"Home is where somebody loves you"
This is such a sweet story with a powerful message, that I decided to reproduce it in its entirety. This is from the Eagle-Tribune in Lawrence, Massachusetts (I lived in this area for 3 1/2 years before coming to OK 18 months ago.)
A path wound through the tall weeds and disappeared into a stand of trees. It ran through a vacant lot on Locust Street. The city owned the lot, but no one had used it in years. It was for sale. No reason for a path to be there.
I followed the trampled grass down a dip into the dark woods. A blue bike leaned against a tree. I didn't hear anybody.
This had been a dumping ground for years. Papers, bottles, plastic buckets, old clothes sodden from the previous night's rain. Then I saw the tent.
"Hello?" I called. It was 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday. I said it again louder.
"Are you a cop?" a man's voice asked.
"A reporter." I stood in the quiet dark and slapped at a mosquito. "Come on in," the man said.
I unzipped the flap. A slim, well-muscled man sat on a mattress. He wore green boxers with polar bears. Jailhouse tattoos covered his arms and chest. Guns and Roses. Biker tags. The grim reaper. His name was Ron. He was 33.
A soggy blue recliner stood at the entrance to the tent. I perched on an arm and peered inside.
Lying next to Ron was a blonde woman in a denim jumper. A tattoo from Winnie the Pooh was on her shoulder. "Tigger-tiger," Ron said. "I love that tattoo."
Her name was April. She was 36. She grew up in a home where she had been sexually abused. In 10th grade, she moved in with a guy she met on the street. She had two kids, a boy and a girl. They are 17 and 18 now. They live with their father in Michigan.
April shook some pills into her palm from a prescription bottle and washed them down with iced tea. She takes eight pills a day, psych meds. The pills make her sleepy. She can't work.
A year ago April lived with a man who would go crazy on drugs and beat her up. She got a restraining order. Without his income, she couldn't afford to pay rent and got evicted. She was living in a shelter when she met Ron.
Ron had been in and out of jail. "It was for doing stupid things because I was addicted to crack cocaine. But I don't mess with that anymore," he said. He works for a mover now. He makes $700 a week when there's work. He couldn't stay in the shelter. He was claustrophobic. He kept running out in the middle of the night. That's against the rules. So they kicked him out.
It was December and bitterly cold. Ron knew about the tent. He moved in and April came with him. "I knew the tent was empty and her heart was empty, and I came here," Ron said. "I'm telling you the truth. I love April."
Days, they went to church drop-in centers. Charities offered a free dinner several nights a week. Other times they bought meals at convenience stores or fast-food joints. They went to the bathroom in a plastic five-gallon bucket. One day they returned home to find their tent cut up, their clothes and possessions scattered. "It's scary," April said. "He don't dare to leave me here."
Last week, April called her son. He said he and his sister were coming to visit.
"In the tent?" I asked.
No, Ron said. "We don't want her kids to see her like she is." Ron said. They looked at an apartment on Emerson Street recently. It cost $650 a month. Between Ron's salary and April's disability benefits, they can easily afford it.
This is not a story about homelessness. This is a story about what made April spend a frozen winter in a tent when she could have stayed inside with heat and running water. After the beatings and abuse and life in the streets and the shelters, she found out something about home. Home isn't a building. Home is where somebody loves you.
"It's not a happy ending till we get in that apartment," Ron said.
April had a far-off look in her eyes. She smiled. "It's a start."
Home is where somebody loves you
A path wound through the tall weeds and disappeared into a stand of trees. It ran through a vacant lot on Locust Street. The city owned the lot, but no one had used it in years. It was for sale. No reason for a path to be there.
I followed the trampled grass down a dip into the dark woods. A blue bike leaned against a tree. I didn't hear anybody.
This had been a dumping ground for years. Papers, bottles, plastic buckets, old clothes sodden from the previous night's rain. Then I saw the tent.
"Hello?" I called. It was 10:30 a.m. on a Saturday. I said it again louder.
"Are you a cop?" a man's voice asked.
"A reporter." I stood in the quiet dark and slapped at a mosquito. "Come on in," the man said.
I unzipped the flap. A slim, well-muscled man sat on a mattress. He wore green boxers with polar bears. Jailhouse tattoos covered his arms and chest. Guns and Roses. Biker tags. The grim reaper. His name was Ron. He was 33.
A soggy blue recliner stood at the entrance to the tent. I perched on an arm and peered inside.
Lying next to Ron was a blonde woman in a denim jumper. A tattoo from Winnie the Pooh was on her shoulder. "Tigger-tiger," Ron said. "I love that tattoo."
Her name was April. She was 36. She grew up in a home where she had been sexually abused. In 10th grade, she moved in with a guy she met on the street. She had two kids, a boy and a girl. They are 17 and 18 now. They live with their father in Michigan.
April shook some pills into her palm from a prescription bottle and washed them down with iced tea. She takes eight pills a day, psych meds. The pills make her sleepy. She can't work.
A year ago April lived with a man who would go crazy on drugs and beat her up. She got a restraining order. Without his income, she couldn't afford to pay rent and got evicted. She was living in a shelter when she met Ron.
Ron had been in and out of jail. "It was for doing stupid things because I was addicted to crack cocaine. But I don't mess with that anymore," he said. He works for a mover now. He makes $700 a week when there's work. He couldn't stay in the shelter. He was claustrophobic. He kept running out in the middle of the night. That's against the rules. So they kicked him out.
It was December and bitterly cold. Ron knew about the tent. He moved in and April came with him. "I knew the tent was empty and her heart was empty, and I came here," Ron said. "I'm telling you the truth. I love April."
Days, they went to church drop-in centers. Charities offered a free dinner several nights a week. Other times they bought meals at convenience stores or fast-food joints. They went to the bathroom in a plastic five-gallon bucket. One day they returned home to find their tent cut up, their clothes and possessions scattered. "It's scary," April said. "He don't dare to leave me here."
Last week, April called her son. He said he and his sister were coming to visit.
"In the tent?" I asked.
No, Ron said. "We don't want her kids to see her like she is." Ron said. They looked at an apartment on Emerson Street recently. It cost $650 a month. Between Ron's salary and April's disability benefits, they can easily afford it.
This is not a story about homelessness. This is a story about what made April spend a frozen winter in a tent when she could have stayed inside with heat and running water. After the beatings and abuse and life in the streets and the shelters, she found out something about home. Home isn't a building. Home is where somebody loves you.
"It's not a happy ending till we get in that apartment," Ron said.
April had a far-off look in her eyes. She smiled. "It's a start."
My name is Stef, and I approve this post. Posted @ 6:32 PM
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