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Small treasures

By Lane Degregory
Published February 23, 2007

William Schulz, 70, has been homeless for three months. He sleeps in Williams Park during the day, on sidewalks at night. Everything he owns is piled in a navy Graco stroller.
	[Times photos: Cherie Diez]

ADVERTISEMENT Raymond Young Bernice Brown Cindy Carpenter Theresa Carter

ST. PETERSBURG - A broom. A brush. A Bible. Tools and towels. Faded photos of their kids. These are the things they carry after they lose their homes. After everything else is gone. They push them in grocery carts and baby strollers, haul them in torn duffels and tattered backpacks. At night, if they're lucky, they tuck their few possessions into corners of their donated tents. Others, sprawled on sidewalks, bury their belongings beneath worn blankets. These are their stories, told through the things they carry.

Raymond Young, 66, has been homeless for five months. He lives in a big tent on a skinny strip of grass near the corner of 18th Street and Central Avenue, surrounded by 42 other tents. His neighbors call his place the "Better Homes and Gardens tent." Raymond says, "Martha Stewart's got nothing on me."

- A headless angel with needlepoint wings ("I made that five years ago. I do a lot of creating.")

- Metal butterflies, glass candlesticks, silk pansies

- The spool from a pressure hose upended ("I turned it into a coffee table.")

- A radio, always tuned to a country station

- A clothes bar filled with shirts and slacks, neatly hung on plastic hangars ("That's my closet. Made it with a PVC pipe and a pair of crutches. My outfits are the most important things I've got.")

- An Arizona sweet tea jug ("My bathroom.")

- A gray tent that had been slashed by a knife ("The cops did that when they ran us out that day.")

William Schulz, 70, has been homeless for three months. He sleeps in Williams Park during the day, on sidewalks at night. Everything he owns is piled in a navy Graco stroller.

- A Joe Weider gym mat ("That's my mattress.")

- Two crocheted afghans, one green and blue, the other orange

- A brown leather wallet with a crumpled bail bond and photos of his children ("Billy, Laurie and Lucy. They're all in their 30s now.")

- A roll of toilet paper

- A hardback version of Reader's Digest Condensed Books, volume 1979, and a paperback copy of Tekstar by William Shatner ("I read three or four books a week. We all trade out here. After some of us have read the same book, we sit and talk about it."

Bernice Brown, 41, stayed at the Economy Inn with her fiance until they ran out of cash. They had spent the past two nights on the sidewalk, the past two days sitting on a yellow blanket in Williams Park. "I'm not living out here. I'm just here," she says. "I'm not staying."

- Three pairs of white crew socks, rolled up, the tags still on

- Two couch cushions with faded flower patterns ("We didn't have any pillows. So our new neighbor gave us those.")

- A black purse with two unsigned Valentine's cards ("I've got to send those to our kids.")

- A pink spiral notebook filled with a resume and references, contacts to call for jobs at the post office, telemarketing firms, Home Shopping Network.

- A King James Bible ("I had to bring the Word with me. Got to have it so I can keep sane out here.")

Cindy Carpenter, 47, has been homeless for almost a year. She sleeps beside the Bank of America building and spends most days in Williams Park, hoping someone will give her a bus pass. A green stroller of her stuff is always parked nearby.

- A photo of a young man snuggling a baby ("That's my good friend. I don't know where he is now though.")

- A blue Tampa Jai-Alai baseball cap

- A handheld electronic game, "250 games in one," and 12 AA batteries ("A friend gave me that when she moved over to tent city. It helps keep me distracted when I'm hurting. I'm always hurting.")

- A black purse with sunglasses, cigarettes and Social Security papers

- A Ziploc bag filled with prescriptions and empty bottles ("I need pain pills, nerve pills, heart pills, depression pills, heartburn pills, cholesterol pills and pills for my sinuses. But I can't get them refilled because I can't get a bus pass.")

Theresa Carter, 47, has been homeless for a month. She lives in the new tent city on 18th Street, in a tiny red tent. "When I make this place up," she says, "it looks real cute in here. Like I'm in the Civil War or something."

- A stuffed Minnie Mouse ("Someone at the church gave me that.")

- A pink vinyl purse with food stamps, reading glasses and a library card

- A dog-eared novel, When the Wind Blows, by James Patterson

- A pile of candy canes

- Five pillows

- A gold wedding band ("My husband died in June. I was married 24 years.")

- A wooden heart that says, "Home."

[Last modified February 22, 2007, 10:43:32]