A G-Rated “TRASHY” love story.

by Vonda Roloff

 

     Someday I will die.  That is inevitable.  I’m ready for that and have no fear.  But since there will be no UHaul trucks taking my stuff with me to heaven, that means that it will all be left for someone else to sort, sell, throw, keep and give away.  I’ve never been fastidious about tidiness.  I love order and cleanliness but I’m not the kind of person who covers their spotless sofa with plastic slipcovers and follows behind you with a coaster and a duster.  Those people make me nervous. 

 

     You see, I’m an artist.  And being an artist who utilizes lots of found objects in my work, I do have an amazing amount of things that are interesting and unusual and they surround me in my everyday world.  They sit and wait to be integrated and upcycled into something of great significance.   

 

      So, imagine the day when someone is there; cleaning out my cabinets, bookcases and drawers and they come across a little bitty Mylar heart about 1.5 inches wide.  The color has faded, it is wrinkled and doesn’t look like all that much.  They may just sweep it into the trash as if it has no value. It certainly doesn’t look like it has any value.  It is not expensive jewelry or art or stocks and bonds.  I think on the scale of value, most people would rate it as trash, just some flotsam and jetsam of my ordinary life.  And they would be right in one aspect; it did come out of the trash, but not my trash. 

 

     It was just an ordinary fall day in Oregon, biting cold, with just a few days to go before Thanksgiving.  My husband was craving sweets so I said, “I’ll run down to the little bread outlet store where they carry your favorite snack cakes and get some for you.”

 

     When I got there, I pulled into the parking lot and got out of the driver’s side.  Looking to the left, I saw three men, a girl and a dog sitting on the curb of the adjoining car wash.  I knew they were homeless because I had seen that look many times before and always interpreted it correctly.

 

     I walked over and knelt down to talk to the girl.  She was a young woman who was hesitant to meet my eyes. When she did, I saw hurt and pain and I thought of a wounded little bird.  Her hands and nails were dirty, very dirty, but her hands had rings on almost every finger.  I remember thinking that she had that need for beauty and femininity.

 

     She had her dog sitting next to her.  I said to her, “I wanted to come over and see if your dog could use any food.  My little dog just died and I have lots of food and other things and would like to know if I could bring them to you.”  She said they would wait while I went home, packed up my car and came back.  I went home and asked my husband to come back with me. He agreed and so we packed up the car and went back.

 

     Thus began an unusual relationship with Jenny, Mike, Rick, Aron and Patches (the dog).

 

     When we asked what they were doing for Thanksgiving, they invited us to go with them to a Thanksgiving meal at a church.  We went as their guests.  We began to connect with them on a regular basis.  We were invited to their home, a disheveled mess of broken trash and soggy mattresses under a bridge next to a creek.  They had established a camp there and that is where they lived.  

 

      And although Jenny was the only young woman who lived there, she had made her mark.  She had her dog that she was very bonded with. She had little stuffed animals and glittery, sparkly things that she had taken out of dumpsters and brought home.

 

    They began to trust us enough to tell us their stories and call us when they went to the hospital or had other needs.  The resolve to do what I could to help Jenny out of this tragic mess was compelled by realizing the intimate price she paid for the men’s protection.  I took her to the doctor when she had appointments and she gradually began to open up to me, telling me a story of bad choices, loss, pain and her children.  She spoke often of her three children, 2 who lived in the custody of her ex-husband and one she never saw.  Taken to the hospital while pregnant, she had been honest with the staff about her situation and drug use. This resulted in the removal and adoption of the baby after his birth. 

 

     I listened and encouraged her to take small steps, getting her identification, etc.  And as she began to make those changes, I was so happy. I knew she was getting stronger and beginning to pull away from the life she was in.

 

     One night we took a good hot meal down under the bridge to them.  She told me that she loved me and gave me a little heart.  It was sparkly Mylar and was crumpled and she apologized as she said that it had come out of the trash.

 

     Mike, her “boyfriend” was in the hospital with a serious medical situation when our phone rang. We knew he was very ill and so when the caller id showed the hospital’s name my husband answered immediately. He listened for a minute and then handed me the phone.  Mike was on the phone sobbing and when I finally got him calmed down he said, “Jenny is dead!  She died last night.”  I remember staggering under the horrible news, my stomach turning, my heart broken.

 

     That previous night, she was alone.  None of the men were at her camp and she had gone over to another nearby camp about a block away.  I knew she would have wanted company that night in particular.  That night was her son’s birthday, the one taken away at birth. She had spoken often of him and with much love but still so much sorrow.  She did not know who had adopted him or if she would ever see him again.

 

     Jenny’s cause of death?  I never asked what it was that brought this young woman to die alone on the large jagged rocks under the gray, dark bridge.  It was not the things I overheard in whispers because I knew the truth and it was very clear.  She died of a broken heart! 

 

     A birthday is about celebration, excitement, family, gifts and friends. Some of the family was there, two of her three children, stunned and grieving.  There were gifts and there were friends.  But this day would not be a day of celebration.

 

    The memorial service was on her 34^th birthday, upstream from the final place where she had last closed her eyes.  I brought a massive bunch of fragrant lilacs as large as a laundry tub.  This was my gift that day to honor her life and purple was her favorite color.  I picked them, breaking the lush boughs off of my bushes at home, as tears fell, so many tears.  Tears of pain; that her life was over. Tears of gratitude; for having known her. Tears for the paradox that life was hard and yet beautiful at the same time.

 

     A homeless ministry that had tried to catch her fall was there and led the service.  I met many, many of her friends, people currently homeless and my circle was expanded.  We connected with a team that pre-cooked and fed at the local park, a meal that was free to all who came, every Saturday at noon.  I volunteered to cook.  Sometimes there were 30 plus who came to eat, sometimes 50 or more.  I would see the small children there with their mothers, my heart so burdened and breaking at the indecency of it all.

 

     I understood that they had to get back the crucial element of who they were and to understand how valuable they were, not an object identified with their circumstances, forced to use and utilize any means necessary to help take care of themselves and their children no matter how degrading it was.

 

     And so when you see my art and it tells a story about someone lost, or hurting or sad but it also shows hope and redemption, it’s because that is when the real reason to create art and the purpose for my life became crystal clear. That is when I got my passion to tell stories. Because like a journalist embedded in a war, I was embedded in the battle for her life and I give back in remembrance of my dear friend Jenny.  She would always introduce me as her friend, and I was. She had given me a little heart and had told me how much she loved me.

 

     But it isn’t the little Mylar heart that is the treasure taken out of the trash.  The treasure was Jenny, who shyly offered me her greatest treasure; her heart.  Thinking back, I’ve realized that it was right around Valentines Day when she gave me that little heart and said, “I Love You.”

 

      My connection with her broke my heart: broke it wide OPEN and I’ve never been the same.

 

 

(This story is true.  It happened about 8 years ago. Her name was changed to protect her identity.)

 

If your heart has been broken OPEN, will you please give to where they are making a difference in women and their children’s lives?  Thanks so much. Happy Valentines Day.

• To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, and irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.                                                                   
• Quotation by C.S. Lewis  The Four Loves (1960)

 

 

 

 

Copyright 2009 Vonda Roloff