We had been eagerly waiting to get the rental agreement for our new home. Finally, late at night, there was an email in my mailbox and it showed an attachment. When I read the email and opened the contract, I got a bad feeling. The original plan to meet at the house the day we would arrive had now been changed to Please transfer the money, I will send you the keys. He explained he was too busy.
Mardi gras was over, Lent, the time of fasting and sacrifices before Easter had begun. Just like every year, my friend hauled me to a Catholic church on Ash Wednesday, and we left with an ash cross on our foreheads. Remember that you are dust, and to dust, you shall return. I didn’t need that reminder. We had just hit rock bottom, and I felt lower than dust or dirt.
Still, in search this year to find my Christmas spirit, I came across an oldie I had all forgotten about. The short film, now 75 years old made me smile. The little girl inside me will never die. Eyes wide open, watching the same way others might watch an action movie. I can’t help it. I have grown older, I have grown up, but part of me will stay a youngster forever.
It was the first time we openly shared the fact that we were broke -it felt odd. Part of me was relieved, the other part felt ashamed. Later that evening, we told him OUR STORY, not for pity or sympathy, but because we needed to confront reality. We had been so sheltered and comforted at my friend’s home, we had been so busy, it almost felt like we had been hiding from the harsh truth that we still were homeless (house-less), and had nothing but debt to our name.
She sat outside in the cold on the kitchen steps, smoked a cigarette right under the new quit-smoking sign we had now taped to the entry door. Our health inspection had gone well. We only needed an exit sign on the side door, like it would be possible to overlook a double door in a building that’s only 26’ x 20’. Minor complaints, easy fixes, and we passed with flying colors.
It all started out like an ordinary day. Kurt would leave the following morning and would be gone for two weeks. He stopped by the kitchen for a short while, we enjoyed a few test patties, later he went back to the house and spent the rest of the day in their bedroom, watched films, and packed his things.
At the moment my friend called herself an alcoholic, I knew she was telling me the truth. She had let the Gennie out of the bottle and there was no putting it back.
“Do you have a problem with alcohol?” “No Sir, I have a problem without.”
Who else would understand the love you have for your pets, then another pet owner who feels exactly the same way? The response to our provoking housing ad had been overwhelming, and just what we had needed. There was hope and it came in form of dog owners and pet lovers. Many were reaching out to us, sometimes only to wish us well.
Sunday morning when Kurt came out of the bedroom, I had to hold back laughter. Wearing new stiff jeans, new cowboy boots, a striped shirt, and a brand-new jacket, he looked like he had just stepped out of a western movie. All that was missing was a cowboy hat, which he showed us later.
When you travel to Africa, North America, or Asia, and you walk away from the typical tourist attractions you will see people sing and laugh, and you will be surprised to notice that often the loudest laughter and the greatest joy comes from the poorest of the poor.