It was on a hot, humid August day in 2006 when I first met her. She was sitting on a bench on Demonbruen Street just off the infamous Music Row in Nashville, TN. Her faded blonde hair was pulled neatly in a bun. Though her face was deeply tanned and weathered, her eyes were a crystal blue and when they caught mine, something resonated deep within me. Looking at her from the face up one might think she was someone’s grandmother waiting for her children to finish their shopping at one of the upscale shops. Or perhaps they dined at one of the quaint restaurants that catered to the music industry and the well dressed young people of the city that stood across the street from the bench where she sat.
But then you notice…she’s dressed in layers of clothing, way too many layers of clothing for a 90 plus degree day; and you quickly realize the layers of clothing she’s piled on herself have probably never seen a washing machine. Heavy black boots hide her feet from the occasional warm breeze that stirs the dusty, dried leaves on the street. Sitting beside her is a large, tattered suitcase, a neatly folded blanket and a smaller opened suitcase holding trinkets and CD’s, which I later found to be her ‘store.’ People would give her things and she would promptly add them to her store and sell them. I couldn’t help but notice how she held her cigarette with an air of sophistication as she watched the people walk by, many totally oblivious to her presence there.
Yet, it was evident to me … that bench was her home.
Truth be known, I’m not sure I would have noticed her had it not been for the fact that we needed the bench she sat on. I was helping a friend shoot the opening scene for a TV comedy pilot. The sequence called for a battered, dirty, homeless man to be sitting on a bench with a sign propped in his lap which read, “will work for free” as our star sat beside him with a bottle of Jack Daniels wrapped in a brown bag. The two would commiserate over the lack of good jobs and our star would offer the man a swig of Jack. (I would like to believe we were naïve at the time, because today I find no humor in that scene.) Regardless of what I think or feel now, in order to accomplish securing that bench for a few hours to shoot the scene, we paid the woman with the neatly done hair and the eyes of blue crystal ten dollars to vacate her bench.
She packed up her belongings, shook our hands and walked across the street to the small gourmet coffee shop. Once again I couldn’t help but notice how blue her eyes were and how deep they spoke. During the hours it took to shoot the 30 second scene, I went over to the coffee shop numerous times to refill my coffee and get iced tea or water for the crew. I’d see her through the shop’s window and watched her write on a yellow legal tablet and wondered what words she was lost in. As I’d walk through the shop’s door without fail she would lift her head and draw me directly into her gaze. I’d give her a faint smile, before walking quickly to the counter, anxious at the time to get away from the truths held in her eyes.
Little did I know her eyes held the stories that would change my life forever…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Her Her name is Diane, the woman with the neatly done hair and crystal blue eyes. She’s in her sixties, early sixties. The bench on Demonbruen is her home. She lives with a quiet dignity on that bench just across from the upscale shop, Flavour, watching over her ‘home,’ and in return, we found the local merchants watch over her. An angel beneath the weathered, sun baked face, with tales spun out of tarnished, long ago truths and tossed with her own hopes and dreams that may never come to be, Diane could be anyone’s mother or grandmother…and perhaps she is, if only to the ones who take the time to tell her hello.
A friend and I took her to lunch at the little gourmet coffee shop a few days after that first encounter. It was evident Diane was a ‘regular’ at the coffee shop, appropriately called, Caffeine. We sat on the patio, ready to learn about this woman who lived out of a suitcase and was dressed for sub zero weather, though the thermometer still soared past 90. Within minutes of sitting down, we realized Diane knew more about the history of Music Row than most people. She quickly went back thirty odd years and told us stories of country legends and the tourists’ shops that had been replaced in the last ten years or so by the boutiques and restaurants we were now accustomed to frequenting. Spattered among the details of old Music Row, she sprinkled dates with names.
(Amazed at what seemed an incredible memory, I secretly wondered if those stories could possibly be accurate and vowed to Google them when I got home. I did and they were.)
Diane continued with the history lesson, her blue eyes sparkling in the sun. Her laughter was contagious as she talked about the country legends as if she’d once hobnobbed with them. But with all the talk of Music Row, my interest was in who Diane really was and how she got to where she was…surely she didn’t stir my soul for a simple history lesson on Music City.
My friend and I would sneak glances at one another, anxious to get to Diane’s story. Both of us wondering how to best broach the question, “how did you end up here?” I noticed the way she held her coffee cup and she suddenly reminded me of a Southern Belle, a slight air of haughtiness projecting from her manicured hands. If nothing else Diane was particular about her hair and nails.
Finally the question that hung in the air was asked. But before the question mark dropped, the sparkle left Diane’s eyes, her voice dropped and we lost her. For better than a half hour she rambled in a voice so low we could barely hear her. Nothing quite made sense, yet, I knew somewhere in the words she whispered laid a heartache so deep, so tragic she could not bear to face it.
We traced Diane’s appearance as a homeless woman back to the late 80’s, which put her on the street for better than twenty years. The locals who worked in or frequented the area who knew her didn’t quite know what the details were that brought her to the street, but the stories they’d heard rang with a certain note of truthfulness. A lost love, still waiting for his return. Once owned, perhaps still does, the block that houses her bench. For the few she trusts to read her work she is a prolific writer, filling tablet after tablet with stories that rip her heart. An entrepreneur, selling trinkets out of a worn suitcase that sits next to her on her bench. As one of her songwriting friends told us, “Diane’s an advisor to many and a friend to all.” Another young woman who works at one of the shops told us, “She’s a strong woman. A wise woman. I’ve learned so much from her.”
Every morning just as the sun appears upon the horizon, you’ll find Diane cleaning the parking lot that nearly consumes the Demonbruen block that once housed the Country Music Hall of Fame, Shoney’s and other small tourists shops where her home now sits. Before the first car pulls in to park for the day, she’ll have picked up every piece of dropped trash and put it in the garbage receptacle. The blanket that had covered her during the night as she curled up on the bench will be folded and put out of sight. After her morning chores are done, she walks over to the first restaurant that opens, washes up and puts her hair in a neat bun or ponytail. Some days you will find that she’ll tucked a flower in her hair, some days she’ll take a trinket out of her bag and pin it up in her bun. Her ‘store’ will be opened as she sips her coffee and smokes that first cigarette of day and begins watching her family arrive for work.
Every merchant on the street will tell you that Diane’s one of their best customers and often tips better than the executives of Music Row. She doesn’t panhandle or beg, she pays her own way. Not only does she run her own little store, at times we’d see her cleaning tables at Caffeine and one of the owners told us there are days they pay her to help out. We often heard the stories of a man elegantly dressed in a suit that comes and meets with her every few weeks, quietly discussing things with her and leaving her money. (I’ve never seen him or know for sure if he truly exists, though I have no reason not to believe those that told us the stories.) Hundreds, if not thousands of people will pass Diane on any given week. We talked to many of them. Sadly, the majority would tell us that even though they have worked in and frequented the area daily for the last five, ten or fifteen years they didn’t know Diane, and admittedly never had even noticed her. They’d missed this delightful woman. They missed the stories of the old Music Row, when country was country and less commercialized than today. They’d missed her wisdom and knowledge. They’d never taken the time to get the recipes for the gourmet meals she has stored in the corners of her mind. They’d never seen her eyes sparkle with delight or felt her laughter tickle their soul.
We talked to ones who had noticed her, but walked around her to avoid her, thinking perhaps she would ask them for money or wary of the old woman who can often be found talking to herself. Yes, Diane at times lives in a world none of us can see. Whether it is from her broken heart or from years of living on the street, I couldn’t tell you.
Diane never leaves the block she calls home. If you ask her, she will tell you she can’t leave. She has to work. When asked what work she must do, she’ll tell you she has to look out for all the shops because the young people who work in those shops ‘are such nice young folks and they work so hard for their money.’ We asked her once if we could at least rent her a room at the motel on the corner and she politely told us no, then reminded us with a twinkle in her eye and that contagious laugh of hers that she must work at night.
As we went about shooting the documentary, we would always make our way back to Music Row and stop daily to talk to Diane, always hoping she could or would tell us her story. She never has.
It was on one of those September afternoons I would find out personally Diane has a gift we all could use. She easily discerns and she is quick to act. I was having a particularly difficult day. I walked into Caffeine; got a coffee with my last two dollars and then went to the patio, wanting nothing more than to be alone. I saw Diane at one of the tables and spoke briefly with her before heading to another table to think and pray while I drank my coffee. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Diane get up and go in the shop. When she returned to the patio she simply nodded to me as she went back to her table. I thought little of it. I was caught up in my own world and sorrow was hanging upon me as I prayed. So lost in thought and prayer, I didn’t even notice the young waiter until he tapped me on the shoulder and set the plate on the table. He bent down and whispered to me, “Miss Diane, thought this might make you feel better today.” It was my favorite chicken salad on a croissant with a side salad of fresh greens. I looked up at Diane, my eyes brimming with tears and she smiled, nodded her head, silently mouthed, “Eat up!” and promptly went back to her writing. A homeless woman had just bought me lunch…no, the truth is my friend bought me lunch, quietly, respectfully…without fanfare she saw a need and acted. She didn’t even need to stop and tell me herself she’d bought me lunch. She saw the gratitude in my eyes and that was enough for her.
She heard…as I quietly asked God where He was that day…He tapped Diane on the shoulder, she moved and He said…”I am Here.”
(C) 2008-09 Penny Carlton
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The Widow Mite
After a chance encounter with a homeless women in the early fall of 2006 I had the privilege of being a producer for a regional documentary on homelessness. Our goal was simple… document their stories and try to find a commonality between those that were homeless and us. In doing so, we thought perhaps we may break the stereotypical mold of homelessness.
I readily admit as we started this cinematic journey I thought God may even use us to take Him to the ones stuck in the hopelessness of homelessness. Wasn’t this what it was all about, giving those less fortunate than us a platform to tell their story and share the hope of God with them in trust their lives would be somehow changed?
We first met Tony and the Soldiers of Light in a Starbucks one bright October morning after hearing about their homeless ministry. With their camouflage pants and combat boots one has to look twice for the logo on their t-shirts to realize these men aren’t undercover agents looking for criminals to place behind bars or wonder if, perhaps, they’re the Tennessee cousins of Dog the Bounty Hunter. Though Tony and the Soldiers of Light have never met Dog or his posse they do share some similar traits and the belief in truth and justice. Both men take to the streets in prayer and determination. Tony and the Soldiers of Light bring healing and hope to those who are living under the open sky, hidden under interstate underpasses, huddled in alleys and veiled in homeless camps.
We sent a single cameraman out with Tony and the Soldiers on an unseasonably hot 90 degree day in October of ’06 hoping to catch a miracle on film. It would be days before I would view the raw footage and weep, for a miracle we’d captured, in the time aged, dirty hand of man named Johnny. Well versed in the lay of the homeless land and well tuned to the voice of God, the Soldiers had driven the streets for better than an hour before Tony and the men pulled into a convenience store parking lot in a run down section of the city.
With Tony leading, the men followed single file around the store to a concrete loading dock at the back of the graffiti covered building where they met Johnny, an American veteran, as he sat with a friend. A slight man, almost emaciated looking, Johnny’s once beautiful smile was now infected with broken and decayed teeth. His clothes were dirty and ill fitting. Johnny fit the perfect image of the stereotypical homeless man, and as I began watching the footage I could almost smell the alcohol from a previous night’s binge. I confess to being a bit confused, for our main purpose of the documentary was to break the stereotypical image and ‘it’ was smiling right at me through the lens of a camera.
I continued to watch as the two men told Tony and the Soldiers stories from their past, many making even me burst out in laughter. Imagine that… two dirty homeless men could have stories that put a twinkle in their eye and bring a hearty laughter felt in the soul. Then Johnny asked Tony what he did. I watched fascinated…for suddenly I simply saw five men, without distinction of who was homeless and who was not, as one cameraman captured a moment in time as they gathered on a hot October morning talking, laughing, sharing stories of their life. When Tony finished telling the men about his ministry, I watched as Johnny slowly and painfully stood up, reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change and held it out to Tony. “To help you out with your ministry,” he said with tears shining in his eyes. “It’s all I got, but I’m willin’ to give it to ya.”
I stopped the tape as the camera panned to the aged, grubby hand which held the tarnished pennies and worn nickels and dimes. That day I saw the widow’s mite in Johnny’s meager offering.
And He looked up and saw the rich putting their gifts into the treasury. And He saw a poor widow putting in two small copper coins. And He said, “Truly I say to you, this poor widow put in more than all of them; for they all out of their surplus put into the offering; but she out of her poverty put in all that she had to live on.”
-Luke 21:1-4
I have often thought how most of us wouldn’t have made that humbling offering. Most likely we would feel it wasn’t enough, perhaps be embarrassed we didn’t have more, or rationalize those few pennies, nickels and dimes would do very little, if anything, to help Tony’s ministry. The meager offering could not so much as buy a cup of coffee in today’s economy. Yet, I am quite sure Johnny had no thoughts beyond that moment he was moved to give…I wonder if he knew he’d just given the Soldiers “a fish” to be multiplied. I wonder if Johnny knew the lives that would be touched when they watched those few minutes of footage. The people that would learn the true meaning of giving.
The wonder of confining moments in time to film is you can revisit that time just as it happened over and over. The miracle of it is often God will open your eyes a little wider each time and you see another second of that moment you missed before. I have watched those few seconds of truth hundreds of times over the last two years. I often wondered what became of Johnny. Wondered if Johnny was a mere man or an angel sent to teach a lesson; since to my knowledge none of the men that were there that day has ever seen Johnny again. I watched it again today, stopping it as the camera focused in on Johnny’s grimy hand and today I saw…each dirty crevice held the life of a man, bought by the blood on a rugged wooden cross at Calvary. How blind we are …“where we see dirt, He sees life…where we see tarnished pennies and worn silver…He sees gold…who we call homeless, He calls beloved.” The miracle of life comes in many shapes, sizes and is often packaged much differently than we would envision…but each life holds the capacity to change the life of another…we simply must hold our hand.
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(C) 2008-09 Penny Carlton
Walking down the path for a brief moment you almost believe you’re simply walking into a local campground. The smell of campfires tickled our noses, stirring memories of childhood camping trips. We heard the sound of metal meeting wood as one of those we were yet to meet was obviously chopping firewood. Laughter rang out. Dogs barked. The only thing missing was the sound of children.
We followed the trail with multiple Old Glorys up ahead welcoming us. Yet, when we reached our destination we found a startling truth. America has a secret. It is America’s shame. There is a third world in America. The smell of campfires that only moments ago had conjured up sweet childhood memories of camping trips was in truth their only means of heat on the cold, damp morning. It was their only means of cooking if they’d been fortunate enough to have been able to work day labor the week before. Obviously some had, for we saw hot dogs simmering in a dented pan at one of our stops. The ax swung so agilely to split the wood was done with purpose. Fall had taken hold with a chilling grip, winter was gaining ground and would soon blow the remaining leaves to the ground as it chased out fall. That wood meant heat. That wood meant survival.
Looking around we wondered where their laughter could possibly come from. As they huddled around a campfire we found the laughter came from sharing memories of their lives. It came from the little anecdotes that dot all of our lives. It came from playing Frisbee with their dogs. It would seem normal if you could erase the evidence of their days from your vision.
We ended up talking to four or five of the men who lived in the camp. Some of had been there for years, some had only just arrived. All were over forty; all had at least a high school education and special training from the military. Each had their own way of keeping house. Some were so improvised they truly resembled the horror of third world living, some were so clean and neat the image of camping in America at an upscale campsite once more tried to rub out the actuality.
Each had served more than 3 years in the military, many had seen war. Each had families left behind. Most worked at day labor. All had a strong belief in God, family and country. Each hoped one day to overcome the curse that led the there and go home. They were unanimous in telling us they got through each day by the grace of God, the hope to go back to family and love for their country. These men had served proudly. These men would serve again proudly and they weren’t ashamed to say so. They may not always agree with the choices this country makes, but they are Americans and this is their country. Period.
One man in particular drew us. Unlike some of the others, addiction hadn’t driven him into the confusion of homelessness; it had been his wife’s illness and the restructuring of the state’s public healthcare program. The need to transport his wife many times a week to doctor appointments had cost him his job, his wife’s medical care depleted his resources and eventually cost him his marriage. His wife needed costly medical care, without him she could have it. He made a tough decision, believing it would only be temporary until he could get back on his feet. The economy and his debt load would dictate otherwise. Debt in America is an unforgiving enemy regardless of the circumstances. With credit ruined the climb back to stability is a long, hard road, especially when you must travel it alone.
Looking back now it seems we asked the most frivolous questions. We were always asking what they missed the most. They always had a ready answer so I assumed they were quite used to us well-intention strangers grasping to understand; still so comfortable in our three bedroom, two bath homes with credit cards to get us through the week that inevitably we’d ask about material things.
Our gentleman laughed easily when we asked him what he missed the most. “That’s easy,” he said. “I miss my wife, my family, my bed.” He chucked again before continuing, “I miss Wal-Mart. Just being able to go to Wal-Mart and buy what I want. Normal stuff.”
The wind shifted and eyes connected. “God’s here though.” He continued. “Without Him, none of us would make it out here. We can read the bible and remember another time when He brought us through.” Subdued in his own thoughts he looked away as he rubbed his hands together over the crackling fire. “He’s here.”
The temperature was dropping quickly. The promise of a chilling rain gathered in the gray clouds threatening to spill at any time. The wind took on an icy breath. We hadn’t planned to be out in the elements that day. Being overcast and a Sunday, we’d simply set out to shoot some b-roll from the car, grab lunch together and talk about the coming week’s shoots. We’d been in the camp better than two hours. None of us were dressed for a day in the woods, especially a cold day in the woods. I glanced at the cameramen and saw their hands were raw from the cold. My co-producer and I had edged closer to the fire, but neither of us ventured to hold our hands over it to warm them. It seemed wrong somehow, as if we’d be stealing a bit of warmth from these men. We said our goodbyes, packed up the camera gear and headed back to the car. We were chilled to the bone and walked quickly towards the promise of heat blasting from the heat vents of the car.
As we hurried towards the car, I knew we had witnessed more patriotism in the last two hours than is seen on any given day in most neighborhoods across America. Addictions, some bad life choices and circumstances had broken these men, robbed them of the American dream they’d fought to protect. All veterans are heroes, but on this cold fall day, standing before us were the heroes of heroes. Even in the midst of unthinkable hardship they stood proudly beneath American flags whipping in the wind. Pride in their country came from their humility. Their humility obviously came from God and they held tight to their bibles beneath the Stars and Stripes with a dignity few of us will ever obtain.
(C) 2008-09 Penny Carlton
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We spent a great deal of time at the Safe Haven Family Shelter in Nashville. This is an agency that has found a formula that truly works! Safe Haven is the only shelter in Middle Tennessee that serves homeless families as a whole unit. Residents are comprised of married couples with children, and single mothers and fathers with children. The average length of stay is 30 to 45 days. The 3rd Avenue South location houses five families. In addition, Safe Haven also has six transitional homes, therefore housing eleven homeless families at a time.
Thier mission: To empower homeless families with children to live independently through social, financial, and faith-based guidance.
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I was rummaging through old files of my writings today and decided to post some here. Feel free to leave comments!
Broken Fences
Selena:
In all my years I have dreamed of one day having a Weeping Willow tree nestled in the backyard of my home. My dreams rustle back through the graceful branches of a stately willow that flourished in the back yard of my grandparent’s house. Long passed from this life now, their memory still whispers like a gentle breeze through the delicate leaves on that old willow against my tear stained cheeks.
What is it about the Weeping Willow that calls my name? Perhaps it is the calming, gentle energy that murmurs of compassion that speaks to me. I read once that people born beneath a Willow tree are striking-looking creatures. They are drawn to anything beautiful and refined, and their taste in clothing is classic and elegant. Despite their perfect exteriors, these caring souls often weep inside. Dreamers, they have a great love of travel. These people have highly developed intuitions and are often drawn by their spirits. I think I was somehow born beneath a Willow tree.
I spent countless hours as a child playing and dreaming beneath the willow in grandpa and grandma’s back yard. It was my corner of the world where all my dreams came true. A world so full of beauty even today my memories of my days there can take my breath from me. A canopy of yellow and light green lace hanging nearly to the ground. The fragrant sweetness of earth tickling my nose. The air would float around me as if angel’s gently fanned my flushed face. Often I’d lie against the sturdy trunk and look past the broken fence into the orchard of apple trees. That broken fence was the only thing ugly in my life at the time…but then isn’t that how it is in the innocence of one’s youth?
Rose:
There is a broken fence behind my house. I built it as a reminder to myself. Quick escapes can be made through broken slates, especially if one is used to breaking away from nightmares. Beautiful white rose bushes line the fence, well, except for the portion of broken down slates. Even after all these years I still need to know I can run if need be.
I hate Weeping Willows. Their long fingers reaching out to grab me; touch me even when my mind yelled, “No.” There is nothing gentle about a giant. They remind me of ‘the dirty old man’…that is how I know him. Maybe that is why the word ‘No’ stayed in my mind and did not escape my lips. He was the giant; I was just a little girl.
The Weeping Willow that held court in my grandparent’s back yard was dark and foreboding, its branches reaching to the ground, ready to imprison me. How many times did I become trapped there, seeing the broken fence and plotting my flight?
Some days even now, these thirty years later, I still find I drift back to the days of my childhood, murky as they are. For then I only knew normal was to be touched by a ‘dirty old man’…and he was my grandpa…That broken fence was the only thing that held the beauty of what life could be at the time…but then isn’t that how it is in the innocence of one’s youth?
© 2004 Penny Carlton
