Not a day goes by without old memories resurfacing. I have no idea where I left off on my first year of street living story. Not sure I told much about the second stint.
The other week or a month ago as I was walking up Elm Street a guy walking alongside of me spoke and I asked if his name was Ritchie Rich. He said: my name is Ritchie, but not Rich, I am hardly rich. I knew his face. I am sure I know him from the streets; ie: another homeless cat. Did I write about the guy who called himself Ritchie Rich? Dunno.
When I saw that guy, the old memory came back instantly. Sitting on the steps at the church by McDonalds talking to Ritchie Rich. Of course I met a lot of Richards, Rich's, Rickey's and I suppose Ritchie's. Mark, Al, Debbie, Eddie, Dave, Tom, Joe...
I think of the people I knew the most or spent the most time with more often than the other random people. I will sometimes see the random person or a sudden memory pops back to mind. Sometimes just a face with no name. Other times the name returns with the memory. I miss those days and remind myself of how hard it actually was. It was like being a part of a community. A family. A long time neighborhood resident. The shared experiences that one does not have in common with homed people.
Something like that.
1 comment:
Thank you for your blog. I have spent hours over the past few days reading the whole thing, and you have some incredible memories. I, too, suffered a severe head injury, and I know how frustrating it can be to try to regain those memories. Anyway, you mentioned a few times that you wanted to receive comments, so I just wanted you to know that people are reading and appreciating your story. Thank you.
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