Members of the Homeless Outreach Program were getting ready to take a man with a puffy, ravaged face to the medical clinic. As they were moving, their attention was caught by a yell coming from a lean-to in the homeless camp.
"What about me?" Chuck called out. "I'm sick, too."As it turned out, the homeless man was more than sick; he was dying.
"He knew it, too" said Jeffery St. Romain, director of Volunteers of America, the lead agency among several in the outreach program.
They took him to the clinic, then he was sent to a Salt Lake hospital, where he was treated for pneumonia. When the immediate crisis was over, he returned to the streets. One morning, he didn't wake up.
They found his body outside.
The death of someone who is homeless seldom merits major headlines or even a 30-second bite on the evening news. Unless, of course, the death was violent. Or it can be used to illustrate a larger theme. That was the case a couple of years ago when a fellow froze to death on the streets of Salt Lake.
But a lack of media attention doesn't mean the death passes unnoticed. Homeless people have friends who care about them, who mourn them and who hate to let them go.
Ask anyone who has been on Salt Lake's homeless scene very long - whether homeless or trying to provide services - about C.J. or the man nicknamed Papa Smurf and they'll remember.
They'll remember the man. They'll remember the memorial service. And they're apt to tell touching stories.
No one knows how long C.J. was a denizen of the streets. During the last years of his life, he could be seen walking with his dog, Buck, a handsome chocolate labrador who was totally devoted to his master. The feeling was mutual.
When alcohol and too much time in the elements finally put C.J. in a nursing home, his friends made it a point to visit. He was loved.
Intermountain Health Care vice president Pamela Atkinson, who has done homeless outreach for years (some say fondly and only half in jest that she reaches out first to the dogs, whom she loves dearly, then to the humans, whom she also loves) remembers the last time C.J. and Buck saw each other.
They took the dog to see his friend. Street life and an accumulation of years had taken a hard toll on canine and companion. Buck's hips were racked with arthritis. Reluctantly and with tears in his eyes, C.J. gave permission to put Buck to sleep.
Only Nature itself could ease C.J.'s suffering and he didn't linger very long.
They had a memorial service, fittingly, on the streets he had roamed and called home.
To my knowledge, no one ever found Papa Smurf's family to tell them he was gone. Still, he didn't pass without fanfare. His memorial was a well-attended and tender affair.
Last week, a homeless man said something I never want to forget.
He's going home for Thanksgiving. His family, he said, will want to see that he's OK. They're getting on in years and they aren't thrilled he lives on the street. But the choices that have taken him to Salt Lake's homeless camps haven't diminished their love and concern.
Usually, an indigent burial by the county is the end of a homeless man's earthly trek.
Often, their families are unknown and don't get notified, although sometimes heroic efforts are made.
But it doesn't mean the journey was without love.
Yes, some street people prey on anyone weaker than them in the camps. But others prove themselves as protectors and friends.
There are tightknit, loving communities hiding in the weeds around the valley. The bonds may be of short duration because of lifestyles and the need to move on, but they appear strong. You don't have to have an address to have a heart.