Homeless in Washington DC

Not long ago, Washington DC was considered a medium-sized city, free from many of the problems that plaque larger cities. Yet, that is not the case today. Like many other cities across the United States, Washington faces the challenge of a significant homeless population.

Recently, as Angie and I walked back to the hotel, we saw men bedding down for the evening outside the McPherson Square Metro Station, just one thousand feet from the White House. I was reminded of being in DC at a conference in the mid-1980s, when the homeless crisis in the city exploded. Walking around at night, I was with a group of fellow classmates from college. Donna was extremely excited about a shoe store we have come across and ran up to a window to survey shoes that were way beyond the means of our group collectively. Her squeals of glee turned to a scream of fright when she tripped over a previously unseen homeless man sleeping in the doorway for warmth. She ran down the street in horror at the encounter. I am not sure that the poor man even moved. The incident left an indelible mark on my memory. Donna was shaken by the experience, but I often think about the man whose sleep was interrupted. What of him?  Growing up in Louisville I was familiar with the occurrence and situation of homeless people. That was not the case for many of my college peers. We were but college kids, carefree, who had experienced an uncomfortable interaction. On the other hand, here was a man in desperate need of rest. In my imagination, I am fairly certain that the future of the man did not end well.

A confused man followed Angie and me for a few blocks near Federal Triangle. He intimated that President Trump had been snorting cocaine during the election (“he was always sniffing during speeches”). He rambled on, without much coherency about attending Liberty College and that he was a military general secretly working for the federal government for free. Later, he was upset that he could not get a job. There was a flash of a temptation to ask about the contradiction of having a secret job and being unable to secure employment, but I knew better than to ask that question or any others. His diatribe was interspersed with assurances that he was not going to harm us. At one point Angie assured him that we trusted him.

In one of his more evocative and bizarre claims, he related a story of how he advised “him,” it was unclear who this person of authority might be, that the government should plan to evacuate Montana and “take all the people” to Nova Scotia or, seemingly correcting himself after a pause of a few seconds, Vancouver. His paranoia was such that he was concerned about a group of people a continent away and moving them to another country. A confused plan for confused times. 

Walking with Cody

Many people will tell you that having a dog will increase the amount of your exercise. In my case, I am not so sure. Cody, a Shetland sheepdog, is a great dog, but his stamina and work ethic are not what they could be. He is a social dog, but he is not cutout to be the sheepherder he was bred to be. In fact, the last time a sheep bleated at him, Cody ran behind me to hide. The only reason he did not go further was because he was on the lead.

While I admit that he is a good companion, I estimate that walking three miles with Cody takes about twenty percent longer than without him. There are three general reasons for this claim that do not include bathroom breaks. First, Cody is a dog who likes to smell the flowers and other odoriferous items. I occasionally must turn around so that he will catch up. If I do not, there can be trouble. In the past, he has found smelly things, typically horse or cow manure, and wallowing in it is great fun. Once I took him for a walk before catching a flight that evening, because I had plenty of time. His great fun meant that I had to scramble to give him a bath before I had a hurried drive to the airport and missed dinner. It is one of the times I wished he could talk: “Cody, what are you thinking?” I would ask. I imagine his reply varies from “I was playing army and wanted to camouflage myself” to “You’re always telling me that I am a ‘stinky dog’ and I want to show you what stinky really is.”

Second, Cody likes to bring me sticks; but he never brings me good sticks to throw, just little twigs that easily break when applies any pressure whatsoever. Even if I could retrieve the sticks he brings, they are so light that it would be impossible to throw them any distance whatsoever. My standard response to Cody is, teasingly, “That is NOT a stick!” Then, according to Cody, it is imperative that I find a stick proper for throwing. Cody is so clueless that if he does not watch, he cannot find the stick I have just thrown. A wild search ensues to find a stick that bears any similarity to the one I have just thrown. Cody is bad at approximations and, therefore, he brings me another twig or he tries to drag a downed branch out of woods. We start the process again of trying to find an appropriate stick, which distracts us from our primary objective of walking. As I write this I realize it might be my primary objective, not his.

Finally, Cody is a popular and vain little dog. There is no doubt in my mind, when I take him for a walk, he is sure that everyone we meet along the way is there to see and greet him. He often hears phases, such as, “what a beautiful dog,” “oh, he is so cute,” and “what a cutie.” He knows exactly what these words mean because regularly sits, strikes his most enticing stares, and beckons the admirer (mostly women and children) to make a fuss over him. A local business owner in Dewey Beach, Delaware said that Shelties in general, and Cody in particular, had such an intense stare it made the restaurant owner embarrassed, as if he were naked in public. I am disturbed by the imagery; instead I think Cody tries to will people to pay attention to him. As he has gotten older he has become more resistant to walking more than two miles. Like a little kid, he hangs his head and lags far behind. At that point, I encourage him by incessantly saying, “come on” and “catch up,” all the while he looks pretty sad as I do so. But, if we happen upon an admirer, human or canine, he perks right up. He becomes frisky and there is a spring in his step. Cody will continue to prance until his admirer is out of sight.

Cody on a walk

One time, while staying at a hotel in Waterloo, Ontario, he was having trouble getting the hang of sliding glass doors to leave the hotel. During our initial twenty-four hours in the hotel, he dreaded going outside because he could never figure out how to judge when the door would open. Early on Saturday morning I took him down to the lobby and he was pulling his lead not to go out…until two young girls squealed, “look at the puppy,” and a young woman in a sundress rushed over to pet him. Then, to keep from disappointing his fans, he threw his head up, pranced across the marble floor, and out the sliding doors like a movie star. For the rest of the weekend, as soon as the elevator doors opened to the lobby, Cody would cavort out and across the lobby toward the door. As he did, he always gave a quick glance both left and right to see if there were any fans noticing him. When there were, he would make me stop and do a meet and greet session. Cody is never in a hurry to get anywhere.

The Cubs: A coda

Early April found me back in Chicago. I have embraced the World Series win, but have found it difficult to do my “baseball homework” for the upcoming season. Andrew assures me that the Cubs have gotten even better. I was discussing with Jeff, who grew up in North Carolina, how we became fans of out-of-town sports team. Cable television in the 1980s offered a different world, one that was more local and regional. On his package were WOR-TV and Madison Square Gardens Network, which carried New York Rangers games. I told him about having WGN-TV when I was in high school and being able to see Jack Brickhouse and Harry Caray every day after school. It was a good discussion of East Coast (New York) versus Midwest (Chicago) loyalties.

I made the pilgrimage to Wrigleyville. With all the signage, including the iconic red sign at the entrance to Wrigley Field, pronouncing the Cubs as World Series Champions, I sought a different visual affirmation. My first stop after getting off the L was 3633 North Sheffield, home of a simply blue sign with white letters. There is no explanation, simply EAMUS CATULI on the left side of the building; and AC followed by a series of numbers on the right. For more than two decades, obvious to television cameras along the right field wall, it has kept a running track of the futility of the Cubs in the playoffs. Latin for Let’s Go Cubs and then Anno Catuli (Year of the Cubs) followed by the number of years since a division win, a league pennant win, and a World Series win. The number had grown to great proportion AC 00 71 108. I left the Addison stop walking toward Wrigley and made the right turn down Sheffield, just beyond the recently reconstructed and enlarged right field bleacher, where Andre Dawson and Sammy Sosa, played was the building in question. I looked for the familiar sign and regarded the new numbers. There was a sense of closure and satisfaction as I absorbed the words: Eamus Catuli 00 00 00. Indeed, the Cubs had won the World Series, and the Sisyphean task of a new baseball season was about to begin. 

April: The Cruelest Month

In April it seems, as if, everything is falling apart. 

Morgantown at nine

Abandoned tractor trailer in Kroger's parking lot (Morgantown)

About 9pm, at a Kroger’s on the outskirts of Morgantown, West Virginia, I contemplated whether I was witnessing the near future of the American dream. Two young men, emerged from the grocery: one was intently following the enticing display of his smart phone, the other was carrying a case of Hamm’s beer and a dozen ice-glazed cookies. No doubt a Thursday night of fun. A few feet behind them was a middle-age couple, both of whom looked haggard, with glassy eyes and a slight slouch; looking older than their actual years perhaps. The appearance of the couple made me wonder: Was the effect of the opiate epidemic in rural America or is this the long-term impact of economic deprivation?

A lucky photograph

I was photographing a building in mid-demolition when this Red-tailed Hawk flew overhead. Location: Cumberland County, Pennsylvania (near Middlesex).

Cardinals in March

In late winter and early spring, Cardinals are easy to spot. The female was photographed on the CVRT; the male was visiting with a rabbit in the backyard. 

Bluebirds on a cold day

I was trying to photograph a pair of killdeers, but not having much luck. It was a cold day at the Shippensburg Township Park and bluebirds huddled together for warmth near the Cumberland Valley Rail Trail.