You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

GLORIA

“Where did you get the navy sweater?” I was asked while having our weekly breakfast with other old men. “I got it from a homeless woman,” I answered. My friend’s raised eyebrows demanded an explanation.

“Several years ago, when there were two separate homeless campsites in the woods near our house in Astoria Oregon. A slender woman could be seen there wandering among the trees, though she did not appear to be associated with the camps. She looked to be around 40 years old. She would show up on sunny mornings, wandering through the woods picking up trash left by the homeless campers. We could see her and hear her, from the windows of our house, which overlook the woods. She sang as she wandered among the trees. It was not a song you would recognize but rather a series of lilting vocalizations that seemed to echo among the trees and find its way up to our window. Her songs were without words. Her melodies meandered aimlessly, much as she did, as she moved among the ferns, from discarded cans to abandoned dirty shirts, collecting trash. It was pleasant to see glimpses of her among the trees and to hear her lilting mezzo-soprano voice. Her presents seemed especially nice because she was, in her own way, cleaning the forest. When she had collected a handful of homeless discards, she would take it to a central location and deposit it in a pile.

We would occasionally encounter her while walking in the neighborhood. I introduced my self and she said her name was Gloria. While homeless people, especially women, are very secretive about where they sleep, with out being asked, Gloria told me that she had found a place to sleep under the back porch of the Lutheran Church. “It is dry there” she said, “because its under the roof.” I asked about her collecting trash. She explained “Oh that, I pile it up, and then on my way into town, I take a few things from the pile and throw them in the hospital dumpsters.”

On the hill, overlooking the woods, stands a cluster of maple trees the roots of which form the roof over a cave. I suppose that it was formed by erosion, though raccoons may have excavated it. Regardless of how it was formed, they used the cave for their den.

One morning I noticed the homeless diva crawling up the steep bank in front of the cave. She was dragging a bundle of things up the bank, things that she stashed in the cave. Her cache did not stay in the cave for long. The raccoons took offense at human junk in their home and pushed it out, down the bank. Her treasures lay scattered at the bottom of the steep slope, in the rain, where we could see them from our window. Carole and I decided to restore our natural view by collecting her junk and putting it into our garbage bin. Upon climbing up the hill, to collect it, we discovered that among the useless items, were two that were keepers. Both were US Coast Guard issue. One was a very sturdy duffle bag. And the other,” as I told my friends at the old men’s breakfast,” was this coastguard sweater that I am wearing now.”

Eventually, the woods were posted, “NO CAMPING” by the city. The homeless camps were cleared out. Our siren of the forest was no longer to be seen or heard among the trees. A couple of years later Carole and I encountered her one evening while volunteering at the Astoria Winter Warming Center for the homeless. Gloria was there. She was volunteering also. She had enrolled in the Helping Hands residential treatment program. She was performing a public service as required by that organization.

I have not seen Gloria since that night, however Carole said that she had encountered Gloria at the grocery store. She was with her adult daughter.