An Uncommon Miracle

Just because a story's old doesn't mean it's not still good.  The following often pops back into my mind, particularly when I'm considering the 'miraculous' events of my life which cannot be explained; we've all had them.  I know I've told it to a number of people, so naturally I assumed I included it in a blog post.  Turns out I haven't, so I hope you enjoy it now.  

Back in 2012, BC and I were living in my 1990, 16-foot travel trailer in southern Oregon, where I attempted to support us with artwork, dog-sitting, part-time jobs, bartering and selling anything of value. The economy was terrible and I wasn't receiving any Federal or State financial aid; only loans and charity from relatives and friends.

My first F150, with flames and bullet hole stickers, I bought for $500 worth of repairs.  It was a gas guzzler: $10 just to get back and forth to the nearest grocery store.  I didn't have money to buy or credit to finance something else, so I put an ad on Craigslist to trade the truck for a car; an even swap.  My friends were skeptical, until I showed them my Saturn.

Back then I still had some real enthusiasm and optimism, and went about creating, selling and promoting my little dog-treat baking-mix business, Woofers and Tweeters.

It was a good concept, healthy ingredients, and I used local products like Bob's Red Mill and formed a legal agreement with Dogs for the Deaf to donate a percentage of proceeds for their endorsement.

I pulled the whole thing together in this tiny space: developing the recipes and drawing on prior experience working in advertising to design packaging and promotional material.  I packaged everything myself in a production line, working like a you-know-what yet earning next to nothing.  Every cent either went back into the business or BC's care.

Red pkgs; early design

After successfully marketing at grocery, health-food and pet stores in the area, I planned to expand throughout the Northwest, driving and working out of the RV; and down the road maybe start up a cottage industry which would employ part-time students, mothers, and others needing a little extra cash and alot of flexibility; kinda like Avon.  An old fashioned idea, perhaps, but at the time it was my dream.  Thanks to an unexpected windfall from a dear friend, I signed up for the fall Portland Pet Expo, which I hoped would be terrific exposure.

But before I got there, I shot myself in the foot by arguing with the park owner about their new 5-plant maximum rule and, short story, in the heat of the moment Amy popped up and gave 30 days notice.  Only problem:  I no longer had a truck to pull my trailer.

I told friends and neighbors about my dilemma, so if they heard of an affordable truck for sale to please let me know. As it happened, a lumberjack-looking guy moving in next door overheard me, and stopped assembling his giant smoker to come say, Howdy.

"I have a friend who's got a truck he's been wanting to get rid of - it would pull your little trailer. He lives up in the mountains - I can take you there tomorrow. We can use his hot tub and maybe watch a movie."

"Uhhh...I don't think so..."

"That's alright; we can go and then have dinner when we come back. We can leave around 9."

I was non-committal except about agreeing to look at the truck, I was feeling desperate.

So the next morning I'm sitting at my table, thinking, "Nobody knows where I'm going; nobody knows this guy; nobody knows where he's taking me; if anything happens, who'll care for BC?"

I tried to quiet my nerves by unsuccessfully recalling prayers, but you can't help but imagine such things nowadays, esp. in Oregon. I better leave a note explaining where (I thought) I'd gone and with who; the owners must have SOME info. A sudden knock at the door shocked my heart into my throat and I was resigned to accept my fate; but it was my neighbor on the other side, who I'd not yet met.

"My wife said you're looking for a truck. I went out this morning and my truck wouldn't start. I know what it is; had the same problem a couple of times already. It's about a $300 fix but I'm sick of dealing with it. We have another vehicle and aren't planning to move our rig anywhere, so if you want it, you can have it."

I 'd only met his wife that afternoon as she passed while I was tending my garden. I was speechless, you can imagine; and after several Abbuda Abbuda's we were in agreement, I couldn't thank him enough.

"You can have my Saturn, of course."

"No...you keep it. You'll need the money."

In an instant I went from fearing Deliverence to having my need fully met. My (new) F150 was from 1986 and my neighbor, the original owner, kept it in tip-top shape.  He'd had a carpentry business and added a canopy in the back for sleeping. BC and I headed out on our adventure.

Shortly after leaving was when I first encountered vehicle-age discrimination in RV parks, and instead of marketing my business my focus was entirely fixed on finding and affording a safe place to park.

During the next decade of struggle, I unintentionally began a one-woman crusade to fight this discrimination, and share information and experiences while navigating the bureaucratic path of economic aid, later shining a spotlight on the homeless crisis.  Finally, they're addressing these problems, I suspect that'll go on for some time.  But I took to heart Miguel's advice back then,

"You might not be the one to bring about change; but you can help keep the idea alive until change comes about."

After the Expo finished, I house-sat throughout the winter in Albany, OR.  I'd walk BC around the neighborhood without a phone or ID, always have.  No one knew who I was - you know people don't talk to their neighbors like before.  If I dropped dead while walking BC, I'd be in Potter's Field before anyone could identify me.

So I put together my personal If Found Dead card, top photo, which I slipped inside a luggage tag and attached to my clothing, since a purse can be snatched.  A friend suggested I re-name the card, so I changed it to, "Who Am I?  Someone who Counts."

Sounds silly perhaps, but if you're on the street, it's not a bad idea.  The Mayor of Albany didn't think so, either, and asked permission to scan my card for fanny-packs with essentials they were putting together to pass out to the homeless.  I have no idea what became of the idea, but that wasn't my responsibility.  You do what you can.

So there you go, hope you enjoyed my 'miracle'.  Remember your own.