Something Stinks

Something stinks in the ravine outside the shack.  It’s the smell of something dead, which is one of those distinctive bad smells instantly recognized, like skunk.  I smell it when I open the windows and the wind is right.  I don’t want to look for the source.  Besides, I’ve learned if you can stand it that dead smell fades fairly quickly, depending of course on the size of the carcass.
 

I don’t want to think it’s the ground hog.  We have a ground hog that lives in the ravine and at least a couple of times each summer comes up into the yard to eat white clover.  The ground hog is amazingly unruffled by our presence.  He leaves, finally, if you venture to within ten feet of him but seems almost oblivious to the dangers humans represent.  He’s a trusting groundhog.  I like to think he’s still alive down there.

It’s not the fox.  I saw a fox in July, a beauty, up by the oak tree that supports one end of the hammock.  The fox was smelling around and exploring, untroubled by the nearness of our house.  I think since our dog Ally died the yard may be less threatening, although the ground hog has been plopping his fat fur belly on the lawn each summer for years, long before Ally died.  I know it’s not the fox because the day after I got back from Ontario the fox was back, hanging out by the compost pile, but this time with a smaller young fox in tow, presumably her kit.  I love seeing those bright and alert foxes and knowing they live nearby.

I’d hate to think it was a deer causing that stink, although we’ve seen coyotes in the neighborhood and a deer could easily have fallen prey to a coyote.  Actually I wouldn’t mind if a coyote was reeking.  In contrast to foxes they’re fairly mangy looking, always reminding me of hyenas.  One early foggy morning last week I stooped over at the end of the driveway to pick up the Tribune and rose to find myself looking straight into the eyes of a doe standing in the side yard by my garden.  Her two fawns, not a lot smaller then her, were munching on my Brussels sprouts.  That explains the plants’ lack of height.  My garden was pretty much of a bust this year.  I’m going to have to fence it.
 

In any case the doe looked at me cautiously, stepping but slowly away. Boy she had big eyes.  To her fawns she made a huffing sound with her nose and when they joined their mother the three loped across Caton Road and through the neighbor’s yard.  It’s been a nice couple of weeks in the neighborhood, aside from that stink.  And already, as I type this with the window open, the smell is fading.

September is a transitional month.  School gets underway.  Things change.  Locally our homeless organization opens its shelters, both in Peru and Ottawa, in September.  They close in the warmth of May and reopen before cold weather.  I wish they could be open all year because the need for shelter knows no season but they cannot yet afford to do so.  I volunteered for the first time since spring closing and the place was pretty full.

A family of six was there; Mom, Dad and their four kids.  They had come from Rockford, first to Peru, and then to Ottawa which expanded to include family units.  I’m so glad.  Because of planning and taking a chance on expansion the shelter was able to afford private space in the same room to this family with kids ranging from elementary school to junior high.  I rolled in at 7:00 a.m. intent on making breakfast.  Our church serves a free lunch on the second Sunday of each month and that coincides with our church’s staffing of the shelter.  We start at the shelter at 4:30 Sunday afternoon and provide volunteers through 9:00 Monday morning.

Our church baked 100 potatoes and fed our community guests a Sunday noon lunch of salad and a baked potato bar complete with butter, sour cream, green onions, cheese and chili.  And of course desserts.  We do desserts really well.  We had potatoes left over and took them along with the fixings to the shelter that evening.  They fed some of the potatoes as a side dish for the evening meal but there were plenty left to fry that morning.  Chopped up baked potatoes and onions fry up quickly and nicely to go along with eggs.  As a bonus, the shelter had thick ham slices unused and donated from someone’s banquet.  I scraped off the pineapple and fake maraschino cherries and steamed them hot while I fried potatoes and scrambled eggs.

The Rockford kids were hungry and excited at the prospect of ham and eggs.  Because it was easier I walked out to the dining area to see who was ready for breakfast, asking if they wanted the whole plate, and sort of taking orders.  The Rockford kids were close in age, two boys and two girls.  The youngest boy wanted to skip the eggs opting for ham and potatoes “with cheese on ‘em.”  He took the ordering thing seriously.  The rest of the family were in for whatever, the whole deal.  When I brought the young boy’s plate he looked up at me with a long face.

“These don’t have any cheese.”

“Oh that’s right you’re the cheese guy.  Just a minute.”

I went back into the kitchen, sprinkled a portion of shredded cheese from the bag we’d brought from church, added bacon crumbles for good measure, and microwaved his plate so they melted on the spuds.  When I slid them in front of him again I informed him

“You know I’m not going to be here tomorrow morning.  I wouldn’t expect the same service.”

His Dad laughed.  “You don’t expect this kind of breakfast at a homeless shelter anyway.”

“Today’s breakfast just kind of fell into place,” I explained.

All the potatoes, most of the ham, and eighteen eggs later I was taking a break and having my own breakfast with the Tribune in the dining area. It was a scramble, pardon the pun, cooking, plating, and serving individual breakfasts to sixteen people but I got it done.  After that I dispensed some meds, passed out towels, and then there was a lull.  I would wash the dishes later.  People were doing their chores, taking showers, making their beds and getting ready for the day.

The boy who had eaten my cheese potatoes came out of the bathroom with wet hair and walked up to me.

“Let’s do the handshake.”

“What handshake?”

“My handshake.  I’ll show you.”

He raised his hand.  We did high fives, then low fives, then bumped fists, all which I followed.  But immediately after the fist bump he put his hands in the air, fingers spread, and shook them hard, along with jumping from one foot to another.

“You gotta do the hand and foot thing,” he said seriously.

“Give me another chance.”

We high and low fives, bumped knuckles, and I shook my hands over my head.

“You didn’t do your feet.”

“I’m sitting down.”

“You gotta do your feet or it doesn’t count.”

On my next try along with all the other moves I lifted my feet off the floor, wiggled them one after the other, and put them down.
 

“Now you got it.”  He smiled and sat down next to me, asking questions about what was in the paper.

Turns out all the Rockford kids have developed their own personal handshake.  When my new friend’s sister came by, a little older I’d say and also freshly showered, he told her.

“This guy knows my handshake.”

“Show me.”  We did it and her mouth fell open.
 

She looked at me.  “Well then you have to learn mine.”  Hers I found out was a back of the hand slap, a front of the hand slap, a curl of your fingers and hold, and a pull forward.
 

“Now he knows mine too, but I bet you don’t know his name.”

“How do you know his name?” her brother challenged.

Earlier that morning when he was in the shower I had gotten his sister a towel.  She waited for me to come out of the backroom at the doorway to the kitchen.  Next to that doorway is a bulletin board with a picture of each resident and their name.  When I handed her a towel she pointed to the pictures and said

“Those are wrong.”

“Which?” I said, looking at the pictures.

“Mine and my sister.  You’ve got her name on my picture and my name on hers.  I’m not Sheri, I’m Natalie.”  She sounded offended.

“Well, let’s fix it.  We can’t have that.”

I took the thumbtacks out of photos, printed from the computer snap shot size, showing the smiling confident faces of two separate little girls.
 

“So this picture should say Natalie?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Can’t you tell?”  I looked at her.  She flashed a big smile.  Her eyes are blue.

“Yeah of course.”  I turned back to the photo, scratched through the name Sheri, and wrote Natalie.

“And this one is Sheri right?”  I did the reverse and pinned them back up on the board.  Natalie seemed relieved.

“So now you know my name, what’s yours?”

“I’m Dave.”

“OK.  Thanks Dave.” With that she spun on her heel and made her way towards the showers.

A little before eight thirty the Rockford family gathered by the door waiting for the Mom, who was meeting with staff.  I stood next to the Dad.

“So you came from Rockford?”

“Yeah.  Well Machesney Park, then Rockford, now here.”

“Why did you leave?”

“It’s a long story but there are a lot of bad characters in Rockford. We felt like we had to get out of there.”  The Dad was thin.  He looked old but I knew he wasn’t.

“I know what you mean.  Was last night your first in a shelter?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing today?”
 

“Registering the kids for school.  We’re going to try to stay.  This seems like a good place.”

“It is a good place.”
   

As we talked his wife came from the back with a piece of paper in her hand.  She was plump but spunky looking.

“You were right,” she told her husband.  “They’re in three different schools.  One in Jefferson, two in Central, one in Shepherd.”

“Told ya.”

“Good thing is Central and Shepherd are right next to each other.”
 

I did individual handshakes with the other two kids.  They were ready to venture out.  They looked so clean and hopeful, those kids.  If they were scared or daunted by the next step it didn’t show.  My wife and I, and both our kids, started and ended our public school educations in one system.  Both of us lived in one house from infancy till leaving for college.  I never had to do what they were about to do, walk in as the new kids, let alone listing their residence as the homeless shelter.  Refugees of another sort, I thought.  Making a fresh start.  God I hope no one makes fun of them, I thought to myself.  I hope they transition from the shelter to a safe home.

I came back from a fishing trip and found Illinois still does not have a budget.  Most recently Governor Rauner failed to restore funding for homeless youth just as he has refused to relent on drastic cuts to day care assistance for low income parents.  Both legislative chambers had to override his veto in order to restore funds for treating heroin addicts for Christ’s sake.
    

Illinois is going backwards in its support of marginal families like the one I cooked breakfast for on Monday.  Is anything in Illinois more important than supporting that family and others like them?  If so, can you tell me what that might be?

Something stinks in Illinois all right and it’s not coming from the ravine by my shack.  It’s coming from Springfield.  That stink is not going away.