Sometimes it feels like a former life. The days I was riding city buses to and from my years as a professor. The time later in that career when I was living all alone – my daughter off to graduate study in Scotland, single-parenting a thing of the past, and my new husband not yet a person I knew.

During those days – those years – I got my social sustenance in unlikely places. At the local Fred Meyer where, over time, chance acquaintance yielded friends. Like Sandy, the woman who oversaw the u-check. We took to keeping up with news on each other’s daughters. And Kevin, the guy in charge of produce – a black belt in Akido, armchair literary critic, and student a year out from certification as a math educator. With Kevin every conversation was about learning.

Sandy and Kevin opened my circle. Then, standing rain or shine to wait for the bus, Gus and Jose, LaShanda and Grace stepped in, too. They welcomed me into their own circles. All of us surprised by the kindness and care in connection with people we saw regularly, but might not otherwise have befriended.

Then, just now I walked past a local co-op grocery store. One that’s been in Portland for many decades – established long before the neighborhood was the least bit trendy. The tree covered sidewalk was wet in front of the store. There in the Portland rain stood a tall man with glasses, smiling and holding out a newspaper.

The newspaper, Street Roots, has been the paper of the Portland, Ore streets for the past 20 years. Like the city paper in London, its cousin in Seattle, and other papers in big cities around, it’s had admirable success supporting people who live on the streets. In particular, the people who become vendors toward generating income for anything from survival to moving into jobs and homes.

I’ve known of Street Roots through its vendors for nearly all of those 20 years. My dear friend, Art Garcia, a veteran from Vietnam, an ex-offender who lived in San Quinten for a time, sold the paper in front of an early version of whole foods stores. We met and started our years-long conversation in 1999, when my daughter and I stopped to shop before walking home after her days in 6^th grade.  Ten years later, Art was the second person I interviewed in 2009, just a few days before I got in the car to drive for the 100 Voices project. The project was centered on listening to people across the country – everyday Americans – to learn what they meant when they said the word change. Art’s voice was an anchor.

Before and after ’09, Art agreed, really every time I asked, to visit with students in my graduate classes. He brought friends along. He is that kind of friend. And the stories Art and his collegues told went way further than any research study to convey the interest and concerns challenges and dignity of people who live on the streets.

When I saw Eric holding the paper, I thought as I always do, of Art.  Eric and I only talked briefly. But brief is a start. “Buy a paper?” he said. His eyes were smiling behind generous wire rims. We talked a little about the paper. I asked about Art. He didn’t know him, yet.

By matter of fact, Eric mentioned his recent divorce and his subsequent “hard times.” Then, he was on to telling me of the woman he met late last spring, camping in Forest Park. “She was that kind of person who is magic. Sort of just barely contained in her body,” he said. “Called herself Persephone,” he continued. “Said she was working through the female archetypes.”

Eric said he and Persephone had made their way together to last summer’s Oregon Country Fair. “But she disappeared,” he said, and shrugged. “Gone for 6 months. And, when she came back in January, she didn’t recognize me at all.”  Still, even though Eric was again a stranger, Persephone, who was now going by Pan, let him know she’d finished up the female archetypes and was well into the males.

Shoppers walked by us on the sidewalk. Fresh groceries made lumps and angles in their canvas bags. Eric turned his eyes down to meet mine. He smiled again. “The world thinks she’s crazy,” he said. “But I think she’s brilliant. An Oracle. You know?” “I do know,” I said. Then we agreed that if the Greeks could hold wisdom and mystery, we can too. I smiled again and turned to walk down a few blocks to the meeting I was already late for.

When I got to the corner I heard him call out. “My name is Eric, what’s yours?” “Mary,” I said over my shoulder. “Great name,” he said. “Yeah, I like it,” I answered as I stepped off the curb on NW 24^th. “It’s my mom’s,” he said.

“Come back by and chat with me again soon!” Eric waved. “I will,” I said.

And, I will.