Bloomin' Comparision Makes Sense to Me

The rain, about 3 hours worth, combined with oddly cool temps for the last day of July (low 70s), provided the ideal moment to attack the looming and surging problem--weeds in the butterfly garden.

Since Helen commandeered (albeit with a limited budget) this lovely previously rock-strewn underutilized space and shaped it (with help from me and others) into a perennial garden with potential, the weeds have tried to dominate. Today was the showdown!

Yesterday, proficient gardener Jeanne joined us for a tour of the space, identifying problem weeds and figuring out what looked like weeds but were not. That was helpful. Today all the stars were in alignment for this concerted attack.

Armed with a big plastic bag to capture the seedy-weeds, sharp clippers to prune and trim, and dressed for this grungy task, Helen and I plunged in. No weed was safe. The tough ones, thistles and other deep-rooted buggers, I carefully tried to extract from the pliable ground. Sometimes I got them out with root intact, sometimes not. Rats. That means they'll be back, probably by tomorrow, incorrigible varmints that they are. The little weed-wanna-be's were removed before they knew they hit the ground.

Helen and I made great progress, ridding the space of unwanted and invasive weeds, moving a few plants, and then hitting a greenhouse sale to get a few more plants to fill in.

Nothing exciting. Just a lot of dirty work motivated by the desire to attract butterflies and to provide folks around Villa St. Benedict and Sacred Heart Monastery a pleasant place to enjoy.

Weeding gives one time to think. I got to speculating about how our task at hand paralleled the nation's approach to homelessness. NO! I'm not comparing homeless people to weeds. I'm looking at weeds as the issues, problems, and challenges that jeopardize the existence of vulnerable wild flowers and other perennials (people who end up homeless).

Our nation's approach, since we've begun seriously neglecting this human "garden" back in the early 80s (read this short but informative report's history of modern homelessness), has allowed weeds to take over. Discarding mentally ill patients onto the streets, inadequate addiction services, deteriorating housing and  severe cutbacks in new affordable housing, half-assed approaches to dealing with homelessness, pervasive and unaddressed poverty--all of that and more contributed to abuse and neglect of our nation's "garden" that left us with the mess we have now.

Not properly identifying weeds, like HUD's documented failure to truly define homelessness (read this vindicating report by the GAO), spreading rumors about the "danger" of working in the garden/on the streets, inadequate tools--support system, insufficient resources--funding for housing and services to keep people in housing, diminished systemic approaches to prevent more weeds/homelessness--a judicial system run amok when dealing with people in poverty, and a perceived lack of interest in gardening--growing disregard for people in poverty or folks with disabilities--all of this and more combined to cause our nation's garden to seriously deteriorate.

Can we restore this treasured "place" in our land? Can we put together resources, workers, and determination to plunge in to comprehensively and holistically create an environment in this country that reduces the number of homeless families and single adults, supporting both independent housing and extra supportive services for those who need them, instead of watching families and individuals recycle through the weed-patch?

Seems to me we have a "Master Gardener," and the window of opportunity is here at long last. If we can get a grip on the weeds, treat the soil, move some plants around, and set up a system of maintenance that will keep the invaders at bay, we can make significant progress. Or we can let our garden go to seed, soon to contaminate the nearby well-manicured lawns surrounding mega-mansions. When the weeds creep onto the golf courses, then we'll see some action.

Instead of Shopping for my Birthday...

Audacious. Nonconformist. Unconventional. Such are the labels that have been deservingly hurled my way. And now Sysomos reports that only 7.1% bloggers are over the age of 51. I guess I fit the mold: I'm an over-51 blogger (my 3 blogs)...

• invisible homeless kids
• Poverty in America, Change.org
• Wanderings (formerly Camper's RVue)

...add audacious, nonconformist and unconventional, no argument there. As my big 60 nears (Hello Google, ya gonna get me something besides senior citizen advertisements??!), I've been thinking...as I do, being the philosophy major that I am...what a world!
I struggle to keep up with technology, knowing that if I snooze I'll lose contact with most of my world as it has come to be. Living as a gypsy for the past 5 years has been an amazing experience of an unconventional life. I've met more inspiring people, seen breathtaking vistas and heartbreaking poverty, and pushed myself to more new mountaintops than I ever thought possible.

Reading this morning's New York Times (online, their cool Times Reader) I spied a book review that caught my attention: FREEDOM SUMMER The Savage Season That Made Mississippi Burn and Made America a Democracy By Bruce Watson (Viking). Sounds like a fascinating read. Racism, the topic du jour, may be all the rage now, but back in my days of teen-romping it was all about rage. Mississippi, still not a cutting edge state when it comes to racial equality (but what state is?), burned and brutalized all in the name of honor.

My e-friend, Michaelann Bewsee, blogs a powerful piece about contemporary racism, one which I can identify with, shamefully so. 


I believe we learn from history. Unfortunately, instead of learning history as I sat in high school and college history classes that I deemed boring, I dawdled. Now I find myself in the midst of history-making events and activities. Working on social justice, mainly focused on inequities related to homelessness, is how I spend my days and nights. I look back to look forward.

Looking back at the racial history of my lifetime, I see progress, albeit at a steep price. It wasn't the work of one person or group. It didn't happen overnight. And it took a growing awareness of a clueless public to finally bring about seismic change--the kind that finds our country with a black man at the helm. Anything is possible. Knowing Obama's campaign was an e-grassroots effort, we've arrived at a new way of communicating.

Thus is the thinking of this over-51 blogger. Build a good e-petition for a worthy cause and they will sign. I've been pushing for a credibility level of 5,000 signers on my petition to give homeless families a break when it comes to HUD regulations. My deadline is nearing: August 6th, my birthday. 

Seems to me that I'm letting you off the birthday gift/card hook and giving you a no-brainer. Instead of shopping for me, sign this petition. For icing on my cyber-cake share it and encourage others to barrage HUD with the plea for Amnesty on behalf of homeless families. Maybe someday we'll read the book I'll write about the olden days of rampant homelessness.

How Five Years Has Changed Me

My eyes, mind and heart have been opened wide as I've traveled these past 5 years. With close to 100,000 miles on "Tillie," my road-weary RV--and my home/office for these 60 months--I've seen all of the lower 48 states. With those milestones comes some observations:

• I still love traveling, and I intend to keep at it. Tillie's got her aches and pains, but it's still home. I've learned to do some repairs, like when the bathroom sink faucet turned into a mini-geyser, and am spending more (my personal money) on mechanics, but we gotta do it to keep rolling.
• America is a great country! And it's spectacularly beautiful. I've met some tremendously wonderful people of all stripes.
• America has a HUGE decent affordable housing crisis, especially in non-metro areas that fail to get adequate attention. Ramshackle trailers are the "good" housing. So much more is needed.
• Small towns, and their economic crises, have yet to be substantially addressed. I'm absolutely appalled at the number of shuttered businesses and vacant homes.

When I set off 5 years ago I knew nothing about RVing, even less about documentary film-making, and my unspoken worry was that I was crazy. Those thoughts have changed, improved I'd say. And to those chuckling about me being a little loony, that's probably intensified. Our feature-length documentary, "on the edge," that's been in the works for the past 4 years, nears completion. My debt of gratitude to Laura Vazquez, my film partner, is immeasurable.

Would I imagine our nation would go through a worse (?) crisis than Hurricane Katrina? That our economy would tank in a way that jeopardizes the well-being of family, friends, strangers, nonprofit efforts, schools and more? That the world would be quaking with what will become, I'm afraid, even more disastrous crises? Never in a million years....

HEAR US turns 5 on July 1st, 2010. We--me and my wonderful board--know what we're doing is crucial, now more than ever. We hear from lots of you about our efforts, how our videos and books help you do your impossible jobs, how people without homes appreciate our work. We, at the moment, have what we need. But we won't mind if you decide to sign up to donate $5 a month to help us secure our future. It's a great way to spread good karma!

Seems to me it's better if we believe we can rather than think we can't. Nothing helps that belief grow stronger than a bunch of wonderful people spreading the word. That would be the best gift of all, tell people about HEAR US! And thanks for being there for this unconventional effort to give voice and visibility to homeless children and youth.

Such a Sad but Essential Reminder

I thought I noticed some extra sounds of avian joy being expressed when I pulled Tillie into my parking spot, the place I call home while in IL. Exuberant chirps and peeps—I thought to welcome me back after my 2 weeks in the south. But no, it was the announcement that our neighborhood had expanded. The nest perched under the eave of the house next to Tillie has a baby bird. But, although I noticed, I didn’t interpret the sounds of joy.

Robin-mom had selected a safe and secluded spot to build her nest, carefully selecting the right materials and arranging them just so. When I left her patiently nesting 2 weeks ago I thought about snapping a pix from the vantage point Tillie’s roof would have offered, just a few feet from the nursery but didn’t want to disturb her. And I confess to forgetting about her.

Alas, in the couple hours since I’ve been back, tragedy struck for this newly-expanded robin family. Allegedly, an owl swooped in, knocking the nest to the ledge below, and the untested wings of this little baby were useless. I heard the commotion, likely the mother fending off the much larger predator; feathered spectators sounded the alarm, but I was too late.(Click for more pix)

When I stepped out my door to investigate, I looked up. The owl stared down at me from the edge of the roof, surprised, probably disappointed, and swept away, without his meal. I stood there impotent.
One glance at the blood on the pavement confirmed the dire turn of events from seconds before. I helplessly watched this baby bird take its last breaths. Oh how sad. How powerless I felt. Frustrated chirps of bird-friends bemoaned the loss of this newcomer to our neighborhood, patiently nurtured from egg to hatchling and now life steadily and mercifully slipped away.

I sat and stared at this tiny creature for a while, surprised at how affected I was by this playing out of Mother Nature’s ways. It happens all the time, but not in my neighborhood. And I know nature will take its course. I’ll look up and the tiny bare little baby will be gone, feeding this hungry owl or any of the other nocturnal critters that about in this bucolic setting. The nest and the splotch of blood will remain until tonight’s wind and rain remove even those traces. The mother, I don’t know her, just an anonymous robin. I don’t know how birds mourn their losses, if she’ll have another. The owl, I can’t begrudge his action, though I don’t appreciate it happening on my watch.

And I could not help but make the leap from what I’ve witnessed to what I know happens every day, everywhere.

My world has lots of nests—and mothers I know nurture their young, with great hopes that young ones sprout wings. Predators a plenty, protections so few out here in the cruel world…. This scene plays out all the time, with greater consequences and probably more frequently than I would care to know.

May someone be there to help, to fend off attackers whenever possible, to comfort those left behind, or to bear witness, so the loss doesn’t go unnoticed. May we be touched by little losses, our hearts kept alive by our connection to all things living, no matter how small, how different.

I Don't Count

My nomadic way of life for the past 5 years has been quite worthwhile and interesting. But one casualty--me. I will likely not be counted in the 2010 Census. 

Since selling my home so I could buy "Tillie," this venerable, now road-weary motor home, I've relied on a series of old and new friends for a place to park. My home is literally this 27' Gulfstream Class C recreational vehicle. But my use is far from recreational.

Tillie is headquarters for my nonprofit organization, HEAR US Inc., a unique and highly mobile effort to give voice and visibility to homeless children, youth and families, especially those off the beaten track. I've found I don't need much--a computer, a data card, and a cell phone; video and still cameras to do my work. Paper--I try to do without. My board provides essential support services, faxing mail to me as needed, handling bank transactions, and keeping our efforts in front of the folks back home, or what used to be my home territory for over 40 years, the western suburbs outside Chicago.

Among the casualties of this roving is a sense of stability. I awake early morning struggling to answer the question, "Where am I?" Of course, sometimes I get to park in some pretty cool places (like this picture, from a PA state park). But more often I'm in a driveway, tethered to a friend's house by a heavy-duty extension cord. I will happily stay at shelters if feasible, feeling the psychic connection and often getting grateful hugs as a bonus. Or I "boondock" (RVer lingo for parking without any connections) in a WalMart parking lot.

My mode of travel has several perks: preparations are quite simple--make sure Tillie is in shape. My stuff is in my "house," so I don't have to pack! My food can be my choice instead of depending on road kill, er, fare. And I have that bathroom handy--clean if I cleaned it!--for those times when ya gotta go! 

Five years ago I was shaping this crazy plan. Five years, 48 states and 92,000 miles later, thanks to some incredible support, I'm still rolling. Homelessness, among families, teens and single adults, has skyrocketed. The economy has tanked. Gas prices have soared. Economic devastation, while some signs of recovery are being touted, continues to destroy the most vulnerable. 

I'm heading off next week for a fairly short trip--Macon, MS, Sheridan, AR, and Baton Rouge, LA. Not areas that make the must-see lists of travelers. But I consider each stop an opportunity to share the voices and faces of those who courageously shared their stories with me via film. The homeless children and their parents in "My Own Four Walls," and our new documentary, "on the edge," offer powerful insights into homelessness.

Seems to me that being semi-homeless is the best way for me to represent this disenfranchised population. It sure has made me think about not counting. I'm glad the Census Bureau doesn't jail scofflaws.

Faith in America? I'm Trying but I Need Help

I’m travel so much I often struggle to figure out where I am when I wake up. Fortunately I’m in my “house” better known as Tillie, a 27-foot RV that’s been my home/office and wheels for the past 5 years as I pursue HEAR US Inc., my dream of giving voice and visibility to homeless children, youth and families. It doesn’t matter where I am unless I’m scheduled to be somewhere. If I remember a place, it’s typically because of a human encounter.

My recent time in DC, especially during the final health care vote, is etched in my mind. It saddened me to be around so many people who seemed so filled with hatred for the multitude that struggles to afford health insurance. That’s what it boils down to in my mind—the haves and the have-nots. It’s not policy, because few could accurately cite policy. It’s money. With the growing number of people without money, you’d think we’d all be a bit more sympathetic, but we’re not there yet.

Fortunately, my experiences also include the other end of the spectrum, where people go far beyond what’s required to help those who need it. And I never know where I’ll find these jewels. Such is my luck here in the Dutch Country of Pennsylvania. Six years ago, Pat LaMarche ran for Vice President of this fine country on the beleaguered Green Party ticket. A chance contact with her gives me reason to believe that I’m not the only crazy person trying to preserve, protect and defend this nation’s virtuous heritage.

Pat now runs a homeless shelter in Carlisle, PA, down below Harrisburg. In the midst of what I know are long days and nights, she continues penning politically-related columns and is working on another book about homelessness. I’d recommend her first one: “Left Out in America: the State of Homelessness in the United States." When our paths crossed it was like we’ve known each other since the Revolutionary War. In fact, the first thing we did was take a walk to the furnace where George Washington’s people made cannons. PA has lots of historical places that I would never see if not for people like Pat.

Sitting at my keyboard, pondering what makes Pat special, I’d offer this: she’s one of countless people who believe in the goodness of those she encounters, at least those at the shelter. We shared stories of experiences with materially-endowed but unenlightened individuals. Nope, we both gravitate to the have-nots. They at least have heart.

The good news, if any can be shared, is that this land is filled with good people. They are just flying under the radar, unsung s-heroes and heroes who continue to patch this nation’s quilt as it is torn by those who fail to realize, or remember, what a gift it is to live in America. Just like faux-“Christians” have all-but destroyed religion for some, those proclaiming to be patriots shred more than the flag—they destroy the very fiber this nation was founded upon.

Seems to me that my photo of this man’s silent vigil on the steps of our Capitol speaks volumes. I don’t know his issue, his position, or anything about him. His dramatic solitude, his simple pose, his courageous presence spoke to me of the kind of reminder we need, which also needs to be issued to our lawmakers. The fragile fabric of our country was woven by persons who believed that this should be a land of plenty, a land of opportunity, a land of peace. I’d love to awaken and feel that we are that nation again. This nightmare needs to end.

Amazing Civilization!

Having spent this past Sunday seeing the dregs of society on the south lawn of the Capitol, I was ready for an alternative experience. Little did I think I'd get it on Amtrak. 

I decided to ride the rails to Chicago, having not taken the train for longer than the Joliet to Springfield stint years ago. Something about spending $500 on a r/t air ticket between DC and Chicago that rubbed me wrong, especially when it is for a George Winston benefit concert for HEAR US, my organization.

Union Station was a-buzz with junior hi kids being herded by chaperones and "suits" hopping between the Hill and Wall Street, or so I imagine. With time to spare I meandered and observed, though not able to get to my camera deeply embedded in one of my 2 carry-ons. 

The Amtrak area was packed, and with very little direction--a scarcity of A personnel--civilization worked. The cattle-gates helped, but no one seemed annoyed or irritated as they lined up for what is a full train. The A-folks seemed to drop the ball when it came to organizing the early boarding, but even that went better than I expected.

If you look at any public scene--from crowded intersections ruled only by traffic lights, or busy urban sidewalks--you might be amazed to see what can normally be pleasant encounters. It can happen. We humans are still capable of it, despite being egged on by media and pundits.

I'm happy so far to be bouncing along on our nation's railway, enjoying the last moments of daylight over the West VA and MD countryside. It's reassuring that we can still be trusted to be with each other and even extend a bit of concern and help when the opportunity arises.

Seems to me the true test will be in the morning as we all awaken and grope for coffee or whatever else gets our engine rolling. I'll wear a warning label!