Helping the Community; Down and Out in Downtown L.A.

This weekend was a difficult one for me emotionally.... I am trying to de-clutter my world. So I started cleaning out my truck (finally found keys that would get into it after my landlord threw out the set I had provided for them). We had never 'fully ' moved into this house, since the truck still had about a dozen boxes in it.

We have now. Just in time... to gear up to moving again. SO...... I am going through all the boxes, throwing things out, listing stuff on eBay and OfferUp in an attemot to make some money and get stuff out of my house. Good times.

The first box I opened.... a picture of my first dog Siggy. I had her from when she was 4 weeks old, to when she was 16. I miss her every day.

So that brought tears to my eyes, and I fought off crying. The next items, I found were documents, birth, marriage and death certificates, doctor notes, handwritten notes, and more, from my mother and her husband. Both have passed. These all bring up weird emotions for me. We were not a happy family. She died 01-09-08 after an accidental fall on 01-04-08; she never regained consciousness.

In the end, she was generous and giving of her time to her community, and volunteered with the homeless in downtown Los Angeles with LACAN.

But... my mom was a prolific writer. So I am going to share some of what she has written, in no particular order as there is no way to tell when it was written. Some of it was to present to others, the other parts - who knows. I have typed these as she has written them (fighting my internal urge to correct any grammatical errors she may have made). If they are dated, I am going to put them in here under their actual date.

Peggy - My mom was always laughing.

It doesn't even matter WHEN these were written, the topic is always timely. The need is always there.

~~~

Saint Jerome's Speech by Peggy Cummings

Good morning to you all. My name is Peggy Cummings and I would like to let you know what the Catholic Campaign for Human Development has meant to me.

Three years ago my husband was dying of bladder cancer. Both of us had to leave our jobs - him because he could no longer walk with the tumor rapidly growing inside him; and me, to care for him at home.

After his death, and exhausting all of our savings, I had nowhere but downtown to find a place to live.

Not only that, but Social Security was paying me a widow's benefit until they realized I was too young to collect. They put a freeze on my checking account, then took the $1,600 I had there. Also told me I had to repay the $6,000 they had given me.

Without a dime to my name, I learned that the Union Rescue Mission would allow me to stay for free until I gained an income again.

I was determined to give back to the downtown community for helping me when I needed it the most.

My case manager referred me to the Los Angeles Community Action Network - LACAN. They always welcome any help I could give.

They have been working over six years creating opportunities for low-income and homeless people such as me to gain a new start in life.

I volunteered my services for 1 1/2 years because I had finally found my place in life. LACAN's efforts to give power and voice for residents and their issues is building safer neighborhoods through our Community Watch program and providing education that allows residents to succeed in fighting City Hall to recognize that something needs to change so that needy persons are helped with housing and services.

LACAN is also providing a means of earning additional income through our Vendor Training program where they are licensed to solicit donations by distributing the only street newspaper in L.A....the Community Connection.

Six months ago, I was hired as a policy intern and organizer to work for our outreach efforts to a community in desperate need of support. With the unavailability of affordable housing, let alone nutritional food, and the horrendous "28-day shuffle" - LACAN continues its struggle to make the "power that be" change the plight of 90,000 homeless people within our city limits.

We've managed to place a moratorium on SRO hotels selling to developers to have replacement housing provided before renovations are begun, and residents are no longer forced to the streets. Our Residential Organizing Committee meetings are held twice a month.

Please help us to continue to give our low-income and homeless residents the life they need.

It's wrong for our government to continue to spend billions of dollars around the world - and depriving residents of America the same resources.

We need to help our downtown needy persons first.

Thank you so much for the caring. Please give as generously as you are able to the Catholic Campaign for Human Development. Those 90,000 homeless in L.A. are struggling for dignity.

Feeling morbid.....

Sweet Dreams

A Funeral Poem..... from Memories of Me, Billy Crystal 1988

Now's the time to go to sleep.
Time to slip away.
Time to say Sweet Dreams,
To the things that I love today.

Sweet dreams to the stars.
Sweet dreams to the breeze.
Sweet dreams to belly buttons that go in.
Sweet dreams to belly buttons that go out.

Sweet dreams to all the tushies in the world.
Little ones and the big fat ones.
Like the waitress at the bowling alley.
Sweet Dreams.

To all of my dear friends and relatives... She fell.

To all of my dear friends and relatives,

You know which list you are on... and I love you all. Last Friday, I was notified that my mother, Peggy, had passed away. While this is never good news, and there can never be a ‘best’ time to learn of this, the manner and delivery of both were shocking and tragic. I know many of you either have no idea of the nature of our relationship (my mother’s and I), but many of you know exactly the type of relationship we had; somewhat estranged, eternally unpredictable…..

She fell.


For my mother, this could represent much more than this last physical act of falling from a second-floor balcony (I won’t get into the bad stuff; I was always taught not to say anything at all if you couldn’t say anything nice). My mom was hopelessly nostalgic, intrinsically competitive; and I have to remember her as the ultimate vision of herself. She was creative - string arts, sewing, a culinary wiz, a baking fiend (I’m still trying to get her peanut butter cookies perfected). She could be selfless at times – she worked with the Los Angeles Community Action Network (LACAN) to feed, clothe, and house the homeless. She worked with the Culver City Community Center helping Senior citizens with their activities.

As to the nostalgia, maybe my mom was hoping for that simpler time in the 50’s and 60s. Maybe she just liked all the happy memories. As a child, I remember painting ceramic ornaments with our Aunt Verna, her twin sister. Going to auctions, shopping, staying up late talking…. More recently – laughing hysterically at trying to teach me how to crochet (she taught me wrong! I have video proof!).

We all have problems, issues - things we don’t want to deal with. Death is #1 on that list for most (well maybe next to public speaking – to me, this letter almost qualifies as that – I don’t usually burden others with my emotional tribulations). If nothing else, people…. I know it’s uncomfortable, looking your mortality in the face and moving forward anyway, but especially if you have a family to leave behind – make a living trust, write out your will – let someone know exactly what you want to happen. If I had not had that conversation with my mother, I may not have done what she wanted. She was only 64. I didn’t expect to have to deal with the death of one of my parents for 15 years or so. (The men and women on both sides of the family ranged in age from 64 to 100 at the time of their death; I was hoping for the latter end of that range, I guess.)

May you all have started your new year out

…on a much more pleasant note,

Kari

P.S.
If you want to contact me, I am easiest to get via email, or you can contact me on my portable/home number (if you have it - edited for public posting)

Karina

Something isn’t right about this. I should be feeling different, should be acting different. Aren’t I supposed to be sad? Depressed? Hysterical? Aren’t I supposed to be crying my eyes out, thinking there’s nothing worth living for, that my life is over?

Instead, I’m standing in front of the mirror making sure my shoes match my dress. I’m listening to Jeff in the shower. Listening for the water to stop running. I mean, it’s been fifteen minutes already. Jeff never showers for longer than ten.

I walk into the living room looking for something to do. I need to keep busy. But what I want to do, and what I should do, are two different things. I want to take out the marketing projections for next year and finalize my expected sales. I know I can’t do that. That isn’t right on a day like this.

Then again, I know I should be crying or needing to be held, or something. But I can’t seem to make myself do that either. Because I don’t feel anything. I can’t even say I feel numb, which would be a relief if I could say, because people could accept that one. The shower water shuts off. I turn toward the bedroom, preparing to walk in and make sure Jeff wears the right suit. Make sure his hair is groomed right. But it catches my eye instead. I can’t help but be drawn to it, needing to pick it up and stare at it close.

It’s the picture of me and her taken on Christmas Eve two years ago. Before everything seemed to change. Before I realized that we had nothing. Nothing but a long history which seemed to be the only thing we did have.

We’re laughing in it. Our arms are around each other’s shoulders and we’re laughing. I can’t remember what we were laughing about. To tell the truth, I barely remember that day at all.

It must’ve been something stupid, this secret joke between us. We were always laughing over the really dumb things. If we were ever to laugh about something truly funny, then that would lead to seriousness and we couldn’t allow ourselves to see the real us. The people we were down deep.

Jeff touches my shoulder, making me jump. I didn’t hear him come in the room. I stand up quickly and put the picture back on the shelf. I don’t want to feel his touch on my shoulders, nor do I want him to see that I was looking at the picture. It’s not that I don’t like his touch- I do- it’s just that people touching me seems to hit that nerve in the back of my neck. Like that feeling you get when you’re in a crowded room and worry that you can’t get enough air.

I turn to face him. I can’t smile, nor frown. I just watch him.

“How’s this?” He asks, gesturing his arm down his body, showing the suit he chose.

He’s wearing a navy blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. He had put on his black Oxfords, the ones that lace funny. His hair is still wet, but it’s been combed into place, neatly. He looks perfect.

I squint at him. “You’re going to wear a red tie?”

He just stares at me with that blank expression he’s become so good at forming. The look that says he doesn’t understand what I’m talking about.

I force myself not to roll my eyes, but I can’t seem to stop my voice from sounding exasperated. “You can’t wear red to a funeral.”

“I can’t?” The confused look doesn’t go away.

“No. You can’t.”

Jeff shrugs in a defeated manner. “I guess I could wear my navy one. Or my black one. But then, I do have one that’s sort of a brown color.”

I sigh at him. He’ll never understand. “Just forget it. Let’s just get out of here and go.”

He cocks his head to the side. “You were looking at her picture.”

I feel my insides tighten. “Yes, I was. I was waiting for you to get out of the shower, and then when you did, I turned to go to the bedroom and there it was. I had just picked it up when you walked in and frightened me to death.”

My eyes widen in shock. I can’t believe I said that! I’m on my way to a funeral, her funeral, and I make a joke about death.

Jeff takes a step toward me. He puts his arms around me and for a second, it’s the most relieving, secure feeling, to feel his arms around me tight. I want to sag into those arms, lay my head on his shoulder, and stay like that forever. But I know, if I did that, I would be allowing my emotions to control my actions.

I push him away and turn around to get my purse. “Come on, let’s go.”

I walk past him, heading to the front door, knowing he’s watching me not knowing what to do. How can I make him realize I don’t need anything? That I’m fine, this means nothing more to me than an interruption in my work schedule.

The drive to the church is silent. Jeff must’ve thought that even putting on the radio would be rude to the dead or something. I know he’s dying to listen to some music, he never could handle silences.

I should tell him it’s okay, that he can turn on the radio and play that tape he just bought, but I say nothing. I don’t have the energy, nor do I care if he’s happy or not. I just want to be left alone, in this silence.

It’s sunny out, with huge, fluffy white clouds. The temperature is in the low eighty’s. One of those days where the sun glimmers in the trees, making the leaves look like they’re sparkling. It’s hard to believe that we’re going to a funeral.

I’ve always thought that there were things you did on dark days and things you did on light ones. Weddings, picnics, laughable hours with the ones you love were things you did on the light days. Funerals, heartbreaks, getting fired were things you did on the dark days.

This was definitely a light day and yet, we were going to a funeral. Her funeral of all things. Why didn’t the weather know we needed a dark day? What an oxy-moron that is.

Jeff turned the corner to the parking lot and drove around for a few minutes looking for that ultimate parking spot. I hate this trait of his: finding a place to park that will be close to the door to where he’s heading, so he won’t have as far to walk. I don’t mind walking, why should he?

At last the parking space is discovered. I barely wait for the car to stop before opening my door and stepping outside. The sun is much brighter than it was in the car. I search through my purse and take out my sunglasses. I feel like I should be Audrey Hepburn, dressed in a tight, black cocktail dress with pearl earrings and these stupid dark glasses.

The parking lot of the church is quite full. People have already started to park on the side street. I’m a bit surprised by this. I knew she was a social butterfly, but the only friends I had met of hers were the drug addicts of the town. The rowdies, as we used to call them. The ones who were fun and exciting to date in college, but lost their appeal when I realized they were headed on a long, drawn out journey to nowhere.

It’s too hot to wear such dark colors. I can feel the sun beating on my scalp, burning blisters through my hair. A light film of sweat begins to form between my breasts.

Jeff comes around from his side of the car and holds out his hand to me. I hadn’t realized I was just standing there. I take his hand and feel him squeeze mine. I try to smile at him, to let him know that I appreciate his support. We begin walking to the front of the church.

People are bustling everywhere, heading in the same direction. My insides cringe. My heart starts beating a thousand miles a minute..... Beating.