Letter From thenHeartlandnby Jane GreernYou Can Lead a Horse to WaternI came across Mitch Snyder’s name thenother day. Remember Mitch? He madenthe news first about three years ago,nwhen, as head of the Community fornCreative Non-Violence (CCNV), anWashington-based “homeless rights”ngroup, he spoke out against the indignitiesnperpetrated against 61 -year-old JessenCarpenter, who “froze to death in thenshadow of the White House.” Snyderncalled Carpenter’s death “unconscionable”nand said it dramatized the need fornshelters for the homeless. Since then he’snbeen in the papers occasionally advocatingnthe same cause, most recently lastnweek, and it made me think of Bob.nI’ll call him Bob here, but I don’tnknow his real name. He now lives innBismarck. On sweltering days this summernI saw him sleeping in Interstate-exitnditches at the north end of town, ornpropped up on two gigantic Colemanncoolers near the Post Office, his backnagainst a light pole, hands behind hisnhead, folding chair forgotten behindnhim.nBob is black, so he’s probably not anlong-time North Dakotan: We have onlyna handful of black families in this state.nClearly, then, he came here from somewherenelse, God alone knows why. Justnas clearly, he’s heard of our winters andndoesn’t intend to be caught off-guard,nbecause when it was 102 and cattle werendying in the fields, we found Bob dressednin what he’s always dressed in: a brownnsnowmobile suit, bright yellow rubbernraincoat and rain pants under that, jeansnand who knows what else under that. Inknow at least the three top layers becausenthe top two are slit carefully across hisnbackside and flap as he walks.nBob travels with only his lawn chairnand coolers and a ghetto-blaster. What’snin the coolers is a mystery, but theynsupport him in his frequent and obviouslynsatisfying naps. He hangs out at thenPost Office, hurting no one, talking ornhumming to himself, just standingnaround. Several downtown churches letnhim use their bathrooms to wash in.nWhat he eats, I don’t know, but surelynBismarck garbage cans hold no slimmernpickings than those anywhere else innprodigal America; Bob is a healthylookingnman.nI’ve done some checking. The SalvationnArmy has a new building full ofndorm rooms, but they can take care ofnpeople for only a few days. They didn’tnthink Bob had come in. The police saidnthat if they saw Bob sleeping in the ditch,nthey’d have to move him along butnweren’t equipped to take care of him.nThere’s a brand-new home for thenhomeless in Bismarck, but, at least fornnow, Bob’s not living there. The statenHuman Services Department said thatnBob would be the county’s responsibility,nand the county said that they werenpowerless to do anything unless Bobncame in and asked for help.nI can imagine what Mitch Snydernwould make of all this. “Another onenfallen through the crack,” he’d write;n”just another case of bureaucratic insensitivity,nof government irresponsibility.”nI say. Where is Bob’s family — andnwhat if he likes living this way?nIt’s odd—Jesse Carpenter, frozen stiffnin the shadow of the White House, had anwife and a couple of kids he left 20 yearsnbefore he drank himself to death. MitchnSnyder left a $50,000-a-year job, a wife,nand a family to go into the real world andndo good (with a little time in prison fornattempted robbery). If his kids decidenDad left them because they’re worthlessn^im^^//y.’4nLIBERAL ARTSn..iii’ii.;;;-::.;,. ‘.Vl^A ;SnHere’s a report on an Etruscan burial sitenfrom the newspaper of record:nThe necropolis was described asnthe largest so far in the area,nwhich was settled between thenfirst and eighth centuries B.C.nby the Etruscans.n—New York Times,n23 October 1987nIs this what Kierkegaard meant by sayingnlife could only be understood backwards?nnnand become street people, will he considernthem government property? Snydernis the same kind of symbol as JessenCarpenter and Bob, only he doesn’tnknow it, and he’s not exactly part of thensolution, if you catch my drift. Wherenthere is no God, as Chesterton said, all isnpermitted. Where there is no family life,nall is neglected.nThis being said, there’s a lot of evidencenthat Bob is happy, and no evidencenthat he’s hurting himself or anyonenelse. He told my priest that he gotn$300 a month, knew that he could getnclothes at the Salvation Army, knewnwhere he could stay if he wanted to, wasnlooking for just the right apartment, andnwasn’t especially looking for a job. Winter’sncoming, and yes, in spite of thensnowmobile suit, I worry about wherenhe’ll sleep, but not obsessively. Bob isnpart of the larger Family of Man, ofncourse, but it’s my job to worry about thenmuch smaller Family of Mine first,nsomething Mitch Snyder doesn’t understand.nJane Greer edits Plains Poetry Journalnin Bismarck, North Dakota.nLetter From Mensanby John MartinnGenius: A Clear and PresentnDangernI hold in my hand the names of 205ncredit-card-carrying members of thenhuman race who’ve been described by anword that’s fast becoming as irritating asnsuperstar, glitz, or life-style. The word isngenius, and it’s time we recognized, withnall Churchillian gravity, that from Stettinnin the Baltic to the psychobabble retreatsnin Marin County, people are beingncalled geniuses at a rate that should makenus all want to pull down an iron curtain.nThis sinister state of affairs was recentlynbrought home by tributes to twonpublic figures previously suspected ofntalent, to say nothing of genius: (1)nCurly of Three Stooges fame, and (2)nAndy Warhol, the recendy deceased popnartist. That the first of these was the realnarticle, however, I have on the authoritynof Steve Allen. Narrating a Three StoogesnPBS documentary, Allen unblinkinglynpinned the genius tag on Curly, offeringnin evidence a film clip in which thenJANUARY 1988 / 45n