A storm is rolling in. The Old Man liked storms always had. Nature on the edge. A bit like life changing each moment. There is no time to become complacent. We must be watchers. In the Old Testament, the watchers were called Watchmen. Life is comfortable for the satisfied. But many have a nagging notion that there is more that they can do. If someone is hungry, feed them. If they are naked, clothe them. If they have no friends, befriend them. This was Neva J, who never saw a person down on their luck that she did not help. She did it quietly; no one saw. She did it humbly. Neva J remembered what it was like to have nothing. If she had a dollar, you had fifty cents.

The idea of charity being a tax write-off was not in our home. We were all in this together, and if our sister or brother, mother or father, son or daughter were suffering, it was up to us to help. No, look what I have but rather how can I help?

‘It is awful the shape we are in,’ Mr. Stocks said. ‘I do not know where to put my money; my bonds are failing, and the political climate is changing daily, hourly,’ Mr. Stocks noted. ‘I have little time to worry about the poor and homeless as I am consumed with worry about myself,’ Mr. Stocks proclaimed. ‘My dividends are suffering; the War in Iran is killing my portfolio,’ Mr. Stocks wept bitter tears. ‘I am rich; I have high debt; I must keep up with the Joneses,’ Mr. Stocks said softly.

‘I have a piece of sourdough bread from the bakery trash that is not soiled; we will share it,’ Rosie said. ‘The Baker will throw out the unsold sweet rolls soon; we will get some if we are lucky,’ Rosie continued. ‘Abigail, do not worry; things will get better for us the Preacher in the Woods said. ‘ Help is coming,’ Rosie promised. ‘I went to the church today, but they turned me away,’ Rosie continued. ‘They have a beautiful sanctuary, and there is peace there,’ Rosie continued. ‘The church Sexton saw me and gave me twenty dollars,’ Rosie noted. ‘His face was like the face of Christ,’ Rosie noted.

In the eyes of the homeless and hungry, middle-class people are rich. They have fine art on their walls and wood floors to walk on. When the middle class goes to the grocery they do not worry about prices. They satisfy their needs and their wants. There will be a vacation every year or perhaps more. Perhaps a cruise or a trip to New Orleans. The middle class will laugh and drink expensive cocktails. They will listen to jazz music and be saddened by the homeless sleeping on the sidewalks of the French Quarter. The middle class will be thankful for their comfort and the ability to do what they want to do. ICE agents will be there, but not for the middle class. They are the tourist bringing needed Tourist Dollars to the French Quarter. In capitalism, we place our trust.