When we moved to Altadena in 1970 and bought our first and only house, Pasadena became “our town.”

Homelessness was not a recognized problem, didn’t appear in the newspaper with any regularity, and driving around you didn’t see people living on the streets.

But there was one woman, and everybody knew her. Her “territory” was around Colorado Blvd. and Lake Ave. She carried her things in a bundle, set herself up in doorways, sometimes in the bushes.

People stopped to talk with her, sometimes offering money or food. She always seemed friendly and cheerful, and had a former life. She spoke with a school education and seemed to know what was going on in the world.

She may have had a family somewhere. I don’t remember the subject coming up when we talked with her.

She became a local celebrity and everyone wanted to look out for her. We felt protective. I’m sure she had offers, places to stay, but she seemed to have chosen her way of life, and managed.

I never knew her story, and I don’t remember her name.

The police kept an eye on her but didn’t hassle her. She may have been breaking the law, but she didn’t cause a problem. She was living as she chose.

Then came the fatal day, and the Star News covered it with photos. She had gone to sleep, bundled up in the bushes on the east side of Robinson’s (now Target). Her body was discovered, and a day of mourning was declared.

Years later, Shirley and I and a dear friend were walking through the passage between Vroman’s Book Store and the Laemmle Theater. There are benches, and an elderly woman, obviously homeless, had staked a claim on one of the benches and surrounded herself with her bundles of belongings.

We stopped to talk. She was friendly and intelligent. She had a routine, what places to go on what days, for food, for a place to sleep. She was hungry and was eating what people had thrown in the trash left over from the theater snack bar concession. She generously offered us a bite, but we politely declined. “No, no, go ahead, you finish it, you look hungry and we’ve already eaten,” or maybe, “we have dinner waiting at home and don’t want to spoil our appetite,” something like that.

Pasadena does have agencies and charitable organizations that provide food and clothing and a place to sleep, mostly at the other end of town. Some people take selective advantage, and some want to retain their independence.  

We asked, “What do you need? How can we help?”

“A hot meal would be nice, and something warm to wrap up in.”

We arranged to meet tomorrow, same time same place. “I’ll be here,” she promised.

We went home and assembled a large care package, a sleeping bag, sweater, waterproof jacket and hood. Our friend made a full course dinner still hot in the pots, with disposable plates and utensils.

We drove separately and met at the appointed time. She wasn’t there. We waited. Our friend said, “I have to get back to my family. Just bring back the pots and pans when she’s finished. Give her my love.”

We waited a long time. It got dark, the food was cooling, we waited a little longer, decided to come back tomorrow, hoped she was alright.

We were driving up Lake, and saw a homeless man curled up on a bench by a bus stop. When the bus came, he waved it on.

We parked. We explained, “We were bringing things and dinner to a homeless woman but she didn’t show up. Are you hungry?”

Yes, he was, very hungry, and much enjoyed the meal.

He needed everything, and we gave him everything we had, the sleeping bag, the sweater, the tarp. He was almost in tears that someone would notice him and care about his life.

We saw our missing friend later and she explained that she had a better offer and was sorry she missed us.

We returned the empty pots and pans to our friend and compared notes.

Nothing about the state of the world, the unsolved problems, satisfied us with partial solutions.

I remember, vividly, when we came to Altadena and I taught fifth grade at Longfellow Elementary. The textbook reader had a story, “Waiting for Her Train.” It was about a homeless woman and her daily routine of survival.

She would sleep on a bench in the train station, and when challenged, would say, “I’m waiting for my train.”

She washed in the restroom. She went to places that threw out old food. She moved to another part of the train station.

I was amazed and delighted that our curriculum included such a story in the reader, and we made it a basis for a project. We imagined what it would be like to be homeless. How would we survive? Give local details. Write your own story, maybe a journal with daily entries. Maybe illustrated. Do some research to find out why there is such a problem in our country, and what can we do about it?

The children became involved social activists and were set on the path of altruism that would take them through the rest of their lives.

We decided that “When there is a problem, don’t ignore it. Solve it.”

I remember the big to do about Thanksgiving in the Park.

Every year, the social charitable organizations planned a turkey dinner for the homeless and set up tables in the park. People brought the elements of the feast, trays of mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, bowls of cranberry sauce, and of course roast turkeys. We brought a turkey, carved on the spot at the table. I was good at slicing.

Like creatures coming out of the woodwork, the homeless came from all directions, all ages sizes shapes, mostly middle aged or older, hungry.

They ate to bursting. Many of the servers felt the satisfaction of charitable giving, but my question hung answered in the air: “Where will they eat tomorrow?”

When I taught English at high school, we read literature, wrote essays, asked questions and answered them. Students who think are ready for college and life.

One of the joys of teaching is to see the light go on for children raised in darkness.

A high school senior came up to me with overwhelming eagerness. “Mr. Sterling! Mr. Sterling! You gotta go downtown to Colorado Boulevard and Fair Oaks! There are people sleeping on the street!”

It wasn’t Rose Parade season, and the problem of homelessness was becoming more visible.

“I know,” I said. “It’s a problem we haven’t solved yet. Haven’t you noticed?”

“No,” he said. “My dad’s a doctor, and we never go to that part of town.”

“Well,” I said, “you might want to drive around and get to know the community you’re living in.”

And why should I bother to take the time to discuss the problem now?

Because it remains unsolved. Because it’s part of the Bigger Picture. Because the fragmented efforts at remediation are disunited.

Because the current Power is on the verge of its solution to so many things – swoop in, round them up, ship them out of the country.

What you don’t see does not exist.

Maybe I will go back to the classroom. My work is not done.