Across the Great Divide

Conversations With Winter Campers.

My ride to Peace House takes me right past an apartment building Susan and I lived in 40 years ago. This morning, I saw two guys unloading a mattress and carrying it up those steps.

End of the month, winter coming. Moving won't be much fun for the next few months.

"Bob" told me about his camp by Minnehaha Creek. He planned to take a snack pack of carrots, celery and crackers to his friends, two squirrels who hung out by his tent.

They had high expectations and they scolded him when he didn't share his food.

Bob used to feed them peanuts but at $15 a gallon, that got expensive. He had tried offering mushrooms but the squirrels were disdainful. 

I thought squirrels dug for mushrooms, he said.

Nah, they're burying acorns or looking for acorns the other squirrels buried, Dave said. Dave used to hunt squirrels, knows how to call them and presumably knows how to cook them, but it sounds like those days are over.

Take 'em these, Dave said. They'll really eat 'em up.

He handed over two giant dog treats.

Bob has insulated three sides of his tent with brush and tarps, leaving open the east side since the wind is less frequent from that direction. He hopes to get the top reinforced before heavy snow comes.

He can't stand the shelters. All it takes to ruin the night is one inconsiderate person who can't settle down. Eating at one in the morning. Playing games on his phone. Talking.

We've only got so many hours to sleep and then we're out of there and can't get back in until six, Bob said. I'd rather be outside, be able to sleep in if I want, and not worry about getting my things stolen when my back is turned.

He slept fine Thanksgiving night.

 

A Native man in telltale winter camping garb (knit cap, hooded sweatshirt, Carhartt coveralls) secured a Conestoga-sized bundle atop a little red wagon. A woman emerged from the wedge of woods between the tracks and the bike trail, bringing a tri-fold exercise mat and two small sleeping bags, bright yellow with red trim.

The temperature hovered just above freezing. Darkness would fall in another hour. 

The man smiled at my greeting. How was your holiday? he said cheerfully.

Looks like you're packing up.

Our third load today. The police came and said we have to move.

You have a place to go?

He said they were setting up a new camp under the freeway, a much more exposed location where it's only a matter of time before they'll have to move again.

We've left some good things back there, the woman said. I hope they'll be here tomorrow.

Stay warm, I said.

They grinned. From their faces, they might have been just moving their cabana further down the beach. 

Fire Stories.

She had been sitting quietly next to me, a cantaloupe in her lap. "What does it mean, 'a cross to bear'?" 

I explained. It's a heavy and unchosen burden that you must carry with you, whether you want to or not. Somehow, carrying the weight without complaint can lift you.

She nodded. "That's why I don't want a lot of stuff. When you're homeless, it's better that way." She shifted her small plastic bag of belongings. "You have a place?"

I nodded.

The day before, I had tried to set it on fire, leaving a cutting board atop a burner I thought was turned off. A relatively minor conflagration but a major inconvenience. I'd left the house to the remediation crew because I was supposed to lead the next morning's meditation at Peace House Community.

That night, I had asked my Facebook friends for suggestions of fire-themed poetry, thinking a fire story would be a way to introduce the topic of unexpected events in our lives and how they change us in unexpected ways.

Danny Rosen, a poet and publisher of poets, suggested "The Way It Is" by William Stafford. Not a fire poem, but an eerie choice, considering this woman's question. A cross... a thread... a fire.

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

Some people choose not to stay for the voluntary meditation that precedes the meal. They settle for a slab of bread and peanut butter, a cup of coffee, a moment of quiet or, on this Friday, they need to get out of the cold rain. Or maybe they only want a snippet of conversation, a sense of company, a moment of reassurance.

Whatever she'd come for, it was not for the discussion I was prepared to lead.

As she gathered her things and rose from her chair to depart, the cantaloupe rolled out of her arms. She turned, reached out her free hand and snatched it from the air.

Random Post-Election Conversations.

Virgil speaks like a preacher imitating God teaching Sunday School. His voice is deep and resonant, his tones round, his words ar-TIC-ulated in-di-VID-ually, his meaning plain, shaded toward the platitudinous. But then Bible verses haven't changed much in the last few thousand years. 

He also sings. Croons. Tony Bennett. Vic Damone. Sinatra. Not the entire tunes, just lines from their greater hits. He's always upbeat. It's hard not to be, quoting the Lord and Sinatra.

Curtis, on the other hand, conducts long and detailed disquisitions on a variety of topics. Last week, his main topic was drones and the technical specs of various model turbine engines, but we also dipped into more personal territory, as well as revisiting his disdain for people who drink vodka. 

He sneers at Schmeernoff's as if it were a curse word.

Ellie expresses her concerns about the Dakota Pipeline protests, a past protest against the beer sellers in Whiteclay, Nebraska, and a renewed move to legalize alcohol sales on Pine Ridge Reservation. Proponents say that instead of enriching white trades, the tribe could better police the alcohol trade, keep its money within the reservation and direct the proceeds to treatment facilities. But Ellie fears bringing alcohol on the rez would mean the end of the Native people.

Conversations with "Bob" tend to be more two-way and he tends not to talk about himself. When a topic is controversial, he doesn't just argue his point of view. We dig into the Federal Reserve, the national debt, corporate cronyism and how infrastructure and assistance for people on the edge is so much better in Minnesota than in other states.

People don't realize how good they have it here, he says, and he's worried that under Trump America may be headed toward all-out war.

 

 

The Community Wins One and Loses One.

Another couch house has appeared across the alley. A week ago, a new abandoned couch showed up in the spot occupied by the Happy Hour Couch until mid-October.

Couch House is back open for business.

From the time I first saw it, this couch has rotated from the sitting to the shelter position, and it has acquired various signs of occupancy: a suitcase, a foam pad, a chair, blankets and an empty Doritos bag. Nearby a blackened spoon gives evidence of drug use.

These neighbors put Peace House in an awkward position. We are open to all. But the meth users and drug traffickers who swarm around each other do not contribute to the peace, and our haven risks becoming associated with them if we tolerate their presence.

Drunks, at least, tend to have only a brief spike of belligerence and fists are more likely than firearms to break out over the purchase and possession of vodka. 

On Thursday, a father spent most of the day at Peace House hoping to locate his 19-year-old who occasionally stops in. "P" uses a female name and appears to be transitioning, but the pronouns used on the street are imprecise. The father left without success.

Later that evening two community members found "P" and called the family, staying with her until they could get there from the ex-urbs. 

While waiting, the two homeless men took turns making the case for getting off the street.

Mel, who had a rough time as foster child, talked about how lucky "P" was. You've won the lottery with foster parents who adopted you and care for you and are still looking after you. Go home tonight and give it a try. If you come back here, it better only be to see how things are going at Peace House. If you go back on the street, I promise you I will call the police every time I see you doing anything.

Curt talked about the dangers of using. This is no place for you. This isn't the suburbs. You're dealing with people who'd just as soon shoot you as look at you. You come back here using and you're going to die one way or another. I don't want to see your death certificate.

The next day, Mel and Curt told me about their small victory. Around noon, as our community members finished talking about the restorative power of music, a citizens crime watch group reported a response to a suspected heroin overdose on our block.