I was pleased to learn from George this afternoon that Ferret has a more sheltered place to stay. He moved into the heated garage of a house not far from me. The house is actually right across the street from my grandmother's house.
"Everything he owned fit in a brown paper bag except his sleeping bag and tent," George solemnly told me. "I gave him a ride up from the river. There wasn't much to move. It was sad."
"What happened to his t.v., clothes, and all the stuff at Monte's house?"
"I guess Monte threw it away or sold it," George replied. "He never came back to get it."
That made me sad hearing that. Ferret tried so hard to work, take his medications, and hold things together while he lived with Monte. All those things were hard earned and were not charity from his friends.
It is a humble start, but a garage is a much sturdier shelter than a tent in the woods. Ferret's so called landlord is a known drug dealer, though, so that alarms me about the situation. My grandmother was always complaining about the activity late at night at that house across her street. Ferret might have a drinking problem, but nothing would be worse than getting hooked on crack. I hope he keeps his head firmly upon his shoulders. With winter coming on, he needed a place to sleep that is warm and dry and I guess that garage will have to do.
George went on to talk about his mother. I adore George's mom and what George told me concerned me. George's mother is in her eighties and growing frail. I love how she always calls me, "baby."
"She's getting real forgetful," George said. "She left the oven on after cooking a pan of biscuits the other morning."
"I've done that," I replied, trying to assuage George's worries.
"That is not the only thing," George went on to tell. "She keeps asking me who some of my cousins are. She doesn't recognize them."
My grandmother had Alzheimer's and didn't even know her own son in the later stages of the disease. This news didn't bode well.
"Aricept," I told George.
"Aricept is a medication for senility and Alzheimer's. Ask her doctor about it."
I had to spell it out as George wrote it down. He assured me that he would get his mother to the doctor in the next few weeks. I would hate for something to be wrong with Mrs. Jones. She is such a dear old soul.
I seem to have the sharks circling in my comment section just waiting for me to falter and fail. It is rather amusing, in a way, that someone would expend all that energy just to take delight in my downfall and tell me about it. I was expecting some, "I told you so's," but not just so soon. I've been through much damn harder times than just having a morning drink and a lunchtime beer. I lasted six months homeless in the woods by sheer determination. Don't count me out just yet. I get tired of everything having to be so black and white -- so polarized and divided. I see it in every facet of our society these days.
I am headed back down to the old cotton mill to camp tonight. I just have to wait on my father to bring my nightly medications. I am going to sit in my tent Indian style until late in the evening as I listen to the radio from far flung cities like Chicago and New Orleans after dark. Looking out my tent door at the horizon over the Chattahoochee -- a skyline that brings me joy. I may even build a small fire outside my tent. I went and bought a pint of Southern Comfort to keep me company and to chase away the blues. It is going to be grand and much needed evening. I will feel like the hobos of yesteryear.