River Jordan || Author, Speaker, Radio Personality

I stepped out of the grocery the other day and a familiar smell hit my nose. It's the black stuff they spread out in Nashville to make things pop out in a huge show of green, pink, purple. The stuff smells peculiar. The first three or four years that I lived here I kept asking - "What is that smell?" I was so serious. People looked at me like I was crazy. They asked things like - "What smell?" "The stuff," I would say, "That horrible, smelly black stuff that is EVERYWHERE in this city?!"

Now, I stepped out of the store and that smell wafted up to my nose with SNOW on the ground, grey skies, and the wind whipping around me as I pushed my way to Starbucks for a fix. And I instead of thinking peculiar I stop and think, "Ahhh, Spring. It's going to be Spring soon!" What used to be a strange, mushroomy dank basement moldy smell has become a subtle symbol that it's almost time. That green shoots and petals with purpose will land any day now. Spring is upon us in spite of the cold wind. And as whiny as I am, I get a whiff of hope. I'll be the truth in the telling. I'm a winter time whiner to the third degree. My mother LOVES cold, despises HEAT. In this way we keep the world turning and balanced. I pull the axis toward Summer and warm, long days, where just sitting in the shade will cause you to break a sweat. My mother pulls us into fall and beyond, to short, dark days where I must sit by the fire writing a novel or two and praying for sunshine so that the ending isn't dire and all lost. (If you ever read anything of mine that ends without hope, just know that it was finished in the dark, cold, winter. It's just not too good for me. My bones grow weary. I don't like to wear layers. I feel like that little kid in the Christmas Story that can't put his arms down in his snowsuit. Like the Michelin guy. Round, round, round. Now part of this is due to my history. Other than a cold stint in Germany as a child when My dad was stationed there, I grew up in North Florida. There in the woods that border the gulf coast and back before condo land came to town they used to run right down until the sand dunes broke free like white mountains of light. That was my playground as a child and as a teenager. And, I realize that there are good times abounding everywhere in all chapters of lives lived elsewhere, but growing up there in that time was nothing less than divine.

I've see the green flash when the sun falls below the earth's line and for just a second there is a that sun turned to green and beyond for a reason that I don't remember the scientific explanation for. I've seen the first blush of sunrise on sand so white it could hurt your eyes, watched it cast in a pink glow. I've watched waves angry and threatening to swallow me whole as a hurricane's approached the coast and then landed full of force and fury. And I've watched those same waves flattened until the horizon was a simple thin line, barely a ripple at the edge of the wave's breaking, the gulf becoming a salty lake that invited you step on in and swim forever, even way out to the second sand bar where you could step up knee deep and look back at the beach from a distance that seemed wild, free and crazy. I know the taste of Spring there. Chilled Saltwater on my tongue as I take that first chilly plunge and come up covered in goose bumps, will get behind a sand dune and soak up rays, working on a tan when it's not even tanning season while listening to the sea oats rustling behind me. Spring would roll into a summer of tanned friends, of coolers, and Frisbees and shouts, and swimming at night in phosphorus that would run down our bodies electric green and glowing.

Yes, those were the days that we were immortal. You could have asked any of us. We would have told you that we would live forever. Until a young man we just met, a little older than all of us sat down on the sand and looked out at the ocean and said he was headed for Vietnam. Said he only had a few weeks left and then he was shipping out. That he wasn't sure he'd make it back and he was scared. This when we were at a young, careless age where tanning and spring were everything our world contained. Vietnam was something your parents watched on the nightly news. But then this young man, serious and sober, looked out at the horizon, seeing beyond Spring and farther away than we could touch.

But Spring comes in spite of that day. In spite of wars and history and a young stranger's face forever frozen in my mind. Now, other young faces are looking at the horizon, sober and serious. I watch the nightly news and feel the mortality of all the world.

And Nashville is home and it's getting ready to show off in all it's Spring glory so that it rivals Paris. It's going to be something worth seeing.

To give credit to that famous line from A Tale of Two Cities, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times." Spring comes. War continues. And we keep loving each other and holding on to all that is precious, breathing in the moments while we have them.

It's not easy being some people in this world. Just ask Dwanda. She's the lady I met many moons ago downtown in the park. A homeless lady with a steel leg, a real story, and a handful of change. She shared the story, gave me the money, and said a prayer for me before she went on her way. (You can read more about Dwanda on the Rock-n-Roll Pilgrim blog found on this site.) She gave me her money because I had none with me that day. Really.

*FACT: Homeless families number about 600,000, or about 2% of all families nationally. As many as 3.5 million people, or 1% of the U.S. population, will be homeless this year.

I run into homeless people on occasion. Usually, the ones panhandling here and there. Some are regular faces. What I don't see are the ones that are living in cars, living on the edge, moving shelter to shelter. Families and children. What I do see are stories. Like the woman so suntanned now that she's turned to leather the color of rodeo dust. And she was asking me for a ham . . . a ham . . and then she just couldn't remember the word. Finally it came to her. Hamburger. That's what she wanted. A Hamburger. Then she asked if I'd buy her a sandwich. I told her sure and to wait outside. But the sandwich from said establishment was very slow in coming and by the time I made my way outside, she had made her way down the road. Or she'd been hushed and run off. Not good for business the homeless. Makes us think too hard. Or sometimes feel just enough guilt to color that lunch a shade blue.

One of first homeless people I ever gave money to was back when I was a much, much younger girl. I was in college, studying for finals at a donut shop. He was dumpster diving for donuts. Not bumming, just searching. I pulled out a bill, called him over to me and pressed it into his hand. He stopped and looked at me and asked, "And how are you today?" in such a way you would've sworn he was Jesus. Yes, you would.

Now, not all people are so affected. I have a dear, dear friend with a heart of gold, would literally give you the shirt off of her back, throw open her door to you, feed you her last bite of bread, but she hasn't a heart for the homeless. She used to have a business down in a part of town states away from Nashville where the homeless roamed, panhandled, bothered the heck out of her I suppose. Became a bit of nusance these people. I understand. Now she says, they get by better'n you and me. We'll be down, they'll still be gettin' it. Well, I reckon living on the mean streets (and I imagine that they all get mean real quick) will make a scrapper and a survivor out of you. "But she could have ate a shelter some place - not bumming for sandwiches." Well, I'm thinking, maybe the lady wants a hot, hunky, juicy, greasy burger with a side of fries. Maybe, just for old times sake, she wants something she no longer even has words for.

I don't care whose fault it is that the person is where they are. Judging is not my thing on most of my better days and thankfully the homeless fit into one of those catagories where I just don't touch that. My thing, as people know, is story. The power of story. The mystery of story. The truth of story. And for every person sleeping under a bridge, on a bench, or over a grate, there's a story resting there that you can't fathom. Maybe it was only one little slip, the timing of a lost job, the old day late and dollar short story, or maybe it was just one long journey of neglect and madness but no matter. It's not what it looks like on the surface. I can promise you that. The story of the homeless is no easier to read on the surface than me looking at you and being able to add up in one quick and easy sum how it is that you've become who you are today.

NEWSFLASH
This week you have an incredible opportunity to listen to the stories of the streets, of people who have been making their way where there isn't one. WRFN - Radio Free Nashville is hosting the local this Wednesday night through Thursday morning. This is a radiothon,which means call-ins, Here is the basic information about call-in numbers and where folks can tune in locally.

CALL IN & BROADCAST INFORMATION FOR THE
11th ANNUAL HOMELESSNESS MARATHON
Radio Free Nashville is the host station for the 11th Annual national Homelessness Marathon from 6 pm Wednesday, February 20th through 8 am Thursday, February 21st. The broadcast will originate from the Campus for Human Development 8th Ave. in Nashville. The event will feature Nashville's homeless talking about the realities of life on the street in Nashville; it will also feature homeless advocates from around the country.

TO CALL IN: 877-NOBODY-8 (877-662-6398)
Extra call-in number for people who are homeless, formerly homeless or
afraid they're about to be homeless: 866-LEFT-OUT (866-533-8688)

TO LISTEN LOCALLY:
The marathon can be heard over the air on 98.9 FM Radio Free Nashville in Bellevue, West Meade, Pegram, Pasquo and west Nashville;
throughout Davidson County on Comcast cable channel 10 Secondary Audio Program or SAP*;
and on the web at www.radiofreenashville.org

You don't have to live in Nashville to call in. You can ring in from around the world. So give a word, ask questions, connect and be a part. This is NOT a fundraising event but an awareness event. Please share info and help us spread the word.

That picture you see. I took it. A little something I call, "Talkin' to Jesus."

Yes, it's that time again. When women's hearts turn to cards, chocolate, and flowers. Or at least that's what the displays and commercials say. So men of all ages are out trying to gather up the items that will at least keep them out of the doghouse. I've been hustling lately on all fronts and didn't make the boxes for the women in my life for valentines and send them off. Because Valentines really is for women. Mr. Wonderful would rather have just about anything than a Valentines card. He's not too big on flowers either. Go figure. Our men, for the most part, are just wired a little different. Now, if the men are truly from the south, real honest to goodness, good old boys, what makes them tick is a whole lot different. Okay, it some aspects. Case in point.

Husband used to have an old Ford pick-up truck. (And just check out this site for great fun pics through time.) I think it was a '72. Now, just because I say old it doesn't mean that it's a backfiring rust bucket. That's just imagery wrongly grasped by people from other parts of the country who don't have a pick-up education. No, this truck was shiny and beautiful! Might have been one of the reasons I married him but then, I'm a car girl, a truck girl, an everything in between with wheels on the road girl, and I'll have to tell you about that later. Back to the truck.

Where love is concerned or something more commonly called wild attraction without logic or reason, the commercials tell us it's really very simple. A blond in a convertable. Hands down. Blonde, Convertible, - just add Man. Well, I got news for blondes and convertibles and it amounts to one hypenated little word - pick-up.

For reasons that escape me, perhaps my car being in the shop, I had once borrowed my husbands old pick-up to use for a week. Now when I say pick-up also don't imagine those sleek newbies with the sticker price glue still reflected in the mirror. Nada. We're talking big tires, ladder racks, big old cruising bumper and Three (that's 3) on the column. In all my growing up young and single days, growing up on that beach where boys from Alabama and Ga lived and breathed to get down and cruise searching for girls, girls, girls on the Gulf Coast, in all my days of driving anything, I have NEVER received the attention that I did from driving that Ford.

We're talking multiple men rubbernecking and missing green lights. And to watch a women even from a distance push in the clutch and change gears on the column (and there is other jargon for that which escapes me) - oh my! You would have thought I was (fill in the blank for whatever or whoever it is men think they want today that they don't need). Now mind you, I was just in the right place - the south - and in the right package - not being one. I wouldn't suggest to a woman who was husband hunting in Boston to try this trick. But a word of advice for a woman down south that might be looking for love this Valentines day - Baby, go out and get you a PICK-UP TRUCK. Then get behind the wheel, put those sunglasses on and drive. As my Aunt Leaner used to say, "I ain't stupid and if I'm lying I'm dying." Just you wait and see what develops. Then get back with me.

Life changes in the blink of an eye. That's what happend last night in Tennessee. Just a blink and houses were gone, people were missing. Some forever lost - or at least -- the way we like to see it from here - until we all get to heaven. Last night's storms ripped across multiple states until this morning's light showed a clear picture of the devastation. And just like that, in a blink, people counted what was lost and came away with tearful eyes saying,
In Only a moment - everything changed.

I've known this kind of sudden loss. My house burned to the ground and all that I owned when I was five. And that's a story for another time, but the fact is, I know what it's like to have your tangible history erased from this earth in a flash. And I've seen the devastation natural forces can leave when things took a turn for the worse on the Gulf Coast on more than one year or one storm season.

And last night, an unexpected turn was taken here in Tennessee as multiple tornadoes touched down and ripped their way across us leaving a scar this morning that has stunned and left even those of us full of words, silent.

My heartfelt prayers and thoughts are with all of those this week who have lost a friend or foe in this disaster. And for their lives and their hearts to somehow, against odds, against heartbreak, to be rebuilt. And for all of us who continue picking up the pieces of what is left and continuing down the road in this world, - a prayer for our Safe Journey.