This morning Denise over at My Life in Retirement reposted something she’d written in January 2010. It was such a beautiful and thought-provoking post (especially in our political climate these days) that I wanted to reblog it (but couldn’t figure out how!). It’s a post after my own heart. I hope it touches you in a special way, and thanks, Denise, for letting me borrow it in full.
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January 19, 2010
Live long enough you will meet plenty of characters, or at least get to see them; everyday folks who wander past your life, through your life, or hang out there in your peripheral vision. Forty some odd years ago (gee, that makes me sound ancient) a ‘character’ occasionally passed in my periphery. I say in my ‘periphery’ ’cause if I saw her I trekked to the other side – of the street that is.
I never knew her full name until today when I read her obituary in the Detroit News. Her name was Stella Paris and she died at 97. She was one of so many homeless people I would see hanging around the Greektown area where I spent most of my time from 1966 til 1977, either attending classes at Wayne State’s Medical School or working at Detroit Receiving Hospital.
Frankly, Stella scared the dickens out of me. She reminded my of one of our old neighbor ladies who chased kids with a rolling pin. Not that Stella was violent, she was more ‘creepy’. Standing on the corner yelling in some strange language, some of it Greek, some not. One of my co-workers used to give her money. Me, I never got that close. You just never knew.
When I read the paper this morning and saw the story, I realized that never once did I ever think about the homeless folks who would often sleep in front of the heat vents in front of the hospital after I left my job. I never wondered what happened in their lives that caused them to be on the streets when I was working there. Was it their choice, or someone else’s?
As for Stella, no one seems to know what her story really was. I would hope that at some point in her long life she was important to someone. And that whatever demons seemed to haunt her all those years on the streets found their rest long before she finally did.
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January 21, 2010
Well, just when you thought no one knew her, Stella Paris, that is, here comes her son giving an interview to the local paper. Turns out that Stella was a mail-order bride from Greece in 1938. An unhappy bride. She had three sons with her husband; one son is now deceased. She left her husband and children in the 50’s and started living in Greektown. Sadly, until reading their mother’s death notice in the paper, they had not known of her whereabouts for the last 15 years.
Thanks to the Greektown merchants, Stella was laid to rest at their expense this morning. May she truly rest in peace.
Since writing this I have often wondered how many folks are out there lost in this world to friends and family.
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Picture Source: Winkgo
Impromptu Promptlings 
This post made my heart ache. I fear for my son’s future.
A few years ago the remains of a body was found in some bushes close to a sidewalk in our town. He was a local addict who’d got out of prison, bought drugs, and OD’d. It was rumoured on the street that he died in the home of the the guy who sold him the drugs, and his body was dumped.He was known around town, but no-one asked any questions or cared that he’d disappeared. He hadn’t even been reported missing.
Thank you for re-posting , Calen. We should never let our compassion slide.
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I was hoping he was doing well since you hadn’t said much about him lately. I guess not, though, huh?
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I don’t know. I saw him today – the first time in a while. Laura had discarded all her old stuff and left them with her dad. Him and Paul brought them into Oxfam. I was glad I was there – I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to sort them. It was horrible, but all her past is cleared out now. Paul’s GF was in the car. She didn’t speak to me. He says he’s clean, and it may be true, but he’s not well. He’s lonely and isolated, but there’s nothing I can do. His GF wouldn’t allow him to see me, and if she did it would damage us both. I trigger his addiction. I try not to think about it but it’s eating me up.
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You and I so need to have a conversations about our sons…
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I wonder at what kind of home would be so bad that one cannot go home again. I know it is “proper” to think “homeless” are there because they have no choice, but I know some are there because they didn’t choose to be home. Either way, it is a desperate way to live. I’m guessing that son would have helped if Stella had reached to him. Great post.
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Yes, I think you’re right, Oneta. There are just some people who can’t live with their families for one reason or another. Some who don’t like to be kept in one place. So many reasons. It’s hard to understand, isn’t it…
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That is so sad.
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Would really like to know her story… AND her son’s.
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In the 90’s I worked in the office of a psychiatric hospital. The office floor was sandwiched between the patient floors, with a number key pad for entrance. One long term patient knew the code and would wander in. She was non communicative and seemed heavily medicated. Turns out she was a medical student in the 60’s from a wealthy family and had a nervous breakdown. So sad 😦
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That kind of job can really mess with your head. My daughter has a degree in social work. She lasted a year then went to work for a construction company.
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You might enjoy the book Annie’s Ghosts by Steve Luxenberg. He discovers a family member who was shut away in a mental facility and forgotten about. Takes place here in the Detroit area.
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Well that would be a surprise, wouldn’t it?
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That was a moving piece! So many stories. So much suffering. All with their reasons.
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You know, Opher, we want to look for our commonality as a human race in love, but sometimes I think we miss the boat. Suffering is where we all touch each other. Maybe not to the same degree as someone else’s, but we all know what it feels like to have a broken heart and be hopeless. We need to open our eyes to that reality, too.
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