June 8th, 2013

From the Mcdonalds on Berkeot and Richards Blvd, which I mention here in the lead in because they have been very kind to me. When I lost all of my I.D - a catastrophic happening when one lives on the streets, the staff at McDonalds retrieved it, saved it, and returned it to me, saving me weeks of grief and turmoil in a life rife with it all ready. Thank you! staff at McDonalds, I owe ya big time  :)

The coffee at this restaurant has dropped in price from 1.06 with tax, to .54 cents, with one refill.  Thank you again, McDonalds, for our lives out here in the dirt is hard enough without having access to coffee!

Egregious Effluent

By StreetTalker

When I wrote the last post today, and shared it with Tom Armstrong, a fellow reporter out here, he made a point of mentioning that his feelings towards L and F (Loaves and Fishes)  are not the same compared to what I have written about them.  I do see his point in that with the many contributions that come in to this charity organization, the things that they helps us out with are on the miserly side.  I put it down to being thrifty and to an attempt to be prepared for all of the tomorrows that will need to be taken care of for us street people.  After all, our population is growing exponentially with the decrease in available work and housing for the less than fortunate, and our needs are ever increasing out here, with that explosion in growth.

I do know that the porta-potty situation should be improved on greatly. There are over 600 people around this area daily, and only two porta potties to go around.  You can imagine that with an uncertain diet for many of the homeless,(garbage cans) that the effluent is sometimes egregiously ... effluent.  Two are simply not enough to go around, and in this heat they need to be emptied at least three times a week, and not one, as is currently the case.  They are not even placed in a shaded area! Ever hear of Typhoid? Well, I would make book that it is making a come-back in urban areas, simply due to piss-poor (apology for the pun) waste management for the homeless. If Europe and New York can introduce and maintain street-side toilets that look like time capsules, that always work, and are always clean because they clean themselves - why the heck can’t the CAPITAL CITY of California, with a population base to be it’s own country, do it?  

 When discussion on the street between us denizens of the dirt turns to the porta-potty situation, you can believe that voices are raised and hearts are hurt by the disregard shown us by our elected officials.  We cannot understand how this situation is allowed to continue.  When the porta-potty cleaning truck comes along once a week (with holidays we are lucky if they come at all) the fumes are stinging to the eyes, and breath becomes a wheeze of disgust.  A few weeks ago the Fire Department that is on the corner down from Mary House,  requested that the potties be moved from in front of the firehouse, and now they rest in front of the area where we are fed.

Thank you for that, one more occasion to feel disgust about our situation.

When the Heat is On

By StreetTalker

On Tuesday I have an intake appt with a local psychiatric hospital,  and expect to do a voluntary commitment for 72 hours of observation. While I am there, the Social Security people will come to me, and get my paperwork expedited, and they will help me with my knees and other medical problems, as well as this deep darkness inside of me. I am depleted, and am having a hard time out here coping. My Guardian Angel has been very busy saving my butt out here, let me tell ya.

I am feeling a new and stronger spiritual awakening because there are so many things happening daily that only reinforce my belief in the Great Universe, and the cosmic way of things. It is truly amazing, and forces me to see beauty amidst the depravity and ugliness around me.  Among the feces and grossness there are flowers growing, and I am reminded of that daily when a car drives up to us out here, and distributes water, food,  bikes,  blankets, hats, and myriad other necessities that it is difficult to live without.

When a complete stranger holds my hand in a strong grip and then looks deeply into my eyes with a determination to give me strength and hope, I feel cared about, and can, for one more day, carry on. I live one second to the next, and am learning to accept that way as a needed coping mechanism.

Without the caring people at Loaves and Fishes, Friendship Park, and Mary House, we - the homeless- would not survive, I am convinced of this. Please donate to these exceptional places and help us survive, even though we may not thrive.  We who live without walls will thank you and offer a blessing from our hearts.

Life out here is like living in a Third World nation. Toilet facilities are almost non-existent, washing clothes is hit and miss because it depends on whether or not we will have a place to do laundry un-interrupted for a little while, either by the local police, or other ‘regular’ people at a local water fountain or the rare open restroom.  Keeping clean is a monumental task that at times simply overwhelms me, and I confess, that I sometimes do not smell as pleasantly as I would wish to. There are few places that offer the privacy I need to clean up while remaining safe and uninterrupted. I must schedule these tasks when there are few others about, and as the homeless population grows by the hundreds, daily, privacy is hard to find. As are shelters for single women under 62, who are no longer able to produce offspring.  The beds are constantly full, and the three ring circus we are forced to perform in, in order to even stay on the waiting lists, are too arduous for me to tackle any longer.  The shelters are gambling on that, and make it so difficult to get in, that we just give up. They count on it.

 Most of us women out here seem to try and find protection under the wing of a willing male, no matter their violent or controlling natures, just to survive to the next morning. Rapes, violence, and abuse is prevalent, and many women have been through so much that their spirits are crushed to dust.  The psychiatric facilities and prisons have tossed many violent female and male offenders back onto the streets for us to cope with, and the streets are flooded with just released criminals and head cases.  I have not chosen to go down that path of so called ‘protection’, and do not anticipate that I ever shall do so. There are women like me out here, who have known that road, and will not, under any circumstances follow it again.  We are grouping together at many times of the day, and we protect one another. We watch out for one another, guarding against violation from fellow street people and arrest or tickets from from ‘The Man’ (cops) for simply resting in the shade.Please help us by supporting the Homeless Bill, AB 5,

(http://billmoyers.com/2013/05/05/california-works-to-pass-a-homeless-bill-of-rights/) now under consideration at the Capitol, in Sacramento. We should be able to sit in our parked cars, or in the dirt and weeds, in the shade of a tree and simply rest, and breath.

During the week we women have a day-shelter called Mary House, on North C street.  They have showers, and a contemplation garden in the back. They have a phone and breakfast is served to women and children at 8 a.m. with lunch following from 11:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. They will give us plastic bags to take away food from lunch to eat at dinner time.  They serve delicious coffee too, in the mornings at Friendship Park, from 7 a.m. to around 9 a.m. and then, at Mary House, during breakfast but, get there early because it is usually gone in about 30 minutes!

It is a place to re-group in a (mostly) serene atmosphere. Men are NOT allowed, and our place is OUR place.  There are staff in the parking area that guard our vehicles and keep the peace between us. They offer smiles when they see us in the mornings, and are some of the few people who still recognize that we too, are still human beings-with a need to receive a simple kind of person to person respect, which they never fail to provide.

Friendship Park provides ice at two times daily, offers us the “OFF” brand wipes to keep bugs at bay. We get our lunch tickets there, can use a payphone, connect with each other, and rest in the shade of jasmine and oak trees. There are restrooms available, and pastries in the mornings.

Men can receive little packets of toiletries, while we fems get ours at Mary House. North C street is a little haven from violence, stress, and the feelings of abandonment that we homeless people feel.

Skuldudgery

THE SNOWBALL EFFECT
by Street Talker
Please read the following story:
http://newsfeed.time.com/2013/02/14/one-billion-rising-an-end-to-violence-against-women/



November 12th, Monday

When I last left off of this tale of my fall to the streets, I believe that Mrs. Brightcastle was beginning to play a prominent role in my life. We had bagged up roughly 8 bags of food from the local food bank to give out to some needy homeless folks who couldn't get to the food warehouse.  We had visited the food bank on Thursday morning. There was no way we could possibly consume the amount of bread we were given before it turned moldy, or eat the bundles of broccoli, and dozens of tomatoes, before they rotted without refrigeration. My Scottish soul would never have recovered from the waste of it. Our slapdash form of distribution of those supplies was in full swing by late afternoon, and we were about ready to think about finding a safe location to set up our little camp for the night. It isn't wise to wear out one's welcome when you are homeless and most especially if your truck tags are out of date, so we did not want to impose on our previous days’ benefactor so soon after the last time.
During the previous evening we had avoided getting wet by parking under an overhang at a deserted strip mall. While we sipped warm coffee and appreciated being sheltered from the rain, a couple of my new companions’ friends had stopped by for a chat or to grab some grub. One fellow mentioned that he had a friend who wanted to get rid of an old camper that might fit my truck. For free. Of course my interest was immediate and we knocked out the directions to find where this haven from the outdoors was stored. We then met up with three young friends the following early evening. who were all looking forward to working on the antique truck that currently housed the camper.
The overhead camper was fully self-contained, and in need of some intermediate repairs. During the process of repositioning the camper onto my truck’s bed, the hydraulic lifts that supported the camper when not sitting atop the truck, had been damaged, but I felt that I could tackle those problems with some help from Mrs. B’s friend at some point in the future. But, right now, this very large and unwieldy box was weighing my truck down, and I would have to put air in the tires come daylight. The running lights were not working and I could not take the chance of driving after dark, which could lead to being pulled over by one of our local Peace Officers. With limited options we decided to find a back road and park for the remainder of the night. But I had my new home, a staging ground I could now use to find a job from, safety from the elements in, and it even had a shower! Once I fixed it. I was, if not perfectly content, as close to it as is possible to be.



By Street Talker

November 13th, 2012

Mrs. Brightcastle’s not so little problem came home to roost the following night, November 2nd.

Through mornings’ light that brought with it Winter’s first warning - a cold thick fog- the sound of a three-wheeler awoke us from the first really deep night’s slumber that either of us had experienced in quite a while.   The man on the cycle stopped by to invite us over to his home for coffee and to do our laundry. Without a single word or look from us, he just knew that we were homeless. This generous soul told us that he had once been homeless himself, and he knew that our needs were great, and that he could at least give us some coffee and even a place to shower if we wanted. We were happy to sip coffee with him in his luxuriously warm little home. Knowing that she and I had a busy schedule mapped out for the day, we turned any other offers of aid down, and hit the road to collect the things we needed to get the camper street legal.  On the 'to do' list was for us to go to the Social Security office to apply for Mrs. B’s Social Security card, and driver's license replacements, which had been stolen from her previous to our teaming up. Mrs. B., with new I.D. in hand would then able to collect her GA assistance cash and get a library card.  Each of our SNAP accounts now held food stamps, too. We shopped for groceries and did general errands.

That evening after a very successful day full of accomplishments we settled in at the old parking lot that I had been using for the past month. Only this time, with the camper on the truck we attracted more attention than I was comfortable with, and so I chose a new spot farther back in deeper shadow. The camper had been tidied earlier and I began dinner preparations on the camp stove. We had not had time during the busy day to get any propane for the regular stove that came with the camper. Mrs B. freshened up and decided to go out for the evening. I ate dinner and finally cleaned up, myself, and then got comfortable for the night.

At sometime after midnight furtive sounds awakened me. Whispering and giggling coming from outside the truck filtered in through the porthole windows. Mrs. B had brought the friend who had given us the information about the camper - back to the camper - with plans for him to spend the night, it appeared. Though not comfortable with the idea, I felt obliged to him for his help. So, I decided to just go back to sleep. But they, it seemed, had other things on their minds to do, and I soon detected a noxious smell that made me cough. The glint of a small hand-held propane cylinder sparkled in the reflection from the window opposite to where I now lay in a state of apprehension. The shooshing noise of gas being converted to flame whispered out over the quiet of the night. They quickly checked on me to see if I remained asleep through the slight disturbance they had caused, and they started to go through my belongings. At that point I just knew I had inadvertently become involved in something that I had no intention of staying involved in. They were obviously doing something that they knew I would not agree to, or approve of, and they were trying to accomplish this task before I awoke. Not knowing if there was a clear danger to me or not, made making a decision about what to do even more difficult. While laying there listening to the tinkle of what I imagined to be glass flasks, and the tension in the air during one long process they were involved in, I ascertained that they must be doing something I had only ever heard of, not seen. I believed them to be cooking methamphetamine in my camper. I came to believe, over the course of the next four hours, while I lay upon my upper bunk bed, the ‘sleep-over’ part of the camper, that they believed me to have realized that there is nothing free in this world. That by accepting their gift of the camper, that I was also acquiescing to their production of illegal drugs. Now I faced a conundrum. To keep things quiet and their suspicions unaroused I needed a sneaky way of leaving this newest home of mine and making a clean getaway. Earlier in the evening the camper had been raised up on it’s supports, and I believed that since the trailer was not resting on my truck, that if I could just get into the truck, then I could simply drive away and leave them in the stranded camper, with their stupid drugs. I thought I might come back to the camper for the rest of my things some time later, but those things really did not matter to me right then. After all it was only clothes and toiletries, really. I would miss the blankets and my friend’s camp stove, though.  As I made my move, and alerted them gradually that I was waking up, I surreptitiously gathered a few things and stuck them in my purse. Climbing down from the bunk area I told them that I was going to go to an early job interview, of which I had spoken to Mrs. B about earlier. Exiting the camper I then quickly climbed into the cab of my truck and locked the doors. Picking up my little pay-as-you-go phone, that lacked any minutes or calling time for that matter, I dialed the first two numbers of the emergency number “911,” then started the truck and began to pull away. Unfortunately, the camper was still resting on the truck just enough to be dragged behind by the forward motion of the wheels. The supports cracked even more, and began to tear away from the camper shell. I was forced to stop the truck. My clean getaway was not so clean after all. Of course this sudden movement jarred the two occupants of the camper, and I watched in the side-view mirrors as Mrs. B. scampered out the rear door and away into the night carrying an armful of what looked like small metal canisters. I also watched as her friend came around to the driver side door and blearily glared in at me. He mimed to me a "What's up?" sort of shrug with his arms, and  I held up the phone so that he could clearly see  I need only dial one more number to be in touch with help. He did not know that I had no air time left, that I was bluffing. The cold fact of life right then, was that I was stuck in a dark parking lot with a 2,300 pound weight holding my truck in place, facing down who I now believed to be a dangerous person. I was armed with little but my wits and a crowbar I had stashed in the back seat. Well, with the crowbar anyway. My wits seemed to have deserted me. Making a lot of noise and attracting the police was not an option. As a homeless person I have had to learn to deal with the fact that we do not receive the same respect as a working citizen of the USA. The cops now equal hassle and trouble to me, and who is to say whether or not I will come out ahead of this in the end? Who is to say that those two who had no second thoughts about using the camper as a possible meth lab would not turn around and say that it was my property,  that I was the one doing the illegal work inside of it? I could not chance it. So when he offered to go get another jack to lever up the camper I speedily agreed. He assured me that he would be back soon. "Oh joy," I thought to myself. I told him through the small opening of my cracked window that if he did not get the camper off of my truck that I would finish the call to 911. I did not care if he came back with a jack or not. I was determined to get what had turned into my nightmare, instead of my dream, off of my truck any way that I could. After he left to supposedly get the jack, I left the security of my truck and began to jack up the damaged hydraulic lifts as far as I could get them to go, without causing the camper to tip over and land on my truck. I just needed to get the cursed thing lifted up about an an inch to then be able to leave it in my dust. Finally it would go no further up. I had to chance it. The sun was coming up and people would be arriving at the lonely little bakery located not very far down from where this stand-off was occurring. Between the pressure of waiting for him to come back, and being seen in this predicament, I was about ready to explode with desperation. With much trepidation I started the truck once again and put it in drive. I had intended to slowly ease out from under the camper, but, when I started to move forward the creaking and swaying motion above my head grew alarmingly, and my foot just jammed itself onto the accelerator as far down as it would go. My truck has a very strong engine. The truck tires burned rubber and I was out and away just as the camper crashed down behind me. It was like some action movie stunt. I actually cleared it nanoseconds before my truck would have been trapped underneath it!
Whew. I drove slowly away down the back alley into the sunny day that had suddenly become threatening and very dark. Where to go now? I had to be in the area to vote on Tuesday and to pick up my mail. I still had food to deliver to some people who were hungry. Now I also had a very pissed off alleged drug dealer looking for me too. Time to find a hidey hole, hunker down and think about things while I licked my newest wounds. Losing my second home in less than a month was a devastating blow. Losing it the way I had was just overwhelming. I just wanted to sleep.

Feeling Dirty

Wednesday, 24 October, 2012

I began a story yesterday telling you about my beginnings of life on the street.  Today I want to tell you of my struggles to stay clean and civilized, which the cities don't make it easy to do.  At the moment I am situated in a small farming community about 15 miles outside of Sacto.  I must travel to the 'city' to get any social services, be it Roseville, Citrus Heights, or the big one ... Sacto.  Social Services include filing for General Assistance, which is a small stipend loaned to a person with no money  who meets certain qualifications set by the County of Sacramento. I will talk later about struggles with obtaining that in another story.
During my first week as a homeless person I was determined to remain clean above all other matters in my life.  I was not a cleanliness freak, I just like to be clean in the normal way that people generally do.  Thus, I prepared a little kit in a net bag that included things like; shampoo, hand soap, and a razor, and kept the bag handy for those occasions when I might find a desirable location to occupy while I cleaned up.  For the first three days I was satisfied with keeping my hands, face and nails clean, with a quick wash-up inside my truck, where I felt safe and ignored behind the lightly-smoked glass.  Sitting there in the driver's seat I would look around the area for anyone who may remark upon my actions while I surreptitiously performed my ablutions.  By the fifth day with no shower to be had, I found a set of bushes that quite nicely blocked the view of anyone who might chance by my hide-away on a busy street in Citrus Heights, and cleaned up a bit more thoroughly.  But, there is always someone around, even if you don't see them.  Other people like me, who are homeless, find bushes to be a safety magnet.  Abandoned buildings and the recesses behind them are ideal for a safe spot to stash belongings or to sleep the dark away while hidden from harm.  Suddenly, a man appeared from one of those unexpected recesses that I had so diligently looked for before I began the long process of washing from my water jug, while I hid behind the truck door and between the bushes.  He was a gentleman enough to turn around and go back the way he came when he realized what I was doing.  Even though I had been caught, and was mortified, the fact that I was once again CLEAN mattered more to me, and the day was brighter for it.  I realized that when people are in hospitals that they lose all privacy as well, and I tried to compare my situation with  theirs so that I may cope emotionally with what I had just done.  But, that afternoon, I decided that I must pick and choose my cleaning times and places more carefully in the future.  You are probably asking yourself why I, a civilized and sober woman would choose to clean herself up out in public versus using a shelter to do so.  That is a good question, and my answer to you is what I was told on the phone by an over-worked volunteer at a local women's shelter:  "Please call back tomorrow and we may have an opening for you, our showers are for residents only, I'm sorry and good luck." Click.  Yes, I called back, and I called other shelters too, with the same reply as the first exhausted volunteer.  Please remember that my resources are very limited, and gas prices were sky-rocketing for some unknown reason at that time so driving around to local shelters was out of the question.  Phone minutes are like gold to me, so wasting them feels like a crime.  I wasted many of those minutes in my desperation, anyway. 
The culmination of this sordid search for cleanliness was at a local public park on Antelope Drive, in Citrus Heights.  It was a quiet afternoon before children were released from their schools, and there were not many individuals about at this time, so I took it to mean that now was a golden opportunity to use the restroom for my bathing time.  I happily, and with much anticipation grabbed my cleaning kit and a towel and headed on in to a restroom stall where I made my self to home and hung a hook on the side partition, then situated my kit so that it was available and began to get really, really, clean. Damn it felt incredibly terrific.  I had a plastic container that I sat upon the toilet to use as a water basin and joyfully splashed and hummed while wiping the grime from my body.  Until a small girl came in to use the facilities.  I knew that she must wonder at the splashes of water on the floor. She could sense me hiding behind the partition, while I quietly paused in my actions, hoping that she would leave quickly.  But, little girls are a curious species.  Little girls are easily spooked.  Little girls usually do what their mommies and daddies tell them to do when they find an unusual situation in a public restroom in a public park.  Little girls go get their mommies and tell them about the stranger in the bathroom who was not acting normally.  Which, of course, is what happened.  By the time that Mommy arrived, with pit bull in tow ( I kid you not) I had washed my hair and was readying myself to depart the restroom.  What could I do at that moment but casually wave while I dried my hair with the towel and tell her what a beautiful dog she had. This mother, this surprised and protective mother proudly informed me that her dog was a "Blue Nose."  I could only agree.  It has now been 22 days since that wonderful and oh so cleansing 'tub' bath and I have yet to bathe again.  I could not face frightening another parent or child like that again. It was right, what the little girl did, and she made her mama proud by following directions she no doubt hears daily in kindergarten class.  But I am not a danger, even though I am a stranger.  I am just a woman who wanted to be clean for the first time in two weeks.

From the Fe-Side. First blog post.

From the Fe-Side

by Street Talker

From the other side of the coin - the female side - I'm gonna talk a little street-talk about what it's been like since I lost all of those physical boundaries, like walls and doors, and windows fully equipped with frilled curtains, gently swaying in warm summer breezes.

The last kitchen I had came with a gas stove, a kitchen faucet with sink, and a refrigerator. I griped at times when I missed the dishwasher being there. Today I gripe because ... well, because I don't have a kitchen anymore, unless ya wanna say the bed of my nifty truck is the kitchen counter, and the plastic water jug is my faucet.

It seems that my fate has been to downsize, until, well, until there just isn't much more downsizing that I can do.

One further step down is all that's left to me, and I dread that day when the repo man finds me and my nifty truck. My lovely, unpaid-for, but much adored, truck. My dream truck. Damn, but I love my truck. I went through hell to earn that rumbling bundle of joy. But, since I haven't been able to make the payments, I guess I am going to have to just say, with a last lingering caress of its sweet leather-clad steering wheel ... adieu. Then this whole nightmare will, for real, be too real.

There are some spans of time when I forget that I am a homeless person. Times when I first awake in the morning. At times the forgetting lasts for a few hours. Until I open my eyes, that is. Then it's, "Oh yeah, I'm living in my truck."

I had one such period of forgetting today, until I overheard a person on the other side of the fence tell another person that there was an "alcoholic living in that truck." Thunderstruck, I was. Flabbergasted, in fact. I am not an alcoholic. I do not like the taste of alcohol, and rarely imbibe.

Perception lesson number uno: People think all homeless people are drunks. We aren't. "Wow," I said to myself. "How bleakly ironic that I, a woman who really does not have much tolerance for alcoholics (historical reasons), and may have a beer or glass of wine once a year, is being insulted like that."

It was an insult, just judging by the guy’s tone of voice. I suppose other people believe me to be a junkie or prostitute. Hey, listen, I have nothing against 'em mind you. They are just people. In point of fact, I am among neither of those two subpopulations of the homeless. I was a tax paying, law-abiding ,and peaceable woman before I was denied employment and a home. Before I ran out of money and my options became very limited. I was attending college to become a member of the legal profession.

One whole year to go before I could legitimately hang my shingle, as it were. Then my world was fracked all to hell.

Perception number dos: Not all homeless people are criminals, junkies, or prostitutes, even though TV shows like Law and Order would have you believe otherwise. Some of us are mothers, ex-wives, or abandoned wives and girlfriends. Some of us women-without-shelter are also without a support system of friends and family who can (or will) help.

It's a hard, cold world out here ladies and gents, let me tell ya.