Homeless Dave

The panhandler at our freeway exit was as much a fixture as the billboard sitting in stalwart silence there. The actual person varied daily, but we could always count on someone being camped out at the stoplight. I saw this from the very beginning of our life in north Minneapolis, and I wondered when the girls would notice. Observing their reactions was a study in social awareness, and it was around 2006 when Flicka and Ricka engaged in dialogue about it for the first time. They were most aware when their reading skills were more refined; they could finally decipher the homeless people’s signs for themselves.

I had read the statistics about panhandlers in the city. On a good day, one could garner between fifteen and thirty dollars an hour. And then there was the story of a guy who made over two-hundred dollars in four hours on a Black Friday. While I was moved by the issue of homelessness, I read the ones at the exits weren’t the true homeless in the city. Those folks were hidden away elsewhere.

Husband and I began to recognize faces and “shift” changes at our exit. We also observed a swapping of props. A homeless person would wear a medical boot, and then hours later, he’d be without it, and we’d see his buddy wearing it instead. The same was true of a wheelchair that changed hands. We also remembered the man whose sign said, “Need money for food” on one side and “Need money for beer” on the other. I had become jaded by the exit’s change in actors.

The girls’ hearts softened, though, with their notice of the cardboard signs, and I wasn’t about to inform them differently. Life is its own teacher sometimes.

“Could we give Homeless Dave our house?” seven-year-old Flicka said. “He doesn’t have one.”

“Homeless Dave?” I said. “Why do you think his name is Dave?”

“It says it on his sign,” Ricka chimed in.

I looked over, hoping to not make eye contact with the man. His sign read: “Homeless D.A.V. Please help. God bless.”

“Girls, D.A.V. means ‘Disabled American Veteran’,” I said.

But it didn’t matter. That man was Homeless Dave to them. We talked about veterans. They didn’t think Homeless Dave looked disabled.

“Sometimes we can see how people are disabled,” I said. “But sometimes they’re hurt on the inside.”

The girls seemed to understand and were determined to do something.

“Can we give him all our money?” Ricka said one day as we sat at a red light.

“Then how would we live?” I said.

“We could get more.”

The girls started to notice facial expressions more than signs.

“She looks hot and thirsty,” Flicka said. “And sad.”

“What could we do to help?” I said. “Something different from giving away our house or all our money.”

“We could give them something to drink—and something to eat.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Thus began the Homeless Bags. We went to the grocery store and loaded up on bottles of water, granola bars, trail mixes, jerky sticks. At home, we made an assembly line, and Ireland and Willow helped us. We prepared about thirty bags that first time, and I hauled them out to the car.

The girls would sometimes fight over who got to hand the Homeless Bags out the window at the exit. They learned to take turns. Their eyes were opened to more panhandlers around the city, so opportunities to hand a bag of treats out the window were frequent.

“And if we find ourselves in a blizzard, we can eat these bags ourselves,” I joked.

“They’re not for us, Mom,” Ricka said.

My attitude about the panhandlers slowly changed. It didn’t matter what their true situations were. We would take them at their word and not assess their needs—from outside appearances—as legitimate or not. Even someone with suspect intentions needs a snack and a bottle of water.

Anyone who was riding in our vehicle got a chance to hand a bag out the window. Ireland and Willow got their chances. So did Grandma. And lots of the girls’ cousins. On a hot summer day, one of our nieces got the pleasure of handing a bag to a woman who startled us by screaming in delight. One winter, the girls thought we should give out something warm too, so we picked up a bunch of two-dollar fleece blankets from IKEA to accompany the snacks.

We carried on with our Homeless Bags project for years, but as the girls grew, the effort waned. It had been their thing from the beginning, and Husband and I let it stay that way. If they mentioned it, I got more bag ingredients and we kept going.

If the outset was a study in social awareness so was the dwindling end. Seven years later, the girls’ comments had evolved.

“If he doesn’t have money for food, how can he afford cigarettes?” “That guy has Beats! They’re expensive. Wonder where he got the two-hundred dollars.” “Why do they leave their trash right there?”

I felt a twinge in my heart. My girls were seeing the world in a different way. Their naiveté had vanished, and I was wistful. The Homeless Bags trickled off completely.

But after almost two years of no Homeless Bags, we saw a panhandler’s sign that said, “Total Despair.” I frowned. In the rearview mirror, I caught Dicka’s expression. She had seen the sign too—and frowned. Was it a ruse? Or was the man truly in total despair?  

Be as shrewd as serpents and as gentle as doves.

The light turned green, and I drove away. No one said anything. I wondered about the man and about Homeless Dave for whom we’d developed a fondness over the years. I wondered if the girls really thought about these people anymore or if our exit inhabitants had grown unimportant to them.

“We could probably do the Homeless Bags again,” Dicka said, breaking the silence in the car.


*Miss an installment of the blog? Or want to catch the story from the beginning? Visit http://www.tamarajorell.com/blog-entries-by-date/

*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.