Saturday morning @ 7:20 am … It’s peaceful and quiet on my front porch this time of day, the time of birds singing and flowers silently blooming. Notebook in hand, hot coffee by my side, there is peace. But it won’t last.
A neighbor walks by. Seeing me, she waves and calls good morning.
A moment later, a woman from the shelter next door walks by, smoking, wearing the uniform of a minimum wage job. The women who live at the shelter tend to light up the moment they step out into the fresh air.
Moments later, another woman emerges from the shelter, carrying a broom and dustpan, and begins picking up the random cigarette butts on the sidewalk in front of the shelter. A heavyset blonde, holding the hand of a small child, gets out of a car across the street and walks into the shelter, as two women unload their troubles onto one another over cigarettes in the front gardens.
As the moments tick by, a steady trickle of women walk along the path that runs between my house and their building, headed to the back garden, the only place they are actually permitted to smoke on the grounds.
Another car pulls up and parks across the street. A young African-American man emerges and holds a baby high in the air while the baby’s mother straps a baby-caddy across the front of her body. The man hands her the infant, then helps her adjust the straps in the back. Two women and a young boy from another car join them, and smiling, laughing and chatting amongst themselves, the small group crosses the street and walks into the shelter.
A woman in a knit hat walks by with her three dogs.
In twos and threes, a small crowd begins to grow at the front of the shelter, cups of coffee in their hands. It’s volunteer day.
The woman with the knit hat and three dogs walks past again, this time going in the opposite direction on the other side of the street, juggling bags of poo and the three leashes.
A young blonde makes trips back and forth to a pale blue car parked across the street from my house, loading blankets and clothes into the trunk. I have noticed that some of the residents next door keep their clothes in their vehicles.
A child screams or squeals, or both, as the crowd outside the shelter begins to swell. An Asian family of four passes by on the sidewalk and joins the group outside the shelter, clutching go-cups of coffee. They have come prepared. Greetings are called out from people who may not have seen them for all of a week.
A cab pulls up to the shelter to pick up a passenger.
Another woman arrives with two young boys, a platter of baked goods wrapped in foil cradled in her arms.
One woman, coughing, hacking and spitting, returns from the back gardens and makes her way through the crowd to the front door.
A mini-van drives slowly by. A white-haired woman peers out of the passenger side, as if looking for an address. Or a house. Or perhaps, a house to buy. A blue car slows down but moves on when the driver sees no empty parking on our narrow downtown street.
Today’s a good day, at least so far. There are no emergency vehicles screaming down the street in response to a phone call from next door. Nobody is yelling at small, bewildered children. I don’t hear the sound of someone weeping coming from the back garden.
Instead, a male voice shushes the buzzing crowd, then issues instructions, yard implements, and power equipment to the small army of helpful people that has assembled.
Several residents of the homeless shelter sitting in the back garden continue to smoke as they passively watch volunteers, high on caffeine and Jesus, begin their weekly attack on what’s left of the nature surrounding them.
It’s just another Saturday.
Kristin Fellows 