Ten Days of Fear

Sunday is a day of rest.  It’s the only one of the commandments I have a hard time with.  About seven or eight years ago, I read a passage in the Old Testament about how infuriated God gets over it, too.  I started really trying to observe the Sabbath.  It’s harder than it looks.


I miss him the most on Sundays.  I feel him constantly,  especially now that I am back in our home, using our things, living in his pajamas. Tiny comfort in the face of how I am being told by police and neighbors that I must leave or be towed.  Well, until next Saturday, I can’t run due to mechanic’s schedule.  I don’t like being here any more than you like me.


Oh God, how do You bear us humans? We are so horrible to one another!   For ten days I have had to be afraid every single second I am in my home, trying to grow my skin back on after 9 and half months homelsss and grieving the loss of my husband of 27 years …….instead I am in terror because the collective hate of the residents across the street and their incessant phone calls to their favorite pugnacious City employees.


Oh yes, the City dispatched the HOT team and there’s talk of helping me.  And I believe it could happen too.  They are coming for an estimate from my mobile mechanic, who came out Saturday night, looked things over and committed to helping me get it back to highway traveling condition, as well as drive it to assorted places and in general, coach me while I learn to drive the Beast………my late father, a Texan, called it that because while it is only 27′ long, it’s got very high ceilings.  The mechanic had a nice thing to say (about a vehicle sat up 9 months in rough conditions): “You have a real home in here.”


But when I got my home out of the snow (stored near my daughter’s an hour north of Truckee after Greg died) on Dec 23, 2020, the day before the rains began and it would be completely lost to the winter weather, I knew what I was up against: pure hatred for those who live on wheels by those who live on cement….. and this hatred SUPPORTED by City “laws” that openly say they are going to to get rid if the filthy gypsy parking on “their” street.


Day #11 of the only way I know how to express my outrage for what happened to me on December 23, 2020 on Great Highway and Riveria/ Santiago, San Francisco.  8 to 10 people came out their house and yelled/ screamed/ hissed at me for my RV being on parked there.  I am a human being.  I am in the worst crisis of my life.  My husband suffered such a horrible death and I was only one to help him.  I am so traumatized by that and what has happened to me since.  How can I remain silent since all of it happened to BECAUSE I live in an RV.


Under State Constitution,  I have a right to my property, as well as seek safety.  Ex Parte court hearing on Wednesday 11 am asking for a Protective Order that I can have 2 to 3 weeks to calmly get this sorted out.  I have a plan and it involves rural campgrounds, not an urban beach (even though I lived here in the Sunset 1997 to 2012). 💔 I am trying as hard as a sick, grieving, impoverished-on-SSI widow can.


Back off or help.  It’s a simple equation.   I will die in my bed, not a cot at the Moscone center, with hundreds of strangers milling about (oh, and their dogs, which also transmit the virus), thank you very much.