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No size 13

How the homeless can suffer without the simple gift of second-hand shoes.
A homeless man and his shoes with no soles, and painful feet. @ Zora Zebic 2018

I walked out the kitchen door for a moment of fresh air and was surprised by the sight of a man on the ground sitting against the wall. He appeared to be in pain, and I looked down at his shoeless feet. Red and swollen, his feet looked as though they had received a severe beating. His toes were wrapped with paper napkins to keep the toes separated.
I walked over to the man and asked him if he needed help. He looked up at me and thanked me graciously for caring. My heart twinged, that feeling like a string tugging the muscle.
Looking at his worn and ragged shoes, I asked if he needed a pair. He said yes, but he had already made his request to my staff, and there were no size 13. I told him I could fix that and asked our volunteer driver Dan if he would go to the second-hand store to pick up a pair. Dan asked me to call ahead to ensure they had size 13 shoes.
As Dan drove away, Norman, as I’ll call him, said, “I can’t believe you are doing this for me. I’ve been at another charity for two weeks, and they didn’t help me.”

A man asked, "Aren't there enough charities helping the homeless?"
enough charities © Zora Zebic 2018

Norman’s words jogged my memory of a recent event. As I’d concluded giving a tour of our facilities to a man and his wife, the gentleman said, ” Don’t you think there are already enough charities helping the homeless?” His question made me smile, as I’ve heard it so many times. I’d answered him, “No single charity is the be all and end all.” I thought how beautiful it would have been for the man and his wife to have heard Norman’s story. They would have understood how much the homeless depend on Street Help.
I offered Norman a chair to sit on, but he refused to say the medical clinic told him to keep his feet elevated, and to put ice packs on them. I’d thought I’d heard all the stupid advice given to the homeless! If this advice came from medical professionals, then that was icing on the cake. Where is a homeless man supposed to get free ice packs?
I looked at his feet and legs and asked if he had diabetes? He said no, but he did have a fungal infection. Ice packs and elevation for a fungal infection? Now that was the decoration on the iced cake! I’ve never heard of that medical advice for Athlete’s Foot.
I’d felt saddened as a woman with several children walked past us. The looks on their faces made me feel protective toward Norman. I could not honestly discern the meaning of the looks, but I said nothing and hoped they witnessed the real plight of a fellow human.
Melissa and I went into the centre to look for foot powder, antifungal cream, gauze, and medical tape. We found medicated body powder, triple antibiotic cream, gauze and medical tape which I brought out to him. Melissa fetched two tubs, one with soapy water and the other rinse water. She volunteered to wash his feet for him, but he refused. Her offer made my thoughts go to my vision of the lady in the Bible who washed the feet of Jesus and dried them with her hair.
I see a lot of that, a homeless person sharing the little food they have, or taking their shirt off their back for another. The humility and compassion exhibited are genuinely inspiring.
Others joined our circle, and Norman became more comfortable with us. He told us, a lawnmower accident caused him to lose his big toe and mangled his foot. Norman said the doctors had done a poor job, and he’s suffered all his life.
Norman smiled and said, “I’ve never been here before, but a lot of people have been telling me how great this place is.” He went on to explain circumstances had changed for him, and he’d slowly made his way to Street Help. I thought, looking at his feet, how excruciating the pain must have been.

Second-hand shoes, a great gift for the homeless.
A homeless man gifted with second-hand shoes from Value Village. © Zora Zebic 2018

Dan returned from shopping with the Street Help debit card at the Value Village in South Windsor. He handed a pair of shoes to Norman saying, “This is all they had.” Norman accepted the shoes and exclaimed, “They are perfect! Look at the soles; they are almost brand new!” It is incredible what a difference $16 can make.
After drying his feet, Norman massaged the antibiotic cream over both of his feet. Tim and Melissa searched and found ankle socks, in the extra large size he needed. Norman said most socks hurt his legs. After putting on a pair, he tucked away the rest of the treasured package in his backpack.
Norman picked up his worn shoes without soles and told us how he’d cut up a piece of foam he’d found to make inserts. He said, “That’s all that’s been keeping the stones away from my feet.”
I watched with curiosity as he started to pull out the foam. He stopped and looked inside the new shoe, then said, “I don’t need these, there are arch supports in the new ones!”
Norman liberally shook the medicated body powder into both of his new shoes. I told him the perfect solution also included having a second pair to put on every 24 hours.
Slipping on the first shoe, Norman exclaimed, “They fit perfect! I would jump up and down with joy, but I know how much that would hurt me!”
Melissa reached for the old shoes and, he stopped her. I understood why Norman resisted the idea of throwing them out. When you are homeless, everything you can keep in your possession is a treasure.
Melissa asked him, “You don’t plan to wear these again, do you?” Norman smiled at her and answered her, “No I won’t. But please pick them up by the laces.”
Norman then went into the centre to have a meal. I told him if he came on Tuesday, I would buy the proper antifungal cream for him. I hope he does return to Street Help.
I thank God for the opportunities I have to bear witness to his loving kindness. I also thank God for Dan, Tim and Melissa’s help to give comfort and help to minimize the suffering of another.

©Zora Zebic 2018

Update 1: A generous Friend on Facebook will be delivering us more size 13 shoes! I’ll have an extra pair for Norman!

Update 2: Norman returned to Street Help today! We gave him the anti-fungal cream and medicated foot powder. He enjoyed a meal with us, and I gave him a printed copy of my story. I told him about our Facebook Friend and he is happy to know he will have a second pair of size 13’s!

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Saved by the rays

Brilliant white hot sun against blue sky
Brilliant sun rays © Zora Zebic 2016


I had a terrible dream, my being filled with dread when I’d woken. I remembered every detail of this dream, which is not common for me. I rose from my bed and stretched my limbs, an effort to shake the memory. This dream happened when I was 17, and now at age 61, I still have not forgotten it.

The dream was of me sitting in a movie theatre. I was without a companion, although the seats were crowded. I was puzzled because messages were quite visible on the movie screen. Messages that were not relative to the movie. They were commanding messages, telling me “You are always under surveillance.” “Obey the laws at all times.” “Do everything your government tells you to do.” “Your superiors are to be obeyed at all times.” “Your thoughts are heard.” “There is no safe place to go if you try to escape.”

I’d turned to a girl sitting beside me and asked, “Why are all these words on the movie screen?” The girl turned to look at me wearing an expression of puzzlement. She said, “What words?”

There was a sudden rustle in the audience. A lady shouted, “She sees our commands. Grab her!” Hearing that I’d bolted from my seat and ran from the scores of people who had, in obedience, risen from their seats to join the chase.

“Oh God, what have I gotten myself into this time? Please help me!” I prayed as I rushed to open the door. The swarm of people were getting closer as I burst out into the sun-filled day. The brightness of the day either blinded them, or God had answered my panicked prayer, as none had followed me out of the building.

I would later learn about “Subliminal Messaging”, but I had never heard of it then. To this day I wonder about that dream. Could my subconscious have picked up on messages while I shopped at the mall? Could my mind, not able to reconcile what was happening, force me to have the dream? Perhaps so, as I totally understood when this type of messaging was explained to me.

© Zora Zebic 2018

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Recounting, a day at a time

Frail, thin woman sitting on a round chair. Boys soccer and basketballs in background.
malnourished and hiding in a hotel room with my son’s basketball, soccer ball and football in the background © Zora Zebic 1990

I’d moved to St. Catharines, Ontario, relying on a promise from a relative. It was supposed to bee a steady babysitting job, while the relative worked at her government job. I’d always found it a breeze to care for children, and it had sounded like a great alternative to working for the man!
To my son’s great disappointment, I’d asked him to say goodbye to his friends. We’d packed the house into a rental truck to move to the apartment I’d found for us. My friend Stanley had offered to drive us and our truckload to our new home.
While we’d unloaded the furniture and boxes into the apartment, Stanley had become extremely agitated. I’d asked him what was up. I did know he liked to imbibe in a little too much beer and I’d thought he was feeling a need.
Stanley, bristling at my suggestion, had then asked, “I don’t get why the hell you would move into a place with cameras everywhere!” I’d been stunned and had asked, “What cameras?” Stanley had pointed to the wall in the hallway and asked, “Can’t you see them?” I couldn’t see any cameras, and I’d told Stanley he needed a drink.
Stanley then stormed out, and I was saddened by the harshness of my words, as I’d watched him drive away in the rental truck. To this day, I wish instead I had insisted Stanley prove to me there were cameras on the walls. I would not have suffered so much, and shamefully I admit, my son would not have endured such horrors.
The move to St. Catharines, Ontario was not the beginning of my nightmare, but I did not know that then.
© Zora Zebic 2018

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A conundrum

Raindrop on train window with view of fog in field
Fog in a field, and train track, seen through train window @Zora Zebic 2018


Life, sometimes, is filled with questions, confusions and despair.

That said, from that perspective, if a rapist were to have his victim hypnotized, and during that session, extracted forgiveness for his crime, is the forgiveness valid?

I read today, “In the Jewish tradition when you wrong a person, it’s up to that person to forgive you.”

He is Jewish. Don’t get me wrong, there is some Jewish blood in my veins also.

All that said, the victim’s personality is prone to forgive, however, the victim did not forgive knowingly and consciously. Therefore, is the forgiveness valid?

While confusing, this is not to say forgiveness would not be properly granted, should the rapist ask genuinely for repentance.

This is a conundrum.

© Zora Zebic 2018

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Amherstburg’s earthquake

Brass bird, listening to birds in trees
Barry enjoying the songs of the birds in our backyard. © Zora Zebic 2017

Truth be told, we just experienced a 3.6 magnitude earthquake. We heard a very loud boom and the place shook. I, sitting at the computer, felt the earth shake three more times!

Our home is in Amherstburg, and we rent an apartment in Windsor. We were at the apartment when the earth moved under our feet.

My husband will be obligated to go to the house in the morning. He was planning to go anyway to enjoy the backyard and the many birds this season. He will fill the bird feeders and count the flocks of feathered friends who sing to him.

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Collingwood’s Dogwood

dogwood bush with snow and dead grass
Dogwood in Collingwood © Zora Zebic 2018

Driving out of Collingwood, Ontario I’d noticed brilliant-barren-of-leaves-red-stemmed bushes dotting the landscape. Online-searching hit on Dogwood Bush.

I’d never seen this bush, or most likely I’d never noticed it before. It had been a treat to the eye. Perhaps, someday, Dogwood will grow in my yard. Another trip to Collingwood, with a shovel in the car, and I may get permission from a landowner to harvest some of their awesome bushes!

© Zora Zebic 2018

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Now, aren’t they a cute couple?

young boy and girl
Zora Zebic © 1973

Now arent’ they a cute couple? I’d say we were. The thing is, Les and I were not slated to remain in love or to have a long-term relationship.

Fact is, it had nothing to do with him, it was about the damaged-me.

I look back in time at that naturally-afroed-white-boy I was so drawn to, and I remember how very much I wanted to spend my life with him. Les was charming and gentle. The problem was, I was unaccustomed to a male who had those attributes. I’d, since age 11, already met so many vile men, and in some twisted fashion, I could not relate to a gentile, sweet, loving and kind fellow. Sad, isn’t it?

But that is what happens to a little girl who, during her childhood, had been abused, sexually abused, abandoned, psychologically tortured and socially outcasted.

Hey Les, wherever you are – I am sad you had to experience the girl that had been me. In retrospect, I wish I had been gifted the counselling and supports I had needed to become a better person, and indeed, a better person to have walked into your life.

Les Jeffries, I hope your life has been beautiful, since me!

© Zora Zebic 2018

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Spoon n’ nickel

miniature spoon and nickel
spoon n’ nickel © Zora Zebic 2018

I’d asked my husband where the miniature spoon came from, and he’d answered my question with the question, “What spoon?” I’d pointed to the floor at the nickel coin and beside it a miniature spoon. Barry, that’s my husband, had then said, “That is not a spoon. It is a part that broke off my pen.”

I’d thought that interesting, and pondered the image for a while before I’d snapped a photo. Barry’d then asked, “What is interesting about that, to take a photo of it?” I’d smiled and then told him the story which had teased my brain as I’d soaked in the image.

I’d told him the small specks, that resembled white powder, could be seen by some as lost particles from a nickel of cocaine. He’d roared at that saying, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of cocaine being sold in nickels!” I’d ignored his teasing and had continued my story, telling him the spoon was the hidden part in the pen. Who’d think the spoon was detachable from the innocuous looking pen, or that it could have such a nefarious use?

He’d laughed, and had asked, “How does this stuff get into your head?” I’d smiled at him, not replying. After all, I didn’t know the answer to that question.

© Zora Zebic 2018