No, they don’t have Christmas in Kentucky
There’s no holly on a West Virginia door
For the trees don’t twinkle when you’re hungry
And the jingle bells don’t jingle when you’re poor
— Phil Ochs, “Christmas in Kentucky”
The weather forecast for today was all over the map. Something wintry, that was definite.
Accumulation? Snow? Sleet? Cold, bitter rain? Those were the things up in the air. A friend on Facebook put it like this: “Between an inch and foot. Sounds typical.”
It’s more wintry mix than snow. There’s slush on the ground. The rain is cold. It’s grim.
I stood at the door of my apartment and found myself thinking of the two homeless people I encountered in Harrisburg three months ago. That night, one was sleeping on the handicapped ramp at the cathedral, the other was making his way down an asphalt path in the dark. It was late summer then.
It’s not late summer today. It’s cold and raw. This weather will continue for several more hours.
I have nowhere to go today. I am sitting inside, in the warmth, writing as I listen to Christmas music. (At the moment specifically, Barleyjuice’s “Whiskey for Christmas.”) I have to wash my breakfast dishes. This afternoon, I’ll go through my saved job listings on Indeed and LinkedIn. Tonight I’ll make cheese tortellini for dinner.
The two homeless people? Are they well? Are they someplace out of the rain and the sleet? Are they someplace warm? Do they have something to eat?
I have spent my morning thinking about two people I barely met, worrying about them when I should be worried about myself — I’ve not had an interview since August, I have no idea how I’m making rent next month — and I wish there were some way I could help them.
They are every bit as worthy of my time and my regard as friends and family. They are fellow travelers on this world. They have hopes and dreams, pains and sorrows.
Wherever they are, I hope they’re well.
“The concept of caritas (or agape) shows up in my writing as the key to the authentic human. The android, which is the unauthentic human, the mere reflex machine, is unable to experience empathy.”
— Philip K. Dick