Project Winter Watch

As best I can figure, the majority of this work condenses down into two buckets of emotion…love and fear. Both equally as activating for the givers and receivers. Both pure, maybe making things a little less complicated in all this cold. For now, I’m standing on this foundation, maybe selfishly, to better understand all this hurt.

For a good-many folks, fears of violence, emotional instability and/or losing their camps-and-valuables…the items they’ve bled for…keep them put. It’s enough to plant them in the elements that blacken their body parts and take their lives. Fear. Inversely, they won’t leave someone behind…furry or furless, a partner blocks-or-miles away. They’ll tell without doubt in their eyes…a soloist move to shelter will not be happening. Love…the non-negotiable kind.

For the givers, the same emotions apply. Fear that we will lose souls in the taking temperatures. Fear that the mechanics of our projects are not finding the individuals that need us the most, in the very moments they need us the most. We usually get one shot with folks in transit…and when we miss, it slides down your throat like a Brillo Pad. But fear is only a byproduct of love. A result of a deep give-a-damn for us…ALL of us. The greatest motivator…it runs up my spine and coats my skull. It beats behind my breast plate and aches at the boarders of my shoulder blades. I am very un-unique in this feeling. It is love…the most potent-and-needed fuel. And these days have been the hardest.

I stopped at a ‘camp’ steps away from an interstate on-ramp. It was last light and the last stop of the evening. A small tent sat centered in a loosely-fortified structure of foam, shopping carts and a broken bike. Overpasses are the coldest places. I’d hoped no one was around. I bent down to a small opening of the flap and smelled the flame first. Oil was burning in small pie tin, and I could make out the shadow of a man. I’d offer him the works, passing each item through the tiny opening. He’d muster broken ‘thanks’ between fits of coughing. The sleeping bag came last, and I’d need a bigger gap in the flap. Inch-by-inch, we’d work a broken zipper until the opening was large enough for the frosty-apricot muzzle of a dog. A wet nose pressed against my bare fingers. There were two souls in the tent, and the world felt only as big as the three of us. I’d work fast to keep too much cold air from entering the tent.

I checked on the camp the following day. The tent was gone, and another man was picking pieces of cloth from a melted pile of fabric. “…friend, how are you doing on warmth?”

Love and fear.

This morning I am powered by gratitude…and four coffees. And in all the ice and the grey, I turn to Del Griffith (John Candy). “Love...is not a big enough word. It's not a big enough word for how I feel…” This is all a feeling bigger for the givers and the receivers. But for now…and until I can find a better alternative…I love you all for who you are, and what you have done in these days. Warmer temps are soon to come, and we’ll be ready for when they turn again.

Onward.

rc

Venmo: rynosu
Amazon Wish List: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share

Feed His Sheep
Sandwiches With Love
Second Chances Thrift Store
Jodi Berge

From sunup to sundown, we’ll be out there. For them. We’ll work the most important problem. I’m fear-filled, and that’s a hell of a motivator.

To every incredible outreach, I’ll see you in the field, and don’t hesitate to raise a hand for needed items.

And to every giver to Project Winter Watch, these are the days…the reasons you gave. You are the barriers and the protectors of people we may have lost otherwise. Know you’re playing the most critical part…and the project is in your service. We got you. And I love you all.

Onward.
rc

Venmo: rynosu
Amazon Wish List: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share

When I’m making rounds, I look for damage. For labored gaits, worn clothing and tattered fabric stretched against fences and structures. I look for the hurt, and I found it in soft sun two days back. Bone-deep impact scaring that zig-zags like river bends seen from above. Hard hands covered in dirt, ash and sores. Broken things on people. It came in spades in parking lots and alleys and fields.

After an evening out, I stopped by a small park. A comforter was draped over a shopping cart, falling atop 4 pieces of particle board stacked on their edges like playing cards. The ‘tent top’ was wedged into the corner of a retaining wall and stairs.

I’d do what I always do…I would volley, “friend, how are you doing on warmth”, at the small structure and wait. Cynthia would slowly lift the flap…”hi.” She is small and younger than I had imagined…or will ever imagine. Her outfit of thin canvas and ripstop wasn’t ready for the cold that’s coming, and her tiny body sat flat on the pavement. I’d introduce myself and sit down next to her…I must have seemed small to her, too. She asked if I was alone or with a team she couldn’t see.

“It’s just me, tonight. But I have a team, and they have some things for you.” She’d stop me before I could reach for the gloves and socks. She wouldn’t except anything she couldn’t afford. She’d spent her last $6 on food. I saw a small, flattened pizza box off her left hip. Breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“Cynthia, payment ain’t a part of it. These things are yours…I’m just making the delivery.” She wasn’t convinced, but I’d take the mittens out of their packaging, opening the finger holes to show her the thick layers of wool. I’d describe how amazing they’d feel once she put them on. She’d take the pair and smile. The socks proved to be a harder sell, and no matter the rich description, she would politely shake her head ‘no’. She’d do the same with the sleeping bag…but that transaction was a non-negotiable. I’d tell her about the temp rating…its weather durability-and-pack-ability. How it would keep her safe and warm. How the dangerous times were coming, and that this would keep her alive. Again, she was polite but hesitant. I gave it one last shot.

“Cynthia, this is mummy bag. It’s thick and fits tight to you. It’s like a hug.”

“…it’s like a hug?”

“Yea! It’s kinda like a hug…”

She’d smile…and pause…and gently reach for the bag and pull it tight to her chest.

“Like a hug…I think I’ll take the socks then, too.” We'd sit for a bit in comfortable silence.

I'd tell her I’d see her again and make the park a frequent stop. I helped re-stack her particle-board ‘wind block’ and leave her with a, “now get those gloves on, homegirl!”…but to only steady my emotions. She'd smile and let out a tiny giggle, letting the comforter fall back to the ground.

Some broken things you can’t see. And sometimes the project provides more than barriers between cold and flesh. Protecting Cynthia’s doll-like hands was only the half of it.

I’d whisper, “like a hug”, in the cab of my truck and head home.

Every single give to Project Winter Watch was Cynthia’s gift. In a day’s last bit of light, there you all were. In a park…her somebody.

This will be a long winter. They will need us, and I hope you continue to give and spread the word. I will go anywhere…talk to any group…take any call to raise the critical funding. Just point me in a direction.

To the givers, you are everything…you always have been.

Onward and with love,

rc

Venmo: rynosu
Amazon Wish List: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share

So this is Christmas…

It’s Christmas eve, and Project Winter Watch made its first Feed His Sheep of the season. I am a mush…I was full of feelings on the ride downtown. Luckily, Louis’ ‘Cool Yule’ pulled me out of a steep emotional decent. Now look…I don’t blame Nat’s ‘The Christmas Song’ that played prior…I’m just a sucker for that version. I pulled into a familiar spot and told myself to be intentional with setting up…”don’t rush”…”you brought enough”…”you’re seeing your friends…chin up!” I was deliberate and paced and put goods in a fashion where they could be shopped by our neighbors.

Friends, you provided more than enough. What’s been given by you in the past few weeks, and what remained from last winter’s inventory met every moment. Covered every soggy foot…every chapped and cracked hand. I’d hand over a bag…tell them about its properties and how it works when it has to. When our folks realize there is no catch…this was now their’s…a thing always happens. You get a stare. And within seconds the stare softens. Their eyes get a coat. You get a hug, and you feel the damp fabric over bony shoulder blades. But there is such warmth. Then I have the privilege of turning around and doing it again.

In all of this, I think of you. What you may’ve hoped for when you sent a donation or ordered items from the wish list. I’m here to say…it is what you hoped it would be. This evening and tomorrow…Christmas Eve and morning…your hopes and gifts will be wrapped tightly around those with so little. They are protected. They are loved and seen and not so alone. Your grace provided on the most magical of days. I don’t know how else to put it. Maybe there’s no other way of putting it…and that’s fine by me.

When I pulled out of the lot (aimed towards apple fritters and doughnut holes), one of the men waived me down. He’d been given the works. I stopped and opened the door. I remembered his patience and how our conversation was brimming with positivity…how he’d end every sentence with a laugh of such sincerity, and how his bent body was pulling a shopping cart.

“I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. That’s all my friend.”

He’d have to wait of a response. He’d circumvented every emotional safeguard. I’d sturdy. “…well…I think that’s everything. Merry Christmas to you…”

So this is Christmas, and what have you done? Friends, let your hearts be light. Today and on through the winter, you have changed the world.

Merry Christmas, gang…I love you all.

rc

Venmo: rynosu
Wish List: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share

Let’s get started.

Today will mark day one of Project Winter Watch's efforts this winter. It’s time, and not much has changed. Our aim is as it’s always been…triage. Our efforts and ‘time’ provide just that. We are a bit more ‘time’ until a permanent solution takes our place.

Over the course of years, our pencils are pretty sharp. We’ve narrowed our focus on the goods that work. Light, packable and weather-resistant 0-degree sleeping bags. Compact-and-easily-moved, hidden and kept. Thinsulate wool mittens…dual-layered with the option of bare finger when building fire or moving scrap. Thick wool socks and hand warmers with double-digit-hour longevity, and tarps to keep goods-and-humans dry. The important stuff…the barriers between flesh and the dangerous cold. And the cold is coming…indiscriminate of who it takes from…who it takes from us. Our science is good. We are effective. Our goals are better. Our givers are the only thing that makes this work. At our very best, we hope to provide more time…days and weeks and months and seasons until treatment and/or permanent shelter tag us out. And we’ll do this with every penny, and in rapid deployment. Sometimes, it can be that simple.

What is also evergreen is our importance in the system of givers. We have become critical in not only providing goods to the very hands we’ll protect, but we’ve expanded our reach…our impact…by partnering with incredible-and-trusted ministries, programs, healthcare providers and outreach teams pushing further in all directions…serving folks we’d never help without. We are better, together. And we are the provider for the providers.

And here’s where I need to turn the mirror around. When I’m interviewing folks, I always land on the same question, no matter the subject matter. “Friend, what do you know to be true? What in your life have you learned to be indisputable fact?” I’ve had the luxury of never asking myself…but here goes nothing.

I know that our project has become important to so many.
I know that this project is powered solely by its givers.
I know that our neighbors are so worthy of our love and protection.
I know that this is hard to do.
I know that this winter we will feel deep concern and hurt.
I know that this winter we will feel immense appreciation for each other.
I know that this winter we will feel accomplishment.
I know that this project has/will save lives.
I know that this project belongs to the givers and receivers.
I know that this project is only a part of a network of missions…the best people on the planet.
I know that at some point I will feel very small.
I know that at some point this project will feel very large.
I know that we can do this.
I know (now) that this list could go on forever…and that’s a good thing.

And with that…here we go. I’m asking you to once-again join me to change the world just a bit. To be someone’s someone. To once-again head into the hurting cold with the items that protect, and let our neighbors know that we got’em tonight. That they aren’t so alone. That they matter. And I’ll keep telling those stories.

With the deepest gratitude for all that have given, and for those who care so deeply for those with so little…

Onward.

Rc

Venmo: rynosu
Paypal: [email protected]
Amazon Wishlist: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB...
Teton Sleeping Bag (message me for my home address): https://tetonsports.com/prod.../celsius-0deg-sleeping-bag...

97 cents.

Yesterday I met a man named Bruce. He was pushing a red Mongoose mountain bike with a back tire flatter than a Frisbee. Around the bike’s frame was a thick industrial chain, held tight by a tiny padlock.

“Must be tough sledding with that flat my man.”

“It is. Been flat for a day-or-so. I’m Bruce.”

Tucked within a damp camouflage fleece, he’d reach out his hand. It was the size of mine…small. I could feel his fingers were tight and balled into a half fist. We’d walk into Walmart together.

I’d ask about this life on our way to the bike-supply aisle. He’d tell me that his parents were dead, and that he had two sisters, “living in North Carolina or somewhere close.” There was no avenue of contact, and there hadn’t been for a long time.

We’d grab a new tube, a backup, chain oil, a flashlight (that I was told could be fastened to a bike’s handlebars) and make our way to the register. We’d make our way slowly…Bruce’s legs are bone-skinny, and he’d limp high from the hips. Parts of Bruce are broken. He labored, and when we neared the front of the store, he pointed at the deli and said “it’s been a spell” since he’d had country gravy. Natasha would be behind the deli counter.

Natasha was patient. Bruce speaks softy and words had a tendency to run together. He’d point at the corn, baked beans, mashed potatoes and gravy…and jalapeno poppers. He lit up for the poppers. She’d pull three large containers, fill them to the absolute limit and make sure he was happy with the amount of gravy. She snapped a paper bag and filled it with poppers. She had her hands full and asked for help from the deli manager to put pricing tags on the items. They both stood on the other side of the glass…they had soft eyes and shoulders. They knew what this was. The manager’s eyes slid from Bruce to mine…”friends, since you two had to wait so long, I believe there’ll be a discount.” There was no wait. No discount was due. He’d hand Natasha a single sticky barcode. She fastened it to the bag of poppers and both would tell us to have a blessed day. With awareness and tact and kindness…'97 cents'. I’d look back, and both gave me a wave…and I felt a little better about our world. I’m in tears just typing that up.

Bruce asked if I’d pray with him. He’d hug me after an ‘amen’ and tell me about ‘the rule’.

“You know, if we meet again, we’re friends for life. That’s the rule.”

“Well, I figure we’re already there. I’ll see you down the road, Bruce.”

I’d walk to my truck and pull back-around to where I’d left him. Three containers were open along with the paper bag. He sat on cold concrete sharing the meal with two friends.

97 cents. That’s all.

Project Winter Watch will be starting soon. But in the meantime, thanks for letting me share.

This will never make sense to me.

It’s not that I don’t have a better (rudimentary) understanding of the systemic issues leading to homelessness, or even the gaps in provided care and resources…it’s that I don’t see the fairness in any of this. I can’t make sense of it. I can’t find the deeper meaning in someone in such need being alone in the cold…ill prepared and afraid. And to think that I should is most-likely vanity. I’m hoping to find footing with that reality.

Everyone that I’ve encountered in the last few days-and-weeks are filled with a common emotion…fear. That goes for the receivers AND givers. It’s a fear of harm and a fear of failure. Both are extremely activating emotions, and you see them both in ample supply. Now, that makes sense to me.

Sheena sat tall at a picnic table. Her thin cotton sleeping bag had collected ice pellets in the folds. She was glove-less and sock-less and thin. She invited me to sit, and I’d ask her how she was and what I could get her. “My hands are cold.”

I’d help navigate her pencil-like fingers into the mittens. She’d ‘ooh’ when we got it right (a few false starts/doubled-up fingers in a single finger hole), and I’d take a peek at the evidence of good on the tabletops…a provided meal of McMuffins and hot coffee. I’d offer to help with the socks, hand her a handmade Outerknown shoulder bag, handwarmers and a Coleman bag…that looked to be twice the width of her torso.

“I wanted gloves like these.”

“You did? Those are my favorite.”

“I saw some like these in CVS. They looked so warm…I didn’t have any money.”

“So…are they as warm as you’d hoped?”

“Probably warmer.”

She’d wipe her face, and a bit of wool would stick to the ice that had collected at the end of her nose. We’d take care of that, and soon after I’d leave for the office and an afternoon of meetings. I’d circle back to Sheena before it got dark. She was gloveless…I was certain they’d been taken from her.

*a bit defeated* “Sheena, do you need more gloves? Where are they?”

Sheena leaned forward and created a cone around her mouth…this was for an audience of one.

“I hid them in my bag. I love them.”

I’d leave for home, but not before asking if she’d go to St. Paul’s Cathedral for a meal-and-sleep inside. She’d nod and tell me she’d like to sit for a bit longer. I hope she headed east on 7th street. I got the impression the picnic table would be home for the night. And that doesn’t make sense to me.

Onward.



Venmo: rynosu

“My father’s hands.”

They’re out there, so we’re out there.

I honestly don’t know if this picture translates, but this is what I see on days like this. A man in soggy clothes…drenched to the flesh…pushing a broken bike towards God knows where. You make the stop. You make a lot of them.

He was sweet and scared. His hand were red and swollen. The wool mittens wouldn’t cooperate with wet skin, but we kept at it. Pushing and pulling…feeling for thick, coiled fingers. I’d ask him if I was hurting his hands.

“No. I’m ok…the fingers just won’t work in this cold. I’m sorry…I’m sorry. I have my father’s hands.”

Something about that broke me. He saw it. “You’re doing a good job. I promise.” He’d leave with all that Project Winter Watch has to offer. A good thing.

There’d be more folks in the windshield this afternoon. We made those stops, too…we always will.

Onward.

Venmo: rynosu

I was out of bags until the mail showed up. Then I’d have enough Coleman 0-degree bags and head out. I had more than enough of all the things to be dangerous.

Yesterday, PWW played a part of a such a wonderful and coordinated effort. It’s a heck of a thing to pull up to a camp and see the familiar faces of all the grassroots heroes. Stubborn and in it…they go and don’t give up. I knew my role quickly-and-early and looked for the crumpled tarps…lumps of fabric in a wispy snowbanks. The soloists. The alone…the ones I knew wouldn’t make it to a bus stop or shelter. There wouldn’t be much time for conversation. I’d communicate the bus routes and open shelters. The zero-barriers to entrance. I’d tell them we had more days of this cold, and “I think my blankets are ok” wouldn’t cut it. Not even close. It’d work and broken-and-coiled hands would reach from under black-or-blue fabric. Faces would appear, and the warmest thanks would come in the most brutal cold. The project works. The efforts of so many save lives.

Yesterday was hard. It’s hard to see these things. It’s hard to be in the streets and see the fear in people and their shivering fury companions. Heck…and in the least of the tragedies…it’s hard to choke down the fact that I’d back my truck into a street sign flagging down a man local officials had communicated had hours left before the cold took over. Along with Jodi Berge, we’re run him down, she’d coordinate a hotel room for the man that was more scared than I could ever communicate. A success. I’d assess the damage on my bumper (ugh)…feel like a complete moron…and carry on.

I had nothing left. Then I had plenty to protect. It showed up on my doorstep yesterday morning, and your provided products saved lives yesterday, today and as long as killing cold sticks around. I don’t know what to say…’thank you’ ain’t big enough. And to ALL of the organizations and individuals that provided warmth and rooms and meals…’heroes’ ain’t big enough either.

Onward.

Venmo: rynosu

Full bed, full cab can’t lose. Armed with your gifts and caffeine, we hit the most forgotten corners of our city, looking for our most forgotten folks. And we found them. There’s fear and confusion and anxiety, and the cold could care less. There were conversations and tears. Instruction on bus routes and shelter openings. So many hugs…and even a salute.

20 of the legendary Coleman bags are now playing protector. And the gloves and socks…hand warmers and tarps range in the 100’s. They will meet this cold. And they will be there when it all turns…and it will. Project Winter Watch started because of these days and nights. And we’ll keep after it.

Today was a good day. It had to be with so much bad on the way.

Onward.

Venmo: rynosu

I see it too.

I’m sure we’ve all seen the forecast for later this week. It sits…a thief-of-cold waiting to take from anything-and-anyone exposed. And I hate it. It’s hollowed my bones since first seeing the numbers…the single ones and the ones with a ‘minus’ sign in front of them.

So, let’s first talk about a foundation. Project Winter Watch has eclipsed the 100-bag mark. That’s 100 bags for 100 humans. I couldn’t guess at the number of socks, gloves, hand warmers and tarps, but those numbers easily range in the 1,000’s. The oatmeal mittens are easily recognizable throughout the city, and it’s a flag letting me know that their triage needs have been met in some capacity. Hard work has been done.

So what’s to come? I’ve coordinated with several trusted outreach programs to better supply their efforts as they stretch the care perimeter. These folks-and-entities constitute my mentors and teachers in the streets. It is the outliers they’ll find. The more alone and vulnerable. We will have a larger footprint come Wednesday afternoon.

So, what is it like ‘out there’? There is a palpable-and-tangible tension percolating in our people. The line to my truck’s bed at Sunday’s ‘Feed His Sheep’ gathering was its usual 60+…people pressed chests to shoulder blades. Urgency and fear make for compression and anxiety. But it’s a heck of a thing to watch a line of frightened folks sift two young girls to the front of the line, especially when stock is getting thin. There is still good in all the fear. Greed has no place in those moments. But it doesn’t make that reality any less awful.

On my way home, I saw Ryan wedged into the corner of a storefront. I saw what he had…all that he has. A hotel blanket, and a bag of his belonging acting as a pillow. Bits of food were frozen to his mustache. He was immediately inviting. He’d uncoil his brittle fingers and I’d slide them into the thick wool mittens. He’d see the boxed sleeping bag I’d rested next to my feet.

“If it’s not too much trouble…is that sleeping bag for me?”

“Yup, it certainly is.”

“Man…you don’t know how much I…”

“Ryan, I kinda do. You know that cold’s coming, right?”

“…yea…I do.”

Stripped bare-of-its-bark, PWW is simply providing hearty triage. The difference between what Ryan HAD, and what he has now. And when Thursday hits, it’ll most likely make all the difference. And Ryan is not alone.

This week will most-likely exhaust the project’s supply, both in dollars and goods. And that’s ok. When we’re cranking-and-most-needed, this is our reality. It will also be our reality to refill the cup, and a good deal of that lies in raising-and-better-stretching dollars. Finding additional relationships with manufacturers and retailers to cut costs. To get our givers even better pricing. It’s a better path forward, and I’m willing to walk it with all of you. I will need you all.

If you have provided for the project, know that I have spent time with every post, Amazon ‘thank you’ letter and Venmo message. Many of those messages will flutter to ground in a flurry of unboxing. And I get to be with those words in solitary. These windows are not passing glances. I sit with them. I attach a memory to each giver-and-give. It is the best fuel. To each-and-every one of you, know that what you’ve done is the biggest difference. The only way this works. There are people still on this planet that wouldn’t be here without you. Somebody’s somebody. A brother, sister, mother or father. And you were there. And you will be there this week.

Onward.

Venmo: rynosu

Amazon Wishlist: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share

“I’ve got monsters.”

I saw Tyler sitting on a brick wall with his head in his hands. He had a tightly-packed black trash bag (the industrial type) stacked above a white backpack, bare hands and bristly hair jetting out from under a beanie. It didn’t take a great deal of deduction to see that he was hurting. I’d asking him to join me in the parking lot a ½ block to the west.

I’d offer him gloves and socks.

“Oh, those are the good kind!” A bit of hurt would shift to hope.

He’d offer his hand and introduce himself. Our trust was building in a matter of moments.

“Ryan, I got monsters in me. They come and they go.”

“Tyler, are you sick?”

“No. But I got voices. I got a hunger to drink. And I do it and I stop…and I do it again. And I stop again. And it ruins everything I’ve got. There’s only so much fight in me. I…I probably shouldn’t tell ya this much. I’m a child of God. But it don’t always feel that way.”

“Well, Tyler. I’m someone that wrestles with the idea of the here-after. But I took a wrong turn to get to you. (I did.) And I feel like that’s something beyond my control. Now, I’ve got something else for you.”

I’d reach in the bed of my truck and hand him a new 0-rated sleeping bag. I hadn’t begun selling him on the product’s benefits before he had his arms around me. I could feel his shoulder blades just beneath his wool coat. I knew he was crying.

“You don’t care about my monsters, do ya?”

“Tyler, I do not. And I didn’t buy that bag. Someone else doesn’t care about your monsters, either. They care about you.” I could feel his grip tighten around me.

I was late to meet my wife. I’d go in for second hug and tell Tyler I’d keep an eye out. As I pulled away, I could see Tyler with his hands open-and-raised upwards.

“I AM a child of God! Thank you!”

I'd argue if I could.

If you have given to Project Winter Watch, you gave to Tyler. And the world got better.

Venmo: rynosu
Amazon Wishlist: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share

Project Winter Watch is a chunk of me...but I'm a very small part in the process. I am part of the delivery system, but I am not the system. I am not the project. The supporters are the motor AND the fuel. The only way forward. I'd say I'm grateful...but 'grateful' isn't a big enough word. This is US...our 'community' at our best when it matters the most.

I'm humbled and so thankful for this profile Luxiere. I hope you all enjoy it...and we'll keep after it.

Winter Is Coming: The heart behind Project Winter Watch — LUXIERE Ryan Cristelli says he has only one skill. The 43-year-old Seattle native and Ada High alumnus has a talent for storytelling. As the creative director for the Ryan Cristelli Agency, he created content for NASA, The Chickasaw Nation and other clients — all designed to capture people’s attention. ...

Sometimes we’re not nearly enough.

I met Thomas late in the afternoon. He was on cold pavement and wrapped in a sleeping bag that’d seen better days, a tarp and an old coat that smelled of mildew and green apples. He sat there like he’d always been there. A fixture with a root system…a commentary on something intolerable. It looked like giving up.

I start the way I always do. “How are ya doing, friend?” I’ll walk and chew gum at the same time. I am engaged in a human exchange, but I’m also doing inventory on their person and belongings. I look and smell and think. In some cases, I am very aware that I’m inadequate. Some cases require more that triage. It paints the base of my skull in a dull headache and I lose focus.

“My name is Thomas.”

He offers his name. It’s medicine, and I’m snapped back to attention. It’s a sturdy name, and one I could hear a mother whisper into the forehead of a newborn. A good name that comes with hope. And he’d tell me through broken black teeth.

“Have you always been here, Thomas? Are you from Oklahoma City?”

“I’m from here, but I’ve been around. Do you know where Renton, Washington is?”

“Thomas, I certainly do. I’ve been there often.”

“Really? I used to make saw blades. Good ones.”

*Of course, I’d ask to see all of his fingers*

“When I got done making blades, I moved to Federal Way. Do you know where that is? I washed dishes in a pizza joint called Pietro’s.”

“…I was born in Federal Way, Thomas. I spent my first 11 years in Federal Way. Good grades or good games we’d go to Pietro’s…I’m at a bit of a loss, here…”

I’d take a seat next to him and feel very present. I felt small-and-willing to ride the circle that brought us here. And I wouldn’t say a thing for a minute-or-two. I’d eventually ask him how he’d gotten ‘out here’. He’d tell me his mother passed in 2019…and again I’d think about his name. The name a mother would give. And I’d deduce his mother was the caregiver and barrier between what was and what is now. Thomas’ mom would be heartbroken.

“You know that cold’s coming, right?”

I’d walk him through every bit of gear the project provides. The weather resistance and temp-ratings of the sleeping bag and down the line. He’d nod and promise me he’d put it all to good use. And there’s that headache again.

Before I left, Thomas reached behind his back and slid a box of 12 unopened waters next to my hip.

“Can you hand these out?”

“Thomas, that’s awfully nice, but I know you need those.”

“So do other people.”

“Yea but...I think…”

“You can come back and visit if you want, you know? And could you bring a Dr. Pepper? I’d like that.”

“I can. I’ll bring a couple.”

I’d walk back to my truck, but not before kitting out another fella behind a nearby dumpster.

As I circled around to exit, Thomas raised a hand that’d once made the PNW’s best sawblades. I’d roll down my window.

“I’ll be ok, Ryan. I’ve been to Washington, remember? I’m used to the cold wet.”

“I hope so. But that’s something you shouldn’t have to be used to.”

Project Winter Watch is built for the Thomas’. Every giver to our project gave to Thomas. Every prior give led to that give. It is the way that this works, and the only way it will continue to work. To the givers, ‘thankful’ is not a big enough word.

Venmo: rynosu
Amazon Wishlist: https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2CTJDYMP8TMCB?ref_=wl_share
*our current (biggest) needs are gloves and sleeping bags*