, I couldn’t get out to my clients, and well…”
I recalled that a long-time city council person said in the midst of a heated debate about the unhoused: “You know, we’re all just four flat tires from bein’ homeless ourselves.”
I let an hour-and-a-half elapse and then drove over to the trail to check on the campers. The tent was down, folded and tied onto a bicycle trailer hooked to a decrepit mountain bike. The woman was seated, backed into the bushes. A man was standing next to the bike.
“Hi ho,” I said. “I came by earlier and I thought I’d check back to see if you needed anything.”
She looked at me and kind of tipped her head. “No,” she said. “Thank you.” Then she commented on the t-shirt I was wearing. Printed on it were Adam Schiff’s final words during the House of Representatives first impeachment hearings of a former President: Right Matters. Truth Matters. Decency Matters. “I like your shirt.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, “Some days it seems like we don’t have enough of that, doesn’t it?”
This spawned a conversation about kindness, values, fairness, economics ~ economics! ~ and what a lovely place this was to camp.
The man chimed in: “Sonoma County is just absolutely beautiful. I don’t think there are any bad places in Sonoma County.”
“ ‘The chosen place on all the earth’,” she said. “Wasn’t that Luther Burbank?”
“Yep,” I said, “but I think folks’ll get pretty grumpy about you all camping here.” I pointed to a neat pile of wrappers and cans in the footprint of where the tent had been. “You need help with that?”
“I don’t have a paper bag…”
The man pulled a dirty t-shirt from his pack and fixed to wrapping the detritus in it.
The lady and I continued to visit, agreeing that the world was a wonderful place but that it was full of problems and issues. “Growing up in Berkeley, my Dad often griped about how the world was going to pieces, and it wasn’t like it is now.”
I nodded. “You know, my Dad said the same thing. I’ll bet my kids will tell their kids about me having the same thoughts as my old man.”
We laughed together, ultimately wishing each a fine spring day.
Heading back to the car, I realized that I’d seen this woman before, at the town plaza, hanging out with a few others. I vowed that the next time I saw her, I’d sit down for a bit and extend our visit ~ our understanding of one another.
A dusk approached that evening, I packed some gloves and a paper bag and traipsed back over to the campsite. The tiny pile of litter was gone.
Related Resource: Poverty, By America, Matthew Desmond, Crown Publishing 2023. $20. [Wow! The problem's us!]
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