It was there. Just write it down, said my conscience.
The revelation came on the evening news. “Poor people were poor because they didn’t save enough money.”
Old, burned out hippies answered phone banks. Guys named Randy, Scott, or John, their long gray hair pulled back into pony tails–tied with bandanas. Uniform of the day was themed Hawaiian, from the looks of their rainbow, printed shirts
“Hungry, need food, out of work!” Signs were on every street corner. What good were laws prohibiting panhandlers?
Pity those poor Southern Californians with brown or gravelled lawns, Dwight mused, as he applied lawn fertilizer to lush, green grass. Wouldn’t want to live like that.
What were their names? Moved out in the middle of the night; too proud to tell anyone their money was gone. It wasn’t like that when Old Man Burgess lived there.
Just across the street, resided a pretty young blonde woman, her daughter, and boyfriend. It turned out they were fugitives from the law; wanted for murder in another state.
Ashley and Jade, embarrassed pre-teens, crouched down in the battered, faded blue, family minivan. If this were living–they’d just as soon be dead. Their mom, Mary, sat in silence–stifled tears. Tom, silent patriarch, drove on in darkness. Destination: Somewhere, where no one knew their names.
James, moved out after losing his job with a well-known delivery service. In a fit of anger, pulled the siding off the utility shed–formerly his. His pet cat, left behind, in the melee sat on the front porch. Kindly neighbors kept the kitty fed.
Compelling monster movies, billowed into things too scary to watch. Egos, pride, shed instead of blood. Did families, friends, disavow friendships during hard times? No, they stood by through inevitable successes or failures.
Hidden battles are fought every day. I ask for your good thoughts and prayers. My brother from a different mother, best man at my wedding, continues to battle cancer. We served together in the Air Force many years ago.