blog 10

If you head to 7241 S. Franklin St in Littleton, Colorado on St. Patricks day you will find an old brick house with green leprechaun footprints leading up to the door. When you walk in you will smell cornbeef and cabbage and the bottom floor will be filled with close to seventy people. There will be seven children with their wives and husbands. There will be twenty-three grandchildren with their wives and husbands. And there will be twenty-four great grandchildren searching for someone who is not wearing green with their little fingers ready to pinch. Before dinner they will all join hands to say the Lords prayer. Then they will sing happy birthday to the woman who made their existence possible; their mother, grandmother, and great grandmother, Patricia.
Later, everyone who is at least close to age will get a little drunk by making their after dinner coffees “Irish.” And Pat will be the one carrying around her garden hering saying “sheranbegargen” or she will bring the garden hose inside to start a real irish waterfight. But later she will tell you that being irish has nothing to do with drinking. In fact drinking is kept for holidays here. She will tell you that being irish is being strong. “The strength to survive is in our blood.”
Her home is filled with knick knacks. By the backdoor ther is a blue circle sign that says “tu it” in it signifying that she will get around to it. above the encyclopedias on the shelves in the living room there are Broncos memorabilia and old fashioned Crush bottles. Pat is usually found in the kitchen cooking something for her many kin or in the family room playing her piano. When you walk in the front door the first thing you will see is a large picture of the sacred heart. It has thirteen names written in the heart and each name has a cross next to it. Pat will tell you it was in her parents house and that it was blessed. The names are hers and her brothers and sisters and the crosses signify their deaths.
“Why is there a cross next to your name?”
“When I was two I nearly died because I had blood in my kidneys. My mom wrote the cross then. I think she had given up on me,” she laughs.
“Are you the only one left?”
“I am and I am determined to live.”
Pat is seventy seven years old. But to look at here you would think she was fifty. She has short curly red hair. She is extremely thin considering how many children she has and she has the brightest green eyes I have ever seen. She comes from Dublin, Ireland. Her parents marriage united two separate Gauggen clans; the shanty irish and the white irish. But Pat claims to be the shanty irish; scrappy with a kind heart. Her family came to America landing at Elise Island because of the potato famine in Ireland that had left little work. The family moved inland ending up in Colorado. Out of thirteen kids six of them survived and it wasn’t long before pat’s parents followed their other children.
“My daddy was a smoker. He died when I was five. And mommy died when I was twelve from ovarian cancer. I can still see her standing in my door way with a black hat that had yellow flowers on it. she always wore that hat. I can still hear her ‘Patsy if you don’t take that medicine I’m going to leave.’ I guess I must have taken the medicine.”

ladies in the park

“Jordan go play on the swings!”
“So what happened?”
“He such an idiot, why take your girlfriend to the scene of the crime, I mean I’ve known, it’s so obvious. But why the fuck would he take me…”
“He’s a man. That’s what they do. They assume we don’t know but we do.”
“Seriously, he was like ‘oh I love getting massages there. I got you a two hour massage.’ Like it is supposed to be some sweet thing he did for me but come on, he goes there once a week. And then I go in for my massage and you know she knows who I am and she spends like an hour on my temples. My temples.”
“Why would he take you there, I mean obviously you were going to figure it out.”
“I know! I doubt their two hour long massage session was concentrating on the temples.”
“Mommy look at me. I’m flying.”
“Jordan it’s just a swing.”
“It is so hard to talk here.”
“Well, you know the whole town probably knows, nothing gets past anyone in this town.”
“I know he’s such a cheating bastard. Like I couldn’t tell that there was something going on between those two. Please, they act all professional when I walked in. but you know, as soon as they went back into that room they were messing around.”
“How did he even think this was a good idea? Why would he take you to see the woman he’s cheating on you with? Really he’s such an idiot.”
“I know. He said it was a gift for me. I could tell though. Look at me I have two kids and have been married 3 times, I know when a man is cheating on me.”
“When you go to his house tonight you should call him out!”
“Oh I’ll call him out. I’ll shred his clothes. He’s going to have to be beggin on me and kissin’ on me to make this one up.”

Rex

Blog 8
We all know Rex. We see him pushing his shopping carts up and down Forest Grove, pushing one at a time and then returning to get the next one. We see him wear three jackets even when it’s warm. I saw Rex yesterday and the local Plaid Pantry while I was getting cold medicine. He was inspecting the trash cans for soda cans and bottles. As I got into my car I realized how closely he inspected those cans. He brought them up to his ear. I remember being homeless but I never remember shaking a can. I wondered if he was checking to see if there were still fluids in the cans. Maybe he couldn’t turn them in that way. I had a few cans in my car and I got out handing them to Rex.
“Here,” I said.
Rex took each can one at a time. He pulled each up to his ear and shook it. He took the first two but threw the last one in the trash can.
“You don’t want that one?”
“It’s bad.”
Maybe it couldn’t be exchanged in Oregon, I thought.
“It's warm out, isn’t it?”
Rex didn’t respond.
“Why do you have so many jackets on when it’s such a beautiful day out?”
“They keep me safe?”
Rex walked over to his cart mumbling. I followed. I had been where he was and I wanted to help, if I could.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“No.”
I know from experience that it is odd for any homeless person to turn down food and water. But Rex didn’t want it. He even seemed frightened of me. And his eyes were so sincere and not at all glassy that I knew he was not high or just the stereotypical junkie.
“What’s your name?”
“…Rex…”
“Where is your family Rex?”
“No...No….Family, No….no family.”
Rex returned to his shopping carts. I could tell he didn’t want to talk anymore. I returned to my car. Something about his responses in the course of two minutes struck me as odd. The can being bad, the jackets to keep him safe, and the repeating and stuttering of “no family.” I think Rex is Schizophrenic. I don’t want to make assumptions, but I used to volunteer at Hope House, an assisted living facility for those with mental problems. And Rex reminded me of this guy named Frank there. The stuttering answers, the not wanting to look at someone, the assumption of needing safety or that an object is bad. What if Rex has this problem? Does he realize it? Frank did. He always used to tell me how he remembered being “normal.” But Frank has a home. Rex doesn’t. What if Rex doesn’t want help? What if Rex thinks he doesn’t need help? Where was Rex during the cold winter? How many Rex’s are out there?