I had dinner last night with my friend,Wanda. She’s a writer, a poet, a tap dancer and an octogenarian. She has published several books of various sizes; some small pamphlet-like and some larger. The latest one soon to come out is all about her adventure of suing a city for water damage. She won the court case with good use of creativity. She makes ends meet through the court case settlement and social security. She lives in a house owned by her son.
We have much in common: she was a reporter in Los Angeles for years, worked as a model and has traveled.
We talked about our lives and how we got to where we are. She stretches her meager income like a pro, and has a once-in-awhile book sale.
I, on the other hand, sell few books, live on about $5 an hour with AmeriCorps and a bit over $4 an hour from social security. So this makes me living in the poverty level. Wanda lives there with me.
In spite of our co-poverty situation, with no rhyme or reason as to how we got here, we did manage to enjoy ourselves at the Black Bear diner and Wanda gifted me with a white potato, an orange and a pear.
I greet gifts, small ones, large ones, including smiles and compliments with reverence.