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| our main street downtown |
Yesterday I had to go to a part of town clustered around our former industrial base. I say ‘former’ because in recent years that industrial base has dried up or moved on to other cities. It’s a depressed and rundown area from what it was just five years ago. One thing that struck me was the billboards I saw advertising phone numbers where people can get help for drug or alcohol abuse, child abuse and neighborhood watch groups. We don’t see those on the other end of town where I live.
On one corner where I had to wait for a traffic light a
woman about my age was sitting in a wheelchair holding a sign that read: “Need
help and money for food.” Was she for real? A dozen questions went through my
head as I waited for the light to change including why would she sit on a busy
corner where there was no place a driver could pull over and park if she/he
wanted to give the woman some cash. It wasn’t likely she’d spring up from the
chair and walk over to a car to collect the money. Would she? She was old enough for Social Security,
Medicare, subsidized housing and many other safety nets our community provides to needy
people. Why would a person her age need to sit on a corner holding up a sign
begging for money? Perhaps she wasn’t mentally capable of navigating her way
through Social Services. Perhaps her grandchildren were using her to get money
for drugs. I wish I’d had a sign I could have held up that read: “Call 211 for help!”
Whatever the woman’s back story, she was the personification
of every fear I had during my younger years, of what my old age would look like
if I didn’t play my cards right. Don and I both were both children of depression
era parents who’d gone through a lot of tough times in their lives. It was in our DNA to believe that bad luck and hard times could be just around any corner. Consequently, we were workaholics most of our adult lives. Fast forward
decades later and I didn’t turn into a bag lady and unless the whole world
falls apart, I most likely won’t ever be one. Still, the woman sitting on the
corner bothered me---the contrast between her life and mine. In the stroke
support community I was a part of for twelve years I’d met a lot of people who
thought their futures were secure but they watched it all slip through their
fingers when their medical problems and lack of insurance caused them to go bankrupt. Sometimes
people get beaten down through no fault of their own.
I drove back to my end of town taking a broad boulevard that
makes its way past two well groomed college campuses, several upscale malls and a
large botanical garden. I was driving a paid-for car that had just gotten its first
anniversary “buff and shine”---warranty required for its clear coat---and I was
feeling guilty because by the grace of God or good fortune or the forces of the
universe I wasn’t the one sitting on the corner holding up a cardboard sign
begging for money. Whether it was a scam, or not, she was still a woman who’d
lost all dignity and pride. And that’s sad.
Oh cripe! I just thought about something else to feel guilty
and sad about. We’re in the middle of dealing with a 100 year flood with the river that
runs through town and record rain fall. I wonder if anyone helped all those homeless people evacuate who live
under the bridges and viaducts. Where did they go, who took them in?
The lower levels of dozens of buildings downtown are flooded including a five
star hotel, the museums, and high-rise apartment buildings. Homes along the
river near-by where I live look like little islands and the evacuation of a nursing home was well covered in the news. But my storm damaged yard
was put back to normal with a phone call to my landscaper. My biggest flood related problem has been trying to figure out how to get from point A to point B because of road closures. More contrasts. More good luck versus bad luck. I
might be alone in the world. I might be a lonely widow. But I’m one lucky,
alone and lonely widow. And I hope I never forget to count my blessings as well as the tears. ©
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| 2-3 miles from where I live |
