Grant

  I was called into the office of the USC Supportive Housing in January 2012 and got some distressing news.  The grant that was paying for my housing at Villa Hermosa was expiring in April.  What did that mean?  I would be losing my apartment and would have to move out.  They assured me that I would not be going back out on the street.  They told me that they would find another place for me to stay through the Columbia Housing Authority.  It seemed the grant was for only two years.  That was strange, because I knew people in the program who had lived in their place longer than two years.  

 Being on the street gave me trust issues.  I couldn't trust many people.  After all, I trusted a guy that told me I could move into a house behind Whaley Street.  That offer fell through.  I trusted the hospital to provide a warm place for me.  They kicked me out.  And now, I had trusted that I had a place of my own, and it was going away.  I kept my post office box just in case I had nowhere to go.  Good call, Walter.

 I put in my application at the Columbia Housing Authority.  There was a long waiting list, although I was told that I would be put near the top of the list, since I was in a housing program.  That was some consolation.  I just couldn't tell anybody.  No sense for more jealousy like I got getting off of the street.  This was an emergency.  And, the "little white boy" wouldn't be around anymore.  I was told of some properties that were about to be open.  I did crime report checks and then would turn down the offers.  My neighborhood was no bed of roses, but the places offered were worse.  I seriously didn't want to live in a place where the police didn't like to visit.  I did start to box up my belongings, because I might get a safe place, or I would have to get another storage locker and move all my stuff back in there.  I had a homeless friend who lived in his storage locker.  I could see me doing that too.  

Mail

  When I moved into my apartment in 2010, our mail boxes were located inside the building's front door. Each apartment had their own box.  Each apartment had their own key.  My box's lock was broken.  I had asked the apartment manager to fix the lock, but they weren't good about doing it.  After all, the manager's office was across town on Fort Jackson Blvd., and they never came out to our place.  We had to mail our rent checks to that office.  Stuff just never got fixed.  That also explained the science experiment that they were growing in the swimming pool.  

 So, back to the mail box.  The carrier would put my mail in my box and shut the door, even though the lock was broken.  He understood that our management was slack.  One day, we got a new mail carrier.  He wouldn't put my mail in my box, because the lock was broken.  If I was there, I could catch him and get my mail.  However, if I wasn't there when the mail came, I wouldn't get any mail, because he refused to put it in the box.  My apartment was about 50 feet from the box.  He could have easily knocked on my door, but he didn't care.  One time when I was there, he gave me a tub of mail that he had in the back of his truck that had gathered over a week.  What about bills?  What about important correspondence?  He didn't care.  I asked him why he put mail in boxes that houses had on the street with no locks, and he told me that was different.  Fighting the post office was very stressful.  Not getting mail was very stressful.  Trying to be logical with them was even worse.  

 Our post office was a mile away, if one walked through neighborhoods.  After pulling out my hair over this situation, I decided to get a post office box at the branch rather than dealing with the bureaucracy.  I walked to the post office three times a week to get my mail.  It was good exercise, but it was also very frustrating.  Eventually, the apartment manager "got around" to fixing the lock on my box, and I could give up the post office box.  This ordeal lasted nine months.  Having to do two change of address forms during that time was even worse.  They say you can't fight city hall.  The post office is worse.  

Close

  My church has special events from time to time.  First Baptist Columbia is known for that.  There was one special event I couldn't miss.  It was a Sunday evening with Cliff Barrows and George Beverly Shea.  They were great friends of Billy Graham and was with him on his crusades around the world.  Cliff would direct the choirs, and Bev would do the solos.

 This evening, they were guests of our Minister of Music Steve Phillips.  They sat on the rostrum and told stories of their experiences with Dr. Graham and the crusades.  During the hour, they also sang hymns of faith.  It was the closest thing to Heaven that I had ever encountered.  I just sat in awe of the two of these humble men who had gotten so much fame over the years, but it didn't go to their heads.  They were of a generation, much like my father, who did God's work for Him, not for them.  Ego is a terrible thing in the ministry.  These men did not have that problem.  

 There is a difference between preachers and pastors.  Preachers are up there to preach, and that's all.  Pastors care about their flocks, also known as their church members.  There are some great preachers out there.  I have known many.  But, I have also known many who get self-absorbed by their adoring members who worship the preacher and not God.  These preachers forget why God called them into the ministry in the first place.  Pastors are generally humble people.  They don't care about the fame.  They have been called to do God's work, and they do it with caring and love for others.  When I met Billy Graham back in 1964, and you can search for that story in my blog, I thought of him as great.  I also saw he could laugh with my father about the incident the year before.  He was just an ordinary man and doing extraordinary things for God.  Cliff and Bev also fit into that category.  That night with the two of them was one of the highlights of my life.

 After it was over, I had to walk home.  I couldn't afford a taxi, and the buses weren't running.  I was hoping that I wouldn't run into anyone along the way home in the dark.  I got up to Earlewood Park, and a man asked me for a cigarette.  I just said no and kept walking.  That neighborhood at night can be dangerous, but I made it home without incident.  What a night!

Disability

  After consulting with USC Supportive Housing, it was decided that I should apply for Social Security Disability.  One reason was that I would have more money than I had.  I was getting $90/month in a Belk pension.  HUD would take a portion of that for my rent, which came out to $17/month.  If I got disability, I would have to pay more in rent, but I would also have more money for other things.  I also got Food Stamps.

 Due to my lack of stamina from the pneumonia and the health issues from sleeping on concrete, they thought I would be a good candidate for it.  The catch was to find a lawyer that would take my case.  I made an appointment to see a lawyer on Taylor Street.  She had looked at my claim and declared that I didn't have a case.  I wasn't disabled enough.  I went back to the USC office and told them.  It was a setback, but they told me about another lawyer who might do better.

 Her office was on Bull Street.  They took cases for free.  I had my medical records with me, and she told me that I had a case.  I am guessing the first lawyer just didn't want to be bothered with a pro bono case.  So, my new lawyer scheduled me to be evaluated by a doctor.  His office was on Devine Street.  His examination was a little strange.  I laid down on a table, and he asked me to raise my legs as high as I could.  I got about six inches off of the table.  He then took my legs and raised them further to almost a 90-degree angle.  In the process, he pulled my hamstring.  He then asked me to get up off of the table.  I got dizzy and almost fell down.  He wrote up his report and sent it to my lawyer.

 The next step was to get a stress test at the hospital.  I was given a sheet of instructions.  One of them said not to eat for 8 hours prior to the test.  My appointment was at 2pm, so I had no breakfast or lunch.  When I got to the hospital, I asked the front desk where the office was that I needed to go to.  They told me to follow the green line on the floor.  I did that and found myself in the parking lot.  Wrong way.  A nurse happened by, and I asked her where the office was.  She took me there.  It wasn't anywhere near the green line.  The examiners were nice.  After doing triage, they had me get on a treadmill and start walking.  A few minutes later, I was about to pass out.  They gave me some orange juice and cookies and asked why I was so dizzy.  I told them it was because the sheet said not to eat before coming.  They told me that was a mistake.  Mindreading is not one of my talents.  So, I left there and walked up to Burger King and chowed down.

 It came time for my hearing before a judge.  They told me that it was at the Strom Thurmond Building.  I went to the Federal Building but found that there was another building with the same name some six blocks away.  I got there in time for the hearing.  My lawyer told me that this judge was strict, but we had a good case.  We went into a small room.  There was enough space for the judge, a stenographer, two lawyers and me.  My lawyer told me to answer questions from the judge truthfully.  I did.  He asked me what kind of work did I do before becoming homeless.  I told him that I had done retail.  My lawyer said that I had lost stamina and could not do the work I had done in the past.  The judge then asked if I could sit on a stool behind a register, and I said yes, but that most stores were not set up that way.  He then suggested that I get a job at Walmart as a cashier sitting on a stool.  I told him that they didn't have those.  I guess he didn't like my attitude, because my claim was denied.  My lawyer apologized to me, and said there wasn't more she could do for me.  Case closed.

 So, I never got Social Security Disability.  Even though, I deserved to get it.  There was a guy I knew who got his on his first try, before going before a judge.  He went out and bought a moped.  It was stolen the next day.  

Gingerbread

  After doing the narration for the July 4th musical in Lancaster, I was thinking about going back to my first love, which was acting.  I got an email one day from one of my drama mentors--Catherine Eaker.  She and her husband Gene had been the head of the Drama Department at Columbia College for a lot of years.  My first real acting experience was to work with 16 high school students from around the city back in 1970-71 at Columbia College and being directed by Catherine.  The education that I learned in that semester was invaluable.  Then, I was asked by her to perform in the lead role of  "The Butterfly That Blushed" in 1981.  Again, I learned a lot from her.  She set me on the course to act in plays, films and TV.  I was also inspired by her to write plays and perform them.

 Catherine invited me to join her Gingerbread Theatre company to do one of her original plays at the Greek Festival in 2011.  I was flattered.  It was a three-person play.  The other two were Gene Eaker and a girl I didn't know.  The day before our first rehearsal, I threw my back out getting off of the couch.  I had back problems for many years, but things got worse from sleeping on concrete for six months.  The rehearsal was at the College Place Methodist Church on the other side of Columbia College.  I hobbled two blocks from my apartment over there.  I got the script, and we did a read-through.  I had a good time with them.

 I took the script back to my apartment and began trying to learn the lines.  I hadn't had trouble in the past learning lines, but this time was different.  I was working out blocking (movement) for the stage and voice inflections.  I was analyzing emotions and character development.  All the things one did to get a good performance.  There are many kinds of acting preparation.  Mine comes from figuring out who the character's traits are and reactions to events.  Some actors get so immersed in the process that they become that character away from the production.  That's called "Method Acting".  I am not a method actor.  I am an experience-based actor.  It is called "Sense Memory".  That's why some people are amazed about what I can remember.  It is based on my work as an actor.  I remember an emotion, and how I felt.  I then project that into my character to make it believable.  But, this time was different.

 I first noticed that my voice was weaker.  I had less stamina to stand on stage for very long.  My breathing was labored.  I was having trouble with the lines.  Things were not going well.  I realized that the 6 months worth of pneumonia that I had, when I was homeless, had taken its toll on my lungs.  The sleeping outside on concrete had caused my joints to hurt.  I began to cry.  I realized that I could no longer act in anything I had not written.  With my Bible-character monologues, I could put in pauses to help with my stamina.  To do something that someone else had written, I couldn't do a character in the professional way I had been trained.  In acting, I am a perfectionist.  I am a technician.  If I can't do it the best way I know how, then I am not going to do it.  I had to reluctantly call Catherine and tell her that my body was just not up to the rigors of a play.  

 I had been acting in plays since I was 11 years old.  I had been given accolades for my acting in 4 schools.  I had gotten awards for my work.  I had worked with some of the greats of stage and screen.  Now, all I had were my memories.  Someone once called me a "legend" in acting circles.  Maybe I was.  I was.

Bluff

  I had put all of my stuff in storage at a place off of Bluff Road in Columbia, while I was homeless.  When I got off of the street, it became necessary to get my stuff back and put it in my new apartment.  There was a bus stop within 50 feet of my door.  The bus would go into town, and then the bus route number would change to reflect going to Bluff Road, but I didn't need to change buses.  There was a stop right across the street from the storage place.  I had to cross four lanes of traffic, but it wasn't too bad.  After picking up some stuff, I could get back on the bus the next hour and go back to my apartment without having to change buses.  It worked out well.

 I took my backpack on my trips, which averaged 3 times a week.  I would pick up clothes, videotapes, records, books, and other things.  It actually took about eight months to get everything moved.  My best friend for 20 years agreed to help me with some of the bigger stuff like bookcases, and my bed frame.  He had been wanting my "A Hard Day's Night" framed movie poster, and I agreed to give it to him as payment to help me move my stuff.  The poster was worth some money, but I was willing to let it go.  If you would recall, my friend's name was Del.  He was 1/3 of The Cobbwebs band.  After he helped with two trips of the big stuff, I gave the poster to him.  He didn't help any more.  A couple of months after that, Del wrote on Facebook some criticism about his brother.  I contacted his brother to say I was sorry about what Del wrote.  His brother told Del that I had said something, and Del got mad at me.  He didn't want anything to do with me, despite our 20-year friendship.  He also got mad at Chris, who was also 1/3 of The Cobbwebs, because Chris took Del's brother's side.  The Cobbwebs basically ended as a band after that, at least in its current form.  I don't think Del realized that putting something out on social media means everyone can see it.  Anyway, Del won't speak to Chris or me.  No communication whatsoever.  I did see him at a Newt Gingrich rally at the State House a couple of years later.  I was shaking Newt's hand.  Del was about three feet from me.  I said hello.  He looked right through me.  In going through the South Carolina Treasurer's website of unclaimed money, I saw that Del had some money coming to him.  I emailed him to tell him about it but got no response from him.  I heard from someone that he would see the email was from me, so he wouldn't open it.  I eventually wrote a letter to his parents and asked them to tell Del about the money.  I have often wondered whatever happened to Del.  He was a good friend.  We had a lot in common.  I even tried apologizing to him for something I didn't do, but he wouldn't open the email or a letter I wrote to him.  He would enjoy seeing my collectibles now.  His loss.

 I finally was able to get the last of my stuff from storage with the help of my friend Weesie.  We threw a lot of stuff away like stereo equipment and big speakers.  I closed out my account with the storage facility, and I could finally call my apartment home.  Oh, I also heard later that Del sold the movie poster, because he needed the money.  It was worth about $2000.  I don't think Del got that.  All the best, Del.

Eyes

  I had worn glasses since the 4th grade.  It was obvious then, because I couldn't see the blackboard in class.  For those of you who don't know what a blackboard is, ask your mother or grandmother.  I wore thick glasses, because I was severely nearsighted and had an astigmatism.  As time wore on, I had to get bifocals.  That was hard to get used to, and I kept tripping on curbs and steps.  But, things got worse.  When I was walking and came to an intersection, I would see three cars instead of two, or two cars instead of one.  Sometimes, I would have to guess which one was real to cross the street.  When I was in church, I had to sit close to the front to be able to read the song lyrics on the big screens.  I was going blind.

 Because I didn't have any insurance, I needed to see an eye doctor who would take indigent patients.  I looked around town, but I couldn't find any.  I reached out to an old friend from church named Rick Milne.  He was an ophthalmologist in Columbia with a thriving practice.  I asked him who in Columbia did eye work on indigents?  He said for me to come see him.  I told him that I couldn't afford him.  After all, they had commercials on TV.  He said for me to come see him.  So, I made an appointment and went to see Rick.  He examined me and told me I had cataracts and needed surgery to remove them and put in new lenses.  How much would that cost?  He told me not to worry about it.  He would do it for free.  Tears flowed.  I was given some eye drops to prepare for the upcoming surgery.  I hated that.

 My brother took me to the surgical center.  The nurses prepared me.  They were going to do one eye, and then the other in two weeks.  I asked why not both eyes at the same time?  They said because I might have an infection and would need one working eye at a time.  Before the procedure began, Rick said a prayer over me to calm me down.  It was beautiful.  They gave me an anesthetic for my eye, but I was awake the entire time.  The surgery went well.  I was given a plastic patch to wear over my eye for a couple of nights, while I slept, to avoid me scratching my eyes.  I also got more eye drops. 

 I noticed something amazing about the brain.  When one eye is not good, and the other one is, the brain will recognize the good eye as to one to see through.  I could see great out of my new eye, even though the cataracts hadn't been removed from the other eye.  It was weird.  I went back for the second eye procedure.  It went well, since I knew what to expect.  Rick said that I could throw away my old glasses, but I would need reading glasses for up close stuff.  My brother took me to the dollar store afterwards, and I bought two pairs.  I also had to start wearing sunglasses when outside during the day.  There was a glare in my eyes.  Rick said he had put UV lenses in my eyes, but I still needed the sunglasses.  They make me look cool now.

 As a result of this surgery, I found out some amazing things.  Things that may sound trivial to some.  I could see leaves on trees.  I discovered that there were place names on TV weather maps.  And, I didn't have to sit up front at church.  I also found that I was reaching for nonexistent glasses on my bedside table, when I woke up in the morning.  That took time to get over it.  I found out later that Rick did mission work for those who could not afford eye surgery.  Otherwise, the cost would have been around $4000.  Rick passed away a few years later from cancer.  I may have been one of his last patients, but he was such a blessing to me.  I was blind, but now I see.