Living in the Wash

Taos Bubbe and I have started walking the Chuck Huckleberry Loop again.  We start early in the morning, before it's too hot.  The path goes behind office complexes and apartments sprawled over paved lots, separated from the path by fencing, or low border ledges, or sometimes nothing at all.  Large trees shade the path and provide screening for the residents and worker bees.

Underneath those large trees, on the grassy verge between exercise and real life, there are tents.  There are bbq's and lawn chairs and laundry lines.  There are fire pits and piles of beer cans.  There are people engaged in meaningful conversations with invisible interlocutors.  

When there are others on the Loop, we continue walking past the encampments.  When there's no one else around, we turn back.  We are sympathetic to their plight.  We are also scared out of our wits. 

Yesterday there were tree trimmers clearing the overhanging branches sheltering one of these gathering spots.  Nestled against a chain link fence, shaded by the Desert Willow, lives were on full display as the workers chopped and security personnel from the neighboring apartment complex looked on.

One gentleman was almost through packing up his life.  A grandma shopping cart (the kind little old ladies take to the store then shlep behind themselves on the way home)

was surrounded by a colorful plastic storage tote or two

and several oversized shopping bags (think IKEA size).

The man himself was neatly dressed.  His belongings were secured with bungee cords.

I have all these items at home.

So did he.

Something is not right.