At age 55 I have led a life with its fair share of hard knocks. It would be reasonable for you to think that the cumulative impact of those knocks would have knocked all the naivete or foolishness out of my system. However, you’d be wrong.

The old adage of you find out who your friends are when the going gets tough still holds true. Yet, even now, when I am in a very real way at risk of losing my home and more because of an unexpected stop in income coupled with an in-process application for disability, some I expected to at least hear from have been stone cold silent, and one or two make it clear when we have communicated that doing so is a real burden for them. I could easily aim blood-letting razor-blade sentences at a few, but why waste the ink?

Others have been remarkable in their kindness and support. Some have sent some money to help me with food and household supplies. A friend I used to work with who has a newborn baby and is moving to a new home still reaches out to me to make sure I am okay. My brother-in-my heart, Michael, the closest person to me in the world is always there for me. He and his sons and his wife, Frieda, are people that really are family for me.

Do not think I am whining. Not in the least. I guess part of what I am saying, or suggesting, is don’t go around telling someone you are their friend or that you love them and care about them if you have the kind of spineless selfish self-absorption that leads you to vanish when they are in danger of losing their home, or in real dire straits of any kind.

There is a reason they say home is where the heart is. I am done with people who say they are my friend or say they love me looking to wound my heart. Strike one, you’re out.


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