There she was again. I don’t know how many times I’d seen her as she dragged all her meager treasures in the rusted red wagon. Even though the heat of Houston caused the coolest dressed Houstonian to break a sweat, she wore her clothes layered topped off with her multi-colored hat and a feather bobbling as her toothless smile greeted passersby.

She never was without that smile as she made her rounds in the section of town I lived in. I lived there by choice because I wanted to be a part of the diversity of the ethnic and economic section of town…it kept me grounded so I couldn’t forget how it was to be living in an area that wasn’t always safe. She lived in the streets knowing full well what it meant to be poor, without the safety of a roof over her head, and to be ridiculed and taunted by truant youth or people who passed with nary a nod of recognition.

As a former human service worker I knew her story all too well in generalities. Workers would ignore her because she wasn’t in crisis. She’d hit their desks if someone would complain or she was found by law enforcement to be ill. Thus, in between these circumstances she would follow her daily routines of perusing her world to gather mementoes of colorful scraps of cloth, paper or fauna. While some would walk around her with disgust, pity, or as if invisible, she seemed to find the world she moved in filled with details others missed.

I rode my bike in the early hours of the morning along the bayou bike trail. There I’d find her making her early morning trek. She’d wander off the path to pick a small pink flower inhaling deeply to breathe in any fragrance lingering. I’d watched her more than once tenderly petting the petals as if a beloved pet.

I got so I’d bring along a banana to share with her, knowing it was the easiest for her to chew. Soon it became a ritual she’d expected and I’d bring her a bunch of bananas if I knew I’d be gone for awhile. She never conversed verbally with me, instead just smiled and nodded to statements or questions.

Bissonnet Street went over the Bayou, which meant there was shelter under the road. If you didn’t think about it you’d pass by without ever noticing the blankets, cardboard boxes which became home and shelter for people who chose to sleep in the open instead of going to the local shelters. During the summer, the location provided a cooling space in the shade from the hot Gulf winds and humidity.

One morning the faint sounds of crooning came from behind me. I stopped my bike to follow the sound. Under the bridge I saw her holding in her arms a man, rocking him as if singing a lullaby. As I approached, her eyes were filled with tears with grief, and she motioned for me to stay back…gently I spoke to her knowing she knew me well enough to know I’d not harm her in anyway. He did not die alone.

There is a tendency to judge why people “choose” to live in this manner. However, getting to know some of the homeless I discovered, for some it was a matter of freedom. From my multi-colored chapeau friend, I learned she thrived on the beauty of the bayou path along the canal. She would sit for hours watching the catfish jump, the long legged birds with pileated beaks securing their daily fish intake, and squirrels challenging each other for a fragment of food. She braved the steep bank just to touch a dandelion.

She often saw the nuances of life I would miss trying to bike 10 miles on the within a prescribed time frame. She, on the other hand, observed her surroundings with the passion of a botanist on his first discovery.

I think of her often as I live here in the north woods watching the snow fall lightly outside my window. I’m glad she lives in the south because life here would be so much harder for her. However, I do believe she would discover the same detailed interest in the world. I suspect snowflakes would hold a fascination with each crystal its own design.

She never did tell me her story…only gave me her smile and nods. I don’t know the circumstances of living on the streets with her precious rusted red wagon. I do know she would not allow herself to be taken away from the lifestyle willingly. Her monthly government check seemed to cover what she wanted and more than once, I observed her giving money to someone else. We were friendly acquaintances more importantly she became the teacher altering my perceptions of life.

When I think about her, she reminds me to view my world through a lens without the trappings of things to gain or achieve. She reminds me the world has details to discover, and care for tenderly. She and others are great teachers to those who think they know so much.

She reminds me not to pass judgment about people I pass, who are living a life so different than my own materially. She reminds me the same Creator breathed His life into us. She is a valuable contribution to those who take notice and the others who share space under the bridge with her.

MCStrom ©01/03 © revised 6/06 All rights reserved

Maralene Strom is a speaker and author who teaches on topics dealing with grief and recorvery -- let her help you discover your life's meaning as you journey now and into your future. Visit http://AdventuresInLivingsite.com to receive her newsletter.