Amazing but true stories of the homeless
This morning Old Doc arrived early at the Main Library, as he does most weekdays, and stopped to use the portable toilet down by Boulder Creek. Strange, he thought to himself, the red sign meaning “occupied” is out but there are no tracks in the snow leading up to the facility.
Pounding on the door, a rustling was heard from within. Brinkley yelled, “If you’re in there sleeping, it’s time to wake up!” Sure enough, some scraggly young Rainbow-type guy came staggering out, offering not one word in apology.
Old Doc would guess that this benighted soul thought camping had now been legalized in this city park, and the portable toilet gave the best shelter from the snow and icy wind. (Not for nothing had he protested to Boulder City Council, as he’d been recruited to do). More likely, he was too lazy and too drunk to go to the emergency warming center open last night . . .
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Wonderful! And is the gentleman pictured a relative of yours?
No, Doc Brinkley isn't a relative, just a famous (or infamous) figure in Great Depression days in Kansas and elsewhere.
I have two semi-famous relatives, both on my father's side: The poet John G. Neihardt of "Black Elk Speaks" and other works (a cousin), and W.L. Weller — the maker of premium Kentucky bourbon (a great-great-great uncle). This may explain a great deal about me; or maybe not.