The meal refused

Walked to the library today to renew a book. Enroute, saw a man standing at I-5 and Madison with a sign, and another one leaning against the low cement barrier overlooking the traffic, his legs sprawled onto the sidewalk and his body bend over, face down. He looked exhausted. I looked for a needle and didn't see any, and I realized I had no meal to offer him.

After the library, I walked to Ivar's Acres of Clams, purchased the 5 fishes and chips meal to go, making sure to get extra cups of catsup and tartar sauce. I  ate two fish strips and  headed back up the hill, thinking the men at the bridge might still be there. They weren't.

At the freeway intersection, two men who seemed to be homeless crossed south, and another potentially homeless man with backpack passed north. The timing didn't seem right to make an offer. I headed on uphill.

At Boren and Madison, two women sitting at the bus stop seemed like potential candidates, but I didn't know how to offer the meal I had, when there were two. Again, it didn't feel right.

But ahead of me there was a withered, short, thin bald man with a deep tan shuffling along the sidewalk. He approached a couple, one of whom held out a package to him. They exchanged words, and the couple moved on, while he zeroed in on me. As he drew close he asked for $2 for MacDonald's. I said I had food. He asked me for $2 again for food. I said "this is a meal --it's fish and chips." He turned slightly and walked past me. Maybe all he wanted was money for drugs.

I walked home and ate the fish and chips myself.

This doesn't seem to be working any more. The point was to engage people in conversation and learn more about them and what they need. In most engagements, that doesn't happen in any significant way.

Meals served so far: still 46
Ubuntu

Breakfast is served for the Real Change vendor

Top story for latest Real Change is public art in industrial corridor

Just when I think I'm done taking meals to homeless people there's a Real Change vendor at the door of the Capitol Hill Safeway on this rainy morning. This is just too convenient.

"Would you like a cooked chicken?" I asked. He demurred, because he's allergic to chicken.

So I asked him for an alternate and he said Mac and Cheese. But Safeway's deli was out of that today. So I came back and asked again. He went for jo-jos and pot stickers (although I had to explain what pot stickers were). However, the pot stickers had chicken in them, so instead I sprang for the spring rolls, spotted the pizza stick, and picked up half a pound of jo-jos. Kind of a starchy meal, but it was warm and ready to go. Cost: A measly $5.37.

I asked him if he was cold. He explained that someone stole his sleeping bag. No, he didn't know about Operation Nightwatch, so I asked him whether he used the library and handed him a Homeless in Seattle.net business card. I told him to go to the Web site, look at the "blankets" listing and that would take him to Operation Nightwatch. They provide warm dinners, and a shelter, and if they don't have a shelter you can get a blanket and a metro bus pass, I explained. (He didn't know that some people ride the bus at night to stay warm and safe.)

Meals served so far: 46
Ubuntu

Three more meals / street stories

I thought I was done with meals. My focus has shifted to Homeless in Seattle,  so when Union Gospel Mission sent their request for donations for holiday meals, I made enough of a donation to carry me over the 100-meal mark, so that I could pour my energies into the Web site.

The "Homeless" business card

But today I decided to hike to the downtown Seattle Library branch to find out how to promote the site to the homeless, and just to be prepared I took two sack lunches. Each has two ham and cream cheese sandwiches (with a Homeless business card peeking out through the plastic wrap), a raspberry fig bars and an apple. It was a good thing too. At the intersection with Interstate 5 I saw a familiar face, a panhandler with a sign for cars pausing at the intersection. He turned down the lunch, but directed me to the opposite corner, where another man with a help-me sign gratefully accepted a sack lunch. Then it was on to the library.

When I asked about distributing business cards, I was referred to the 5th Floor and then to an individual who was gone for the day. (I e-mailed her later, asking for help.) I headed toward Ivar's Acres of Clams for the exercise.

Outside Ivar's there was a young woman sitting tailor fashion on a bench with a box for spare change. She had no upper teeth. I offered her the lunch. She said she would save the apple, but she was able to handle the sandwiches. As she ate, we talked about her "old man" who was not doing well. They live in a tent under the freeway with too few blankets to stay warm. She is a Seattle native. I bought a coke to go with her lunch and brought over a cup of water for a chaser. Two men who knew her stopped to talk. One of them appeared to be discussing religion. I headed back up the hill, stopping at the library and it was then that I learned the individual I planned to meet was gone.

The Kentuckian.

At Boren and Madison a young woman, Christine, was standing with her sign. I asked her whether she was hungry, and we agree to go to Subway. She told me she was from Louisville, KY.

 Enroute, a woman who lives in the neighborhood greeted her and joined us. Christine ordered the meatball sandwich and the three of us sat and chatted about the Homeless Web site, and her situation. I learned that her son, 20, had died a few months earlier and that she didn't feel safe in shelters. Quite likely she was sleeping outside tonight. And she apparently has a boyfriend; she left the restaurant briefly to chat with him before we ate. Her friend said grace prior to the meal. After Christine finished and left, the friend shared that she also had been homeless at one time.

After I left Subway, I didn't make it to the end of the block without running into three more homeless people: a man sitting on the sidewalk asking for handouts and declaring that he was not returning to the shelter because there were Nazis there who were picking fights. He showed me an injury on his hand. While we talked, a woman in a wheel chair made her way toward us and asked for help to buy coffee. At the corner a young man held a sign asking for money. He didn't have a place to stay for the night. Each one got a small handout and a Homeless card.

The weather has grown colder, and now it seems like they are everywhere.

Meals served so far (aside from Union Gospel donaton): 45
Ubuntu

The woman on the sidewalk

Lately I've been focused on building Homeless In Seattle (homelessinseattle.net) and haven't been taking meals to the street, so tonight I put three sack lunches together and headed out about 7 p.m. I got as far as Madison and Summit when I spotted her sitting on the sidewalk with her back to traffic. There was a water bottle off to one side, and another couple containers at the base of a tree.

She was alone. I almost passed her by, but there was something strange. I circled her, made eye contact, and asked if she were OK. In retrospect, I realize she was dazed, but at the time it wasn't clear what was happening. She mouthed words that were almost inaudible. I asked her whether it was OK if I stayed with her or if I should leave. Her response was ambivalent, and I sat on the sidewalk next her. About that time I noticed the goose-egg bump on her right forehead.

She just wanted to sit. Then she laid down. I doffed the backpack that had the three sandwiches inside and offered it as a pillow. Then, when a man passed pushing a container, I waived to him and we spoke. He suggested 911, and I made the call.

The operator asked me to check to see whether she wanted medical aid. I tried talking to her. She was largely ambiguous in her response, but finally she said yes. I told the 911 operator to send an aid car, and I described what she was wearing and where we were situated. The woman began to drift away; her eyes seemed to see nothing, and she was having problems keeping them open. 

I took her hand. Her grip was strong, and I think she liked the comfort of the touch, but she seemed to be having trouble speaking. Her eyelids were growing so heavy. I placed my hand on her cheek and told her to stay awake.  I kept  talking to her, trying to have her keep her eyes open.Then I heard the sirens. I saw the aid car and waived it in while I continued to support her face in my hand -- she had dropped her head on the sidewalk once, and I didn't want that to happen again.

Several paramedics exited the aid car. They took vitals and tried to get her to talk with them.  There was a plastic bracelet on her right wrist, and from that they learned her name was Donna. They called Donna by name and asked her what had happened. They wanted to know whether she had taken any substances and whether she had been assaulted, possible in the form of a domestic dispute. I stood and watched.

One of the paramedics concluded that she was under the influence of something. They asked whether she needed to throw up and positioned her on her side, but nothing came of it. An ambulance arrived, she was placed on a stretcher and taken away.

It's not what I expected to see when I walked out with three sack lunches -- someone sitting in the light of dusk on a nearly empty street who might have lain there for a long time if I hadn't stopped and talked with her.

Lunch donated

I walked toward the waterfront and engaged a corner panhandler who was facing traffic and holding a sign asking for money at the 7th Avenue freeway offramp. He was up from Las Vegas, exhausted, and wanting an affordable place to stay. The conversation didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I gave him a sack lunch: an apple, fig bars and two sandwiches of cream cheese, Jimmy Dean Summer Sausage, Miracle Whip, and mustard. He seemed more curious about what was in the sack rather than interested in eating. What he really wanted was an affordable place to stay until he returned to Las Vegas, I think.

I walked to Ivar's and returned home; enroute I saw the panhandler across the street under a tree and eating what looked like takeout. Maybe it's the time of year. I'm getting jaded taking meals to street people who don't appear to need them. I still had two sack lunches, which I placed in the fridge.

Meals served so far: 42

Ubuntu

Quiet night of big noise

There was a street performance on Pike between 12th and Broadway.  I was packing two brown bags and heading for Alaskan Way.

A young lady was sitting on the sidewalk just past 12th on Madison looking dejected. I stopped to talk.  It was awkward, but she was receptive to taking a meal. The conversation didn't develop and I moved on, wondering how to improve connectivity.

I descended to Alaskan Way and ascended to Broadway and Madison without finding anyone else to engage, but there was enormous sound coming from the performance, and I walked that way. After I passed it I noticed a man sitting next to a building selling Native American dolls. He was Eskimo. His girlfriend was around the corner, incapacitated from alcohol.  He said he was an alcoholic, too. We talked for a while. He asked if I read the Bible and said he had spoken with Jesus.  he declined a meal.

Around the corner on Pine Street, two men held signs. One said "alcoholic," and the other held a sign saying he was looking for a sugar mama. We chatted. They were hungry and I relieved myself of the second brown-bag lunch.

The writer

As I headed for home I noticed a young man, 26, sitting on a chair with a typewriter on a milk crate. He was writing impromptu items for customers. He got the idea from people in New Orleans who did that. He was living out of his car and traveling around the country. By this time I had no change to pay him to write something for me and no meals to pass out, but it was a nice chat. The conversation seemed strangely normal.
I'm going through a transition of how I engage people. I think I need to take more time to listen and learn. I should plan to take longer on future jaunts.
Meals served so far: 41
Ubuntu

Drugs, dreads, the F-bomb, and a rebranding

Label on sack lunches

Today I delivered four brown bag lunches and this time, there's a new wrinkle: each lunch contains the address of homelessinseattle.net as an effort to starting marketing the Web site to the homeless.

Along with that, Centennian is no longer signing off at the end of these postings. The signoff will be a simple brown bag, symbolizing the meals to homeless people. The point is to avoid branding confusion.

Curses and ODs

Today started and ended with some unsettling experiences. My first encounter occurred in Cal Anderson park, where I passed several men who appeared to be camping in the shade and I spotted a woman on a bench with two bags that appeared to be worldly possessions. I approached her and ashed whether she was homeless. She responded with the F-bomb. I explained that I was distributing meals, was met with more malice, and moved on, recognizing that I need to practice and improve on my technique. I turned right at Broadway, walked a few blocks and met Gigi.

Gigi

"Gigi" is the name I have assigned for the sake of privacy to a lady who stands on a street corner on Broadway. She recognized me. Her plastic teeth make eating the apple I included in the brown bag difficult, but she could deal with it where she lodges, she said. Same for the two Black Forest ham and cheese sandwiches I made that morning.

The couple at the corner

A block farther on, there was a sprawl next to the sidewalk and backdropped by a dumpster. I passed it on the far side of the street, crossed and doubled back, realizing that I was looking at a man and a woman lounging on the sidewalk with their debris and a shopping cart. Did they need food, I asked. She pointed to the shopping cart and said they were well provisioned. But I wanted them to know about homelessinseattle.net. I mentioned the site and said the sticker on the brown bag gave the listing. I left my second brown bag meal with them.

Cancer, diabetes, "free" canes and water

I walked on north on Broadway until Umpqua Bank, then doubled back, encountering a man who was holding out his cap for donations. His name is Mike, he said. As I handed him the third brown bag I learned that he has lung cancer as well as diabetes; no money and inability to acquire health care; and a cane that was given to him by a doctor in Wallingford, for whom he performs minor chores. Being totally broke, Mike stays at homeless shelters such as Union Gospel Mission. Someone gave him water, but the bottle was stolen when he left it outside while using a bathroom. He obtained a second gallon bottle, drank some of the water, put the bottle down, and it disappeared. Mike said he could obtain water at the fountain at the Rite Aid pharmacy at East John and Broadway. That was news for me, because I thought the fountain hadn't been working. Maybe I was thinking of a different fountain.

At Dick's Drive-In I saw a familiar face -- a young woman who frequents the area. She was just getting started for the day and already had a meal, she said.

Dreads and drugs

At Broadway and Pine on the margin of Seattle Central Community College stood a man with a smattering of dreadlocks selling a $2 graphic magazine he had crafted by copying images from the internet. He didn't want a meal, he wanted to sell his magazine. But perhaps the people sleeping by a tree on the lawn would want a meal, he said. I approached them, but they were sound asleep. But this other man, leaning over as if to read, was sitting on a low wall 100 feet away. I approached him quietly and noticed the needle that his right hand was slipping into the vein on the back of his left hand. He remained stationary and oblivious. I walked back toward the intersection of Pine and Broadway.

Cops and the motorcyclist

Police had pulled over a motorcyclist and were citing him for driving the wrong way. I pointed out to one of the officers the man bent over with the needle in his hand and was told they would check on him.

Cardboard storefront

The fourth brown bag went to a woman in the shade along the southern fence in Cal Anderson park. She was trying to connect the cardboard with the fence as if to create a backdrop. I asked her whether she wanted a meal. She accepted it without a smile; she was focused on attaching the cardboard to the fence.
Meals served so far: 39
Ubuntu,

Andre, Kristen, Kenya, and what's his name...

I took one look at the bathroom scales and realized it was necessary to exercise more and eat less, so I headed off to Alaskan Way, and along the way I shared the wealth ... of food. Close to Boren and Madison I met an old friend -- Andre, who had positioned his chair -- a milk carton -- outside the door to Bartell Drugs and was holding a sign asking for help.

Last February I asked Andre if he wanted to go to McDonald's for a meal and he explained they wouldn't let him in there because of his hygiene, but Subway was kinder, so we ate there. The McDonald's is gone now -- there's just a pit filled with construction activity where the Golden Arches used to be, just one more indication of what's going on in the city with the most cranes in the nation. The homeless people who would gather outside the entrance have been displaced as well.

Bladder cancer, stolen cane

I recognized Andre right away and he remembered me. Another Subway sandwich? I asked. He said no; he needed to get money for meds. Not only is he diabetic, he now apparently has bladder cancer. And somebody had stolen his cane, a nice cane he had hung on the tree behind where he was sitting.

I went inside Bartell,  broke a $20, and gave him $5. Then I asked again if he wanted a sandwich. He said yes. He rose and slowly ambled toward Subway -- he can't walk fast -- leaving his materials behind. Shouldn't he take them? I asked. No-one would want then, he said.

That lying bathroom scale

He ordered a sandwich. I got a foot-long tuna, cut into two sections. Remembering what the lies my bathroom scale was telling me, I figured there would be people who needed it more than I did. And if I didn't buy something myself, Andre might have felt strange.

Andre was having second thoughts about his property on the street and wanted to get back to his perch and belongings, so we exited the Subway. On the sidewalk a woman joined us and  thanked me for buying a meal for Andre. She's also living on the street, and they are friends. I gave them each a business card, with my contact information inked out and a new address: homelessinseattle.net, along with my email address: rds@homelessinseattle.net. I explained that I was building a Web site with an index of services for the homeless.

The stolen backpack

It was time to head downhill, but I didn't get 100 feet before I ran into a man selling the Real Change magazine. I asked him whether he might want a tuna sandwich. He explained that he had his backpack stolen, along with a spare pair of pants and some money. He had put the backpack down, and when he turned around, it was gone. He was not giving up hope that it would turn up. (He had been on the street less than two weeks.)

I walked to Alaskan Way and turned back. On the way up Madison, I encountered a young man by the Library who was engaging pedestrians to talk with them about his organization that addresses working conditions in Seattle. Was it "Washington Works?" The organization's name escaped me. But his didn't -- he is African American, and his name is Kenya. Nice young man. I made a point of him remembering homelessinseattle.net, by handing him a business card. I think the two organizations can help each other help the homeless.

Seven years on the street

At 7th and I-5 I encountered a man facing downhill traffic where cars stop for the light and holding a sign asking for help. He said he had been homeless in Seattle seven years. He got the second half of my tuna sandwich. Not 100 feet away there was another individual lying on the concrete beyond the sidewalk, with his legs toward the street and his head cradled in, and covered by, an arm, as if he were trying to capture what silence he could as he slept. It made me wonder whether he was more in need of that final sandwich.
Meals served so far: 35
Ubuntu,

What if you're injured?

This afternoon, while walking on Broadway on Capital Hill, I encountered a young woman in a wheel chair sitting at Dick's Hamburgers near Denny. I asked her if she would like a meal and purchased a cheeseburger, coke and fries for her, acquiring in the process a free tall paper cup of ice to help her with the warm two-liter coke bottle she had by her side. Cost: $6.28.

She said her name is Lynette, and that she had been homeless for 3-4 years, but only in the wheelchair a few months, due to an injury. That raised a question: What does a homeless person do if they are injured -- who do they turn to? That will be something to include in the index for the upgraded Web site, homelessinseattle.net, which we hope to have operational within a month. The roughed-in site can be found by clicking the link in this paragraph.

Meals served so far: 32.
Ubuntu,

New "Homeless In Seattle" Web site

In the last posting I announced creation of a Web site to assist the homeless in obtaining services, and my enrollment in a class to update my Web page authoring skills. My initial efforts led to my awareness that there are "content management systems" (CMS) which can be used to create a Web site without the complexities of writing Web page code to create and manage the site. So I have abandoned my class, and my original domain name, replacing it with homelessinseattle.net. An image of the mockup follows:

Initial mockup of part of the home page of the new Web site to serve the homeless

The disadvantage of using a CMS is that some functionality may be sacrificed. The advantage gained is that a simpler method may be used to create the site and it may become easier for colleagues to maintain the site without extensive training. Also, backups to the site are facilitated, so that if it crashes it will be easier to restore.

The program I've chosen to use to create and support homelessinseattle.net is Joomla, a popular program for building and maintaining Web sites with a great number of support resources to draw on, as well as online training. The training, elegance of the program and available resources lends promise that this effort will be more sustainable.

More to come...

Ubuntu

Program Pause

It's April 18, and there has been a pause in the 100 Meals program.
Results so far: 30 of 100 meals have been distributed, and enough street intelligence has been gathered to persuade me that developing a Web site for Seattle's homeless, discussed in the March 17 post, is worthy of serious examination.

I have enrolled in Web 120, a Web-authoring class, at Seattle Central Community College to see whether it's possible to brush up on my skill set to create such a site, while discussions with others on the feasibility and desirability of following that route continue.

Domain created

I have created a domain, homelessinseattle2017.com. The "2017" was added when I discovered that my original idea for a name had already been locked up. Here is the initial placeholder image while I proceed:

Washington state allows senior citizens to enroll in college classes for $5 plus lab fees and books, but the hitch is that you need the instructor's permission, there has to be a vacancy, and you can't be officially enrolled until a week after the class starts. That delay has put me in catch-up mode, so this plan has significant obstacles. However I took the same class a few years ago, so if the technology has not changed dramatically, there's a great possibility that I will have the skill set to create a suitable Web site that can be useful to the homeless.

We'll find out.
Ubuntu,

Postscript:

Got stir crazy and decided to walk to Ivar's for exercise. Took along a brown bag just in case. Good thing, because I saw a young man asleep on his feet in a dry spot next to a window. Asked him several times if he was OK. He finally sleepily opened his eyes and looked at me. I asked him if he was exhausted, or on drugs. He said he did drugs, which wasn't quite what I asked him. He did respond to my offer of a meal. I gave him one of the meals I had prepared for the young couple in my alley a few days back. I had kept it in the fridge, and it was still OK.

I walked from there toward the waterfront, stopping to talk with a spare changer at where the freeway bridge meets 7th Avenue. I asked him whether he was going to be there for a while, and promised to bring him some fish and chips. He asked me what that was. That was strange... When I got to Ivar's I reached for my wallet and realized I hadn't brought it, so I hustled back up hill to apologize. He wasn't there when I returned.
Meals distributed so far: 31.

Soup and sandwich skips

There's a driveway that leads to the alley behind my condo, and the couple was sitting there in the shelter of a garage, with their dog. I walked by, greeted them, paused, and asked if they had lodging for the night. They didn't. They looked like they were pretty together, so maybe they weren't homeless in the conventional sense. Perhaps I acted too rashly. But I asked if they had a meal for the night, and they said no. So I asked if they would like a soup and sandwich, and they perked up and said yes. I told them to wait and that I would return.

At the condo I whipped together two ham and cheese sandwiches, garnished with mayo, mustard and a sweet red chili pepper spread. Placing each sandwich in two nested paper bags, I added to each package a fruit cup, two fig bars, a couple cheese balls and a Pink Lady apple. In a plastic Glad refrigerator container with snap lid I added a combination of Pacific organic roasted red pepper and tomato soup,  kalamata olives, chopped onions, carrots microwaved to tenderness, and Sweet Baby Ray's Barbecue Sauce, over which I had melted Tilamook chedder cheese slices. I found a large sack for the Glad container and threw in a couple of spoons, napkins and paper towells.  It took less than 10 minutes and I headed for the alley.

When I got there, they were gone without a trace.

No problemo. I returned to the condo, refrigerated the sack lunches for another day and ate the soup. It was delicious.
Ubuntu,

Bananaman

Today I became Bananaman. Yesterday I picked up a big flat of bananas at a food bank I support. They weren't going to last until food bank day -- Tuesday -- so I relieved the bank of the fruit that was doomed. Part of it got peeled and frozen for my fruit smoothies. I gave a few to a couple neighbors in the condo. Some are still in a kettle in my fridge, for safe keeping. And most of the rest ended up in a small shopping bag which I carried downtown today enroute to meet up with a friend.

At Madison and 12th, I offered some to three transients standing out of the weather in a doorway. All three declined.

I walked along Broadway, then headed downtown, passing a church with a low wall along the sideway, and I planted a few bananas there for someone to discover. When I reached the freeway I left some bananas besides some tents that appeared to be unoccupied, and turned left, walking along the boundary by the freeway where I spotted several tents. I deposited a few bananas at one and there was a disturbance in the tent, so I said I was leaving the bananas. The resident thanked me. I asked him if he would like some more, and he said yes. So I left about 10 ripe but not-too-ripe bananas, emptying my bag.

No meals, but good fruit for the folks on the street.
Ubuntu

Trying breakfast; discussing a Web page.

Today I thought we would turn over a new leaf and try breakfast. In the past I've walked out often in the dead of night to bring meals at the end of day. But in the last couple of weeks, while opening up an account at a new bank, I noticed  that morning finds young people sleeping on the street on Broadway north of John Street. It was in this neighborhood that I met Gigi (see prior post). A few days later, a pair of men were side-by-side in their sleeping bags just off Broadway. Near the entrance to the QFC, one young man was asleep at 10 am. with a blanket wrapped around himself and a strip of cardboard to soften the sidewalk. He must have been tired to sleep like that.

Today, however, there were fewer on the street. It had rained during the night, and the lucky ones had found shelter. One who was not so lucky was shivering in front of Dick's Hamburgers on Broadway.

The Costco breakfast

I had prepared three lunches, which would fit in my backpack. Each consisted of a ham and cheese sandwich of Dave's Sprouted Whole Grain Bread, two Stone Ground Whole Wheat fig bar packets, an apple, and a 4 oz. Kirkland peach fruit cup,  and two napkins. The food all came from a Costco run. The package is lighter than other brown-bags, which previously had two sandwiches. But it's easier to pack and at least is a start for the day. I included a spoon or fork for the peach cup.

I had a doctor's appointment at Group Health on 15th, so afterward I walked straight down John to Broadway and hung a right.

The first person I spoke with was a gentleman with a thermos mug in his hand and a tall backpack. He was making the best of his homelessness and was heading inside Starbucks for a meal. He was aware of others on the street who were hungry, and demurred to them.

The next man had spent the night under an awning with his Pitt Bull. His belongings were scattered around him. His sleeping bag was damp. In the mess around him was dog food for his pet and a crushed beer can. There was also an old Army backpack that had so many straps on it he wasn't sure quite how to manage it.

I mentioned to him that I had become knowledgeable of how inexpensive disposable raingear could be and asked whether that might be something he could use. He said yes. I asked him how he was able to shower. He had a friend for that. He had used the Urban Rest Stop, but while he was showering, some of his possessions were stolen, he said.

He hadn't had breakfast yet;  the first brown bag went to him.

Gigi, again

I ran into Gigi again and stopped to talk with her. She had no interest in disposable rain gear because she was wearing a rain coat, she said. While we chatted a passerby reached past me to silently hand her some folding money.

Chris

A little farther on I saw a familiar face. It belonged to the young Asian man I had found reaching into a garbage receptical in my last posting. He remembered the cash gift, and we talked a bit more. He was from Tacoma. He said he was looking for work, and from the looks of him he might actually have a chance. When I offered him the breakfast bag he asked whether I was a Christian. I was raised a Christian, I said. The guy had some good ideas. Maybe I'll see Chris again.

John

I had one more meal and I kind of knew where I could find the next person -- in front of Dick's Hamburgers. There was a young woman seated there in her usual perch with a sign asking for money, and another man all hunkered down in the pyramid shape the homeless assume when they are just trying to hold in the heat. He had no sign; he didn't ask. He just sat hunkered down and I asked him if he were hungry.

His name was John. Someone had stolen his sleeping bag.  He was damp and cold, and grateful -- many times. I told him about a restaurant nearby where he could spend the night drinking coffee and staying warm. He didn't know that was possible and said he'd remember the name, but  John was new enough to Capitol Hill that he didn't know where the landmarks were, so I wrote down the name and address on a slip of paper.

Afterward I walked by the Lost Lake Cafe to check it out. It's a pretty democratic place, with a mixture of the garrulous and the quiet, and several people with backpacks who looked like they might be homeless. Before 9 a.m. they have a happy hour breakfast menu that almost anyone can afford. I had a delicious breakfast of corned beef hash, taking the leftovers in a doggy bag to a man sleeping in a doorway around the corner with his dog.

A manly meal of corned beef hash at the Lost Lake Cafe on 10th Avenue, Capitol Hill.

Recology

While I was walking Broadway there were two men with yellow vests with the word, "Recology" on the back. They were sweeping up and picking up litter. One explained that they worked for a garbage company and had specific parts of the city where detritus had been left behind by the homeless. There were other places where he performed the work -- in Chinatown and by the stadium, he said. He had driven through Capitol Hill for years but never was aware of the degree of homelessness there before.

In the evening, I hiked downtown to Christ Our Hope Catholic Church, to discuss with a parishioner the possibility of creating a Web page that would serve as a one-stop portal to homeless services. The church makes an effort to help the homeless and took an interest in my querie about developing such a site. It's not clear what the outcome will be, because it appears that other organizations may be preparing to address the need for helping the homeless obtain support more easily, so this notion may be eclipsed by others with the same intent. That subject will be revisited in future blogs.
Meals distributed so far: 30.

Ubuntu,

Talking with Gigi

Dick's Drive-In, a Capitol Hill landmark, thrives at night.
Some of the hungry are the homeless.

I call her "Gigi" because that's the sound her initials make when you say them. On two mornings I nodded to her on the same street corner in the north end of the Broadway shopping neighborhood on Capitol Hill. She's enough of a regular that, when I stopped to talk with her,  she greeted people by name as they passed. Sometimes people take her to a restaurant to eat, she said.

Gigi is in her 50s. She's tall, thin and conversational. She lives at a Catholic church downtown. She's not Catholic -- she was found sleeping in the street by a representative of the church, and now she has a place to stay nights. She can wash up there, and there's a small area where she can cook the food she picks up from food banks in the area. If she needs a bathroom, several businesses in the area, including prepared food outlets, will accomodate her. And there's always the public library, as well as the Sani-Can that sits behind Dick's restaurant on Capitol Hill.

The Sani-Can behind Dick's Drive-In on Broadway on Capitol Hill.

That Sani-Can at Dick's may be the closest thing Seattle has to the Parisian sanisette, described in the previous posting to this blog. Not only does there seem to be a shortage of public accommodations along common pathways in Seattle -- there's also a shortage of drinking fountains. One prominent one on Broadway was dirty and non-functional.

Gigi takes the bus uphill to stand vigil on the corner, holding a small cardboard sign asking for help. As I asked her about her life, she joked and asked whether I was a detective. I'm guessing not many people are as inquisitive. I explained that I wanted to understand what was happening, and making sure that what I was doing was what they needed. She shared that the police take an interest in homeless people as well. They have an outreach program that includes bringing hand warmers, gloves, water and tissues to the homeless on cold nights. I didn't know the cops did that.

I asked Gigi to critique the lunches I've been bringing to the homeless: sandwiches, cookies, cheese balls and an apple. An apple doesn't work for her, she explained. Her false teeth gave her trouble when she bit into an apple. She likes peanut butter sandwiches, and can handle meat sandwiches by tearing the meat into chewable bites. (Mental note: start providing the option of bananas over apples.)

I didn't have a brown bag lunch for Gigi this morning, and what I did is sometimes inadvisable--I handed her a $5 bill, close to the monetary equivalent a meal. Then I headed for home. Along the way there were other homeless -- a young man hung over and sleeping in a bus stall; another young man still asleep on cardboard on the sidewalk; a third, fishing for food in a sidewalk trash bin. I figure anyone who is eating trash out of a disposal is hungry enough to get $5.
Meals distributed so far (or the equivalent): 27.
Ubuntu,

Taking a leak

What happens when a homeless person has to urinate or defecate? This question presented itself to me one night when I was ascending Madison Street after delivering sack lunches to the homeless. I was in bad need of a urinal, and all the stores were closed. Finally I headed down a dark alley in search of a bush.

But what does a homeless person do in broad daylight after they've had a meal or something to drink, and they are needing a commode?

There is an answer to this. It used to be the pissoir, a public urinal introduced in France in 1830 on public boulevards, just in time to be used as barricades in the French revolution. Despite the inauspicous introduction, pissoirs continued to be used in Paris right up until the late 20th Century, when an improved accommodation, the sanisette, was introduced to serve both natural needs. Wikipedia describes the sanisette as a "self-contained, self-cleaning, unisex, public toilet." Paris pays for them.

Actually, there already are several public restrooms and drinking fountains in Seattle, which I was able to locate on Google map, via a search for public restrooms in Seattle. However, it seems to me that a city of a half million swimming in wealth could do more -- and not just for street people. Seattle is a destination city, and the tourists, hikers and walkers might need to take a leak -- or more --once in a while without having to depend on what sometimes has been referred to as "shithouse luck."
Ubuntu,

Direct correlation: Homelessness v housing costs

Today no meals were distributed. There was a 42nd Legislative District Town Hall, where we could hear from Senator Jamie Pedersen; Speaker of the House "Frank Chopp; and freshman Rep. Nicole Macri. The program began at 1 p.m. at Seattle First Baptist Church, 1111 Harvard Avenue.

Ms. Macri shared some noteworthy observation about a direct correlation between the cost of housing and homelessness: When the stock market collapsed, homeless figures went down along with the cost of housing. When the market bounced back and home prices rose, so did homelessness.

Ubuntu

The young homeless couple

It's the first time I've approached a homeless woman on the street at night. Heather was bedding down in a doorway, with the sleeping bags swaddled and the extra blankets stuffed into a black garbage bag. She was waiting for her boyfriend to return; when he did, I recognized him as the person I passed moments earlier on Pine Street whose pants appeared to be falling off him. That wasn't the case; they were just so low that they appeared to be below his buttocks. It's the only time I've seen a homeless person who didn't try to keep his pants at the standard level.

Heather is small in stature and appears to find safety in having a boyfriend to spend the night with her in the doorways -- and this particular doorway was deep enough to afford good protection from the elements. While we chatted, another couple joined them, spoke briefly and then headed off for wherever they would stay for the night. They were all street people, from different origins, who found comfort and safety through association.

From there I walked to the ferry terminal, giving a sack lunch to a man who was somewhat indifferent, but accepting. I think he was amused by the gesture. He was slouched in a folding chair next to a large conglomeration of plastic bags stuffed with what must have been his worldly possessions, I believe he indicated he had food.  I asked him how he moved around with his possessions, which would have filled five grocery carts easily. He muttered so quietly I couldn't her him. It wasn't much of a conversation.

About 9:30 p.m., the fourth recipient was a barely visible  in the shelter of doorway near on Madison near the I-5 overpass.  Interstate 5 and Madison. I couldn't tell whether that pyramidal shaped pile in the shadow was a person or just rubbish left there. I could hardly hear his responses as I spoke with him.

Meals distributed so far: 25.
Ubuntu,

Tony's Story

8 p.m. last night.
Tony was sitting on the cold north steps beside the QFC at Pike and Broadway, eating  barbecue pork slices from a styrofoam box. Beside him there was a stroller-like device with his gear. Even though he had a meal, he was willing to accept a sack lunch, and we sat on the cold steps next to him. I say "we" because this time Centennian came bobbing along, attached to my backpack.

Tony is unemployed because he is disabled. He's had a couple of rough bouts with body injuries. His odyssey as he describes it: In 2006 he had a back problem that resulted in surgery, and when he was closed up, a latex glove got left inside him. A few years later his blood counts were really low and he wasn't feeling well, and an MRI disclosed something in his body that didn't belong there. That problem was compounded with a neck injury when he was working in an auto shop and struck his head while carrying a heavy load. His story is an unimaginable tale of beaurocratic screwups and CYAs, but thats not the story we're going to tell here, because it gets too complicated.

What matters is that Tony can only walk a couple blocks with his backpack, so he uses the roller to get around.

Life at night

Tony has had tents to sleep in at night, and they've gotten stolen in the past. He currently is relying on Tent City, which he said is located in a parking area near the University of Washington. Students have brought food to the encampment, and he has earned time to stay there by performing patrol duty three hours a night. But he got thrown out for at least a day because he overstepped his prerogatives by trying to resolve one of the resident's electrical problems by adjusting a resource he was supposed to keep his hands off. I didn't write down the specific details because I wanted this to be a conversation, not an interrogation. We are still learning what it takes to talk with homeless people without making them feel more uncomfortable than they already are.

The lunch had two sandwiches of Kirland Black Forest ham slices with mayo and yellow mustard; a couople Babybel cheese balls;  a few oatmeal raisen cookies; a large apple, and two napkins. Cost was probably under $6.

The steps were uncomfortable. I was wearing several layers on my top, but only safari trousers, and my butt was freezing. Tony laughed as he dipped another slice of pork into the mustard. He was wearing layers on his lower half.

Hygiene

Tony was on the street for a month and beginning to reek before he discovered, through an Internet search at the library, that he could shower at Urban Rest Stop, located on 9th between Virginia and Stewart. You can also do your laundry there. No charge.

There's also no charge for riding the bus. He had a day pass from the  Tent City. He couldn't stay there last night due to violating the rules about electrical hookups, but he plans to be back there.

The police are generally understanding for the homeless. What happens if a police officer sees you urinating on the street? we asked. They generally look the other way, he replied.

Information for the homeless

The interview left me with a question: Why did Tony have to do an Internet search to find out about Urban Rest Stop? Is there a Web site that has all the information on resources in Seattle for the homeless? If not, what would it take to create a single, comprehensive source?

The others

We delivered two other sack meals last night. We didn't have to walk far.  Just a little ways past Molly Moon's there was someone bundled up in a doorway with an apple that someone had set beside him. I asked him if he wanted a meal. He didn't get up--that would have exposed him to the cold. But he did roll his head around to look and say yes. That was before I found Tony.

After Tony I had another sack lunch to give away and I headed down Pike. Across the street in the shadow of a doorway I saw some low shapes. It turned out to be two young men bundled for the night next to each other. I asked if someone wanted a lunch. I couldn't hear them well, but I believe the first one deferred to his friend, a nice looking young man with long wavy locks of black hair and smiling eyes. He sat up, smiled and we shook hands.

It was cold. We headed back to our place to stay for the night, which was warm, well lit and soft.
Meals distributed so far: 21.
Ubuntu

The Ferry Terminal: Jeff

Friday, February 17, 2017
I and my grade school chum, Darlene, were exiting the ferry from Bainbridge Island when we saw him standing at the end of the footbridge that reached the entrance to the ferry terminal--a bewhiskered, slender man with a cap and jacket, and holding a cardboard sign. It didn't take long to see that he was articulate, pleasant, and bright. He had worked in construction and high tech, but he's 60 years old now, and no-one wants to hire him, he explained.

Darlene and I had just had lunch with another childhood friend at the Madison Diner on Bainbridge. I had the open meat loaf sandwich,  and I ordered the tuna sandwich to go ($11.70 including the tip), because I knew there would be a minor gauntlet of homeless folk between the terminal and First Avenue. The waitress included extra napkins and plastic utensils.

Jeff was the first one we ran into. Jeff is well prepared for a night on the street, with two sleeping bags and two wool blankets to keep warm. And there's a possibility on his horizon-- the possibility of work as a homeless outreach person.

There's one thing Jeff is passionate about, partly because of his building background -- the issue of vacant buildings that could be turned into living quarters for the homeless. He thinks effort should be directed to making use of the vacant buildings. We talked for a while and I scribbled some notes -- ideas about resources and contacts serving the homeless. Something to follow up on.

Then Darlene and I headed off for Bottega Italiana, a gelato shop near Pike Place market. She handed Jeff some cash in parting. Near the gelato shop she gave a Real Change vendor $5 for the $2 publication. At Bottega Italiana we enjoyed excellent peach and lemon gelato.
Meals distributed so far: 18.
Ubuntu,

Jen: The $5 non-meal donation

Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2017
This was the day of the non-meal. Instead, I gave a woman $5 which may have gone to feed her heroin habit. Or maybe it helped to get her a dry place to sleep for the night, or another meal.

Her name was Jen, or Jenny, or Jennifer. Sometimes names slip through my fingers. But not the image of her propped up in her wheelchair with the nervous mutt swaddled in a blanker on her lap and the cardboard sign asking for help in paying $60 in lodging for the night. Above her there was a glass awning that caught the drizzle at the corner in front of the Barnes and Nobel  at Pine and Seventh.

I tried to walk past, but she called out to me and I was curious about this woman in a wheelchair, almost in the rain, with the dog. In Rome, the spare changers would frequently have dogs with them. In one case I saw several dogs "cuddling" on a blanket with a donation bowl nearby. They were motionless. Ann, my traveling companion and hostess in Rome, suggested  their tranquility  may have been due to being sedated with drugs.

In Rome, in 2015, these dogs of a beggar were the epitome of tanquility.

When you engage someone on the street, they always have a story, and at least much of it has to be true in some way, because for whatever reason they are exposed to the elements and at least slightly uncomfortable. So there's a reason.

Jen's eyelashes were enhanced. She appeared to have a makeup foundation. She was articulate, conversational, and natural -- easy to engage -- and candid. As we talked, she munched on the remains of a Subway sandwich, so offering to purchase food for her seemed unnecessary at this time.

Jen told me there was a place where she could stay. Although she was in a wheelchair, she could walk a short ways. She could stop into Pacific Place to use the restroom, or sometimes she could just use an alley. To get warm, she could go into  Barnes and Nobel. She could clean up at Immanuel Lutheran Church on Thomas street. She could get around on the bus. If she couldn't find a place for the night, she could find shelter and sleep in her wheelchair, and she had enough wraps to deal with the cold. She could have used some sort of water-repellent cover.

Mental note: See whether I can find sponsors for disposable rain ponchos; for under $140 a bulk order of  72 2-packs is available via Amazon Prime, with free shipping--less than $1 per poncho.

Did she have kin nearby? Yes, she comes from Whidbey Island, and she had family there.

I asked her what was wrong with her leg. Ultimately, it had to do with her heroin habit. She had beaten it once, but her boyfriend got her back into it. The boyfriend is ditched, but the habit lingers. You don't use heroin to get high, she added. You use it to deal with the discomfort of not having it in your system. She had her on-street sources for more, she said. But she wanted to get back on methadone.

So, what to do? She didn't need food for the moment. What she needed was shelter. If I gave her $5 would she use it toward the hotel, or for drugs? She's try to use it for food or lodging, she said.

Meals distributed so far: still 17
Ubuntu,

Rick

February 13, 2017
Rick was selling Real Change, the newspaper peddled by homeless folk in Seattle, on Madison Street just off Boren. It was early afternoon, the day was still chilly and he was bundled up neatly, with nothing to suggest his status except the tabloid in his hand and his question to passers by, "wanna buy a newspaper?" Everyone I saw said "no." I gathered from talking with him that selling five a day might be about the norm.

I asked whether he were hungry. "A little," he said. But he jumped at the chance for a Subway Sandwich. "Let's split one," I said. "You can make the selection." He chose meat on wheat bread, without dressing. I had honey mustard dressing on my half, and we headed back out on the street so he wouldn't miss a sale. Total cost for the two halves: $6.58. He tucked his sandwich into his backpack; it will be his dinner, he said.

Rick became unemployed after the auto shop he worked for closed because the land was being sold. He worked for a Catholic organization for a while, but couldn't work now due to a disability. He was applying for SSI.

He has a trim, attractive blue backpack that held his mummy bag and he sleeps on the streets, a different place each night. I shared with him that the Lost Lake Cafe is a place where you can spend a cold night drinking coffee, and I found its address on my phone and shared it with him. As we talked I asked here he showered. He said he had some options and was familiar with the hygiene center near Pioneer Square.

Rick knew who "D" is (my Feb. 2 posting); he had seen him around, but didn't know him well.

I had to get home and get my car in the shop. Did Rick want my half of the sandwich, even though mine had dressing?  Yes, he said, appreciatively. We shook hands, noting that we may meet again, since he works that spot regularly.

Meals distributed so far: 17.
Ubuntu

Chicken George

Sometimes it's hard to feed a hungry person. George, for instance. He was standing on a corner close to the Capitol Hill Safeway store selling Real Change, the tabloid some street people sell to make money. My understanding is that they pay $.60 for every copy they sell for two dollars. George is on that corner three mornings a week. I bought a paper from him a couple days ago and decided to return with a meal.

I decided to call him Chicken George because I purchased a bird and his name was George. Sort of like the character in the TV series, Roots. I don't like treating people as if they are nameless.

George hears best out of his left ear, and then only poorly. He has trouble walking because his legs were injured in an accident. He sees a doctor for injections. And he endures the cold mornings to raise money to help pay his bills. People who sell Real Change are not beggars. They are the underpaid and underemployed.

I offered to stop in Safeway for a chicken. Did he want some chicken? He could accept a piece or two, he said. I bought a bird in a basket for $5 with my Safeway discount card, one of the cheaper meals I've put together and grabbed the last of the napkins from the dispenser. And I invited George to join me on a nearby bench.

Can't do that, he said. He had to stay at his post and sell newspapers to pay his bills.

OK, I'll eat a bit and bring you some. So, with the wind blowing, I tucked the base of the basket into the lid, sheltered the wrapper to keep the wind from blowing it away, and peeled off a drumstick. Then the other drumstick, and then a breast. That was enough. I reassembled the basket, rejoined George and offered him the basket. That presented another problem: it woudn't fit in his satchel while he was selling his newspapers, and there was no place to put it. Did I have a bag?

I went back to Safeway. The employee tending the self-serve line found a stash of those plastic bag tubes they put out in the veggie department. I took three and nested them for strength, then returned to the corner, dumped the chicken into the innermost bag and tied it off. Then I tied off the second interior bag.

As I was doing this, the woman with the ring in her lip was wondering why her dog was off the sidewalk and eyeballing me. He smells the chicken, I explained, as I headed for the trash bin to get rid of the basket. I rejoined George. I think the bags were too large to fit in his satchel. He set them on a sign. I hoped they wouldn't fall on the ground.

I handed him the extra napkins. That seemed to flummox him. I suggested he put them in his pocket.

One thing that's abundantly clear from all this. You can't superimpose your solutions on street people.  It never occurred to me that someone on the street might not have the free time to sit down and eat, because they might miss a couple of sales netting them $1.40 each. (On my first encounter with Geroge, one man actually paid $5 for the newspaper, so maybe some sales generate more that you'd expect.)

The homeless have their own challenges, methods and limitations. Next time I'll probably opt for chicken nuggets and jo-jos -- something that packs better and doesn't drip. But I'll spend time first just trying to figure out what works.
Ubuntu
Meals distributed so far: 16.
Ubuntu,

Subway sandwiches with the big man hiding in his hood

The nosebleed was short lived, but a natural part of the progress of the cold I had been fighting since returning from Mazatlan on Monday. Now the phlem I was blowing out showed signs of infection, and I knew it was time to go to Bartells for some Tussin and more lozenges. As I approached the entrance at Madison and Boren, I noted the large figure on the bench facing the door and made an abrupt course correction to slip past his silhouette and get inside. When I came out with my sack of nostrums, he was still there, and this time he was facing me, but not making eye contact.

Surrendur

At first, he just looked large, like a human pyramid. He was hunkered down from the cold and wrapped up so that I could barely see his face concealed as it was under his hood. On the sidewalk in front of him was a message on cardboard asking for help. I avoided eye contact because I just wanted to get home, and I might have made it, because the hood was pulled around his face so much that I couldn't be sure he saw me . . . I got about 100 feet before I lost the argument and turned back.

"You must be cold," I said, and he lifted his head to look at me at an angle, nodding affirmation. "Are you hungry," I asked. Quietly, he said yes. 

Would he like to go to MacDonald's? They didn't want him in there because of his hygiene," he explained. Was there a place he could go eat? Subway, he said. They let him come in there and he sat in the back away from people.

He rose, holding his wraps around him tightly, keeping his face well covered -- I presumed because of the nip in the air. He smelled. Not unbearably bad, but enough that I had to wonder what I had gotten myself into. He turned to pick up a sturdy milk basket, which contained some bags and a polyester blanket he could use to fight off the chill.  Subway was within 50 feet. We got inside and into the order line. 

I said Tuna; he said chicken. We each got soft drinks and a cookie, totalling $21.46 for the two of us. I was almost within the parameter of a maximum $10 for a meal that I established when I decided to purchase 100 meals. We filled our soft drink containers and walked to the back of the store, which opened out to the lobby of the building hosting the sandwich shop. As we ate and spoke occasionally I noticed the tatoo on the back of his right hand. The "CD" stood for Central District, and the Crown over the letters represented King County, he explained.

Part way through the meal I said I was Robert. Because of the nature of this post, we'll just call him "D."  Because of his quiet nature and humility,  it only occurred to me as we parted later that, as well as being quite heavy, D was also quite tall. I wondered afterward if he had mastered the art of  unoticeability--a way of coming to grips with the reality of not being seen.

His origins; his health

 D grew up in Seattle. He has been to Hawaii. His parents were black, Hawaiian, Samoan. He is a big guy. He shuffles when he walks, because he has had diabetes since he was 12. I asked Dre about controlling his diabetes. He's short of money for insulin, but he has a friend who is also a diabetic, and who shares his insulin with Dre.

D's neighborhood"

 He has lived on the street for some time now; he had been giving his mother money for rent, and apparently she wasn't paying the rent, because they were evicted. She lived with him on the street. Perhaps she died on the street; we didn't discuss her death.

D has a tent and lives under a bridge. He deals with his mobility challengy by  riding free on the bus that serves the core of the downtown. He uses the bathrooms in friendly restaurants like Subway, and he brushes his teeth in his tent.

I asked him if there was anyone he was connected with in his life; he said he had a neighbor. A neighbor? That's when it hit me -- on the street, the man in the tent next to you is what you call a "neighbor."  And all this time, I had thought a neighbor was someone who lived in a house near you and maybe brought you his yard clippings to put on your garden.

His scar

As D spoke, I had trouble not staring at the strange broad lump of flesh undulating and riding the lower side of his left jaw. It took me time to discover it, because of his manner -- and the scarf inside his hood, which he admitted using for concealment. Even after we both accepted it as something to discuss he slipped the scarf up over it.  The fleshy mass is situated over a scar, he said. (I have since learned that this is a "keloid," This is a condition, most commonly seen in people of African descent, in which  flesh grows over a scar;  in D's cae, it has left a lump perhaps 3/8 of an inch thick and larger than the back of my hand.

D was tired. He had earned 25 cents as of early afternoon. It's hard making a living when your hygiene disqualifies you from eating in MacDonald's. D had been sitting on the bench a good share of the day. I opened my wallet and gave him $5; I had spent as much for an impressive sea shell in Mazatlan a couple days before. If I had given him $15, he could have purchased some insulin. I wonder afterward whether I should have given him more.

He thanked me for the meal. We walked to the door. He was holding his milk basket with the blanket in one hand and his soft drink in the other. Since he had no free hand to shake,  I squeezed his wrist and wished him well. I had waited until after we finished eating before I touched him.

Should I have done more? Enroute home I recalled a Ghandi quote from the Women's March on January 21: " "What ever you do will not be enough, but it it matters enormously that you do it."

Meals distributed so far: 15.

Ubuntu