My daughter Kristen, or Buffy as she is known on Tybee Island has recently taken to attending the Bored meeting, the daily gathering of a collection of friends to toast life here. My son Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on the island also attends when he is in town.
My youngest daughter Chelsea, also known as Chelsea on the island, does not attend although she was raised differently from her brother and sister. She is a beach baby who learned to craw in the sand. She was born on Tybee and learned early to recognize suspicious characters which is likely why she stays away from the Bored meeting. Besides she logs many hours in the sun and likes to pick up jelly fish in front of tourists and asks if they would like to play catch. Her formative years were body surfing with me.
Jeremy and Kristen spent their formative years living in a two-bedroom apartment at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky. The other people who lived in the Church were homeless people and my older kids were greatly influenced by them.
Having learned to read at a very young age, Jeremy always had a book in his hands. I would often wander into the belly of the Chapel, the Social Hall, and Jeremy would be sitting in the lap of a homeless man teaching him how to read. He also liked to leave his clothes in the hallway and join homeless men taking baths in the baptismal pool.
Kristen was the sweetheart of the homeless guys who loved her dearly and did most anything she asked. Once they were babysitting her while their mother and I were out somewhere. When we returned, Kristen was sitting happily with four Happy Means from the McDonalds around the block in front of her. The homeless guys were all smiling.
“What in the hell?” I asked.
Chester, the oldest and most respected of the guys, answered on behalf of them. “She wanted a Happy Meal so we went out and panhandled until we got enough to get it for her.”
“Four?”
“She’s our girl and we gotta keep her happy,” he beamed.
So Jeremy and Kristen look at life with a different slant than most people. Both are extremely comfortable in any situation and with any kind of people. Conversation and introductions are easy for them. I’ve also watched them go without and never complain. Both are hard workers and they encourage people (social workers without the degree). They are story tellers and love to laugh.
All of us love hanging out together, which is different from a lot of parents with adult children. We laugh a lot when we’re together and Chelsea has to listen to the same stories over and over again of the Jeff Street days when Chester, a homeless street alcoholic for 40 years, was transformed into a grandfather of my children.
And Pouche, a handsome African-American homeless man with one front tooth missing from decay because of no insurance, would teach them classical music which he loved.
Or Bruce, a drunken country music roadie, would sing them Willie Nelson songs.
R. C. taught them how to use spray paint to write grafitti.
So my kids are a bit different because of these things.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. And today I say a prayer of thanks for this wonderful collection of friends who helped raise them.
