Homeless people Up North are drawn to this small Michigan community

About this series ¹

ALPENA – It was dinner time, and Gordon Nickert was starving. Sleeping outside in the rain will do that to you.

He’d just hiked into town from a patch of trees where he sleeps at night. Nickert is homeless. And here in northern Michigan, some homeless people sleep in the woods.

“Ain’t nobody else around there, just some raccoons and stuff,” said the 59-year-old. Everything about him slumped — his shoulders, his face, the droopy lids over his eyes. He smelled as if he’d used whiskey to stay warm. “You can’t see us; bunch of pine trees, but right in the middle there’s a clearing. That’s where we stay.”

He sat at a table inside St. Bernard’s Friendship Room, a soup kitchen in Alpena, where six days a week a free dinner is served to anyone who’s hungry. By soup kitchen standards, the food here is gourmet. That night it would be Korean goulash, taco chicken tortilla wraps, salad tossed in an Asian vinaigrette, fresh apples, cucumber slices, and apples and cookies for dessert.

Dozens of people sat at long, fold-out tables, patiently waiting for the meal to be served. Some had no home. Others had no food or money. A few had all those things, but had no friends or family, and so they came here just to be around other people, a brief break in their loneliness.

Those who were homeless came in from the woods, from the shelter up the street, from the cars where they slept at night, from the homes of relatives and friends who’d take them in until they wore out their welcome.

Dave Foster had stayed at all those places before he was homeless. And he was homeless again. But this time he had a bridge to himself by the river.

“Everybody else is pitching tents out in all the patchy woods and stuff,” said the wiry, talkative 60-year-old. “I’m staying over at the 9th Street Bridge right now. I just got a tent and an air mattress today, and I got a friend gonna drop off some camo cover so I can cover it up.”

Foster sat at a table with several others, people he called his friends. He wore a dirty red T-shirt, glasses, a long, gray beard and a ball cap over his long hair. He used a cane to walk. He’s been sober 25 years — he made sure to note — other than the weed he smokes and the meds he takes for PTSD. He’d been on the streets since last week. And he knew all the places to stay because he’s been homeless before. This time, he was thrown out of the house where he was a guest. Another rejection in a long line of them, thanks to his behavior.

 “We got several other sets of woods around here called ‘tent town,’ and that’s where all the homeless people stay,” he explained. “The thing is, we have to be discreet. The cops really don’t bother us. They know where all the tent cities are. I mean, they see us pop out with our carts and our bags, they know where we are, but they figure we’re down and out. We’re not down and out. We’re just in situations.”

Being poor or homeless Up North is a lot different than it is in the big cities. There are far fewer services, if any. Fewer people to commiserate with. No jobs. No public transportation system. Less money to go around. And the winters are harsh. So a lot of them gravitate to the biggest small town nearby. Around these parts, that’s Alpena.

“We have a giving, caring community,” Foster said. “People in northern Michigan basically keep to themselves. But they are very giving.”

But that generosity is not without limits. And Foster’s polarizing behavior has tested many people’s patience, often alienating those who’ve tried to help him.

“I try to treat everyone the way I like to be treated, but if I’m being disrespected or I feel threatened, yes my light switch will click,” he declared, unprompted. “It’s not a pretty sight, and I don’t like being that way because I am a Christian and I am a good man. But I have to do what I have to do to survive or protect those that I love.”

That combative approach has backfired many times for him, said Randy MacAuley, the soup kitchen director.

“He’s his own worst enemy.”

Seated on the shores of Lake Huron’s Thunder Bay, Alpena is the largest city in northeast Michigan, home to 10,000 people or so, “a warm and friendly port,” as it’s called. Tourism is a major industry. In summertime, the city becomes crowded with downstate visitors who come for its beaches, marine and wildlife sanctuaries, lakefront cottages and the many shops, art galleries, restaurants and bars in downtown’s century-old buildings.

But it’s surrounded by several rural counties — Montmorency, Alcona, Iosco, Presque Isle and Crawford — with few services for those in need. That makes Alpena, with its one homeless shelter and its one soup kitchen, a beacon to poor people in the rural areas that surround it. It’s also just about their only option. Outside Alpena, the closest homeless shelters are in Oscoda, 50 miles south. Or Petoskey, 100 miles west. Or Mio, 60 miles southwest.

“I have found Alpena to be warm and friendly and extremely generous, and I think everybody looks out for everybody here,” said MacAuley, 67. “For a community this small, and resources that are limited, we’ve got a tremendous amount of generosity from the community, and they basically support this friendship room. And so, I can’t be more grateful for everything they’ve done for us.”

MacAuley grew up here. He moved for three decades to Ann Arbor, where he ran a soup kitchen, then came back to do the same here a decade ago. The differences were stark.

“The situation compared to, let’s say a larger city or the inner city, is just as desperate, if not more desperate,” he said. “If you’re in a metropolitan area, regardless of how poor you are, you have access to many more assets than you do up in a rural community like Alpena.”

The Friendship Room began as a simple soup kitchen 30 years ago inside a Catholic church’s now-defunct school gymnasium. But so many people were asking for clothes that the soup kitchen began accepting clothing donations to give away. And people were saying how their cupboards were empty at home, so the Friendship Room began asking for boxed and canned food donations, which poured in from local supermarkets, restaurants, party stores and local farmers; and the unused gymnasium became an unofficial food pantry for the area. It was now a one-stop shop for everything, even companionship.

The most crowded table was at the back of the room, where Valerie Alexander sat, smiling. “I just walked over and thought I’d see what’s for supper and see if my friends were here,” said the 56-year-old, who lived in an old stone house nearby. Next to her was Shirley Pinkel, 91, who also lived close. “We just got to know each other from here pretty much,” Pinkel said. They were among several people who come here solely for the company. In rural northern Michigan, isolation is common.

“My take is loneliness is pretty prevalent up here.” MacAuley said. “We get a stream of people who are here not just for food because they don’t have any, but because they do want to socialize, and somehow there’s a sense of camaraderie; and they know they’re safe, and so that provides a haven for recovery, and maybe peace of mind.”

The tables around them were nearly full. There were young families with children, elderly people with nobody, forest dwellers, shelter guests, drug addicts, alcoholics, the sober poor, the mentally ill, the unemployed, the lost and lonely. And there was Foster, sitting at a table, surrounded by the people he considered his friends.

The dinner was winding down, and everyone slowly, reluctantly headed back to whatever place they came here to briefly escape. Foster took a carry-out meal and some extra apples and cookies, said goodbye to just about everyone in the room, one at a time, often with a hug, and went out to his mountain bike, where he began the drawn-out process of loading the overstuffed, covered wagon attached to it.

He hoisted himself onto the bike, pedaled out of the church parking lot and headed northwest on the main highway through his adopted hometown, at a sluggish pace. “You can come to this town, just about anywhere you want to go on a bike in about 15 minutes tops, but it’s a little more spread out because we are Up North and this is country, this is God’s country. I love it here. I wouldn’t live anywhere else.”

Foster pedaled past the old-time barber shop, past the courthouse, past the Habitat for Humanity resale store, and past Sunrise Mission, the only homeless shelter in the region, a place where he’d stayed before, back when his ex-wife took him in and soon threw him right back out on the streets. Another rejection.

Inside, Demetrius Porter was on duty at the front desk, where he checks in new arrivals, takes care of the guests and enforces the rules. The 27-year-old from Onaway was himself homeless not long ago, sneaking a few hours of sleep in the stalls of restrooms at rest stops and truck stops along the highways of northern Michigan. “This place really saved my life, to be honest,” he said.

In small northern towns like Alpena, the homeless population is largely invisible compared with urban areas. They’re usually not sleeping in storefront doorways, or standing roadside with a cardboard sign, or begging for change on the corner. A recent count put their numbers in Alpena County at roughly 700.

“Most of our community, they don’t believe there are any homeless people,” said Sunrise Mission director Leslie Scheen, 57. “Almost every presentation I do, that’s one of the things people will tell me is they’re shocked that we have homeless people — ‘There can’t be any here’ —  and I think it’s because they blend in. Here, it’s different. They aren’t walking around carrying bags. Usually what they’re doing is they’re staying with their aunt and uncle, or their cousin, and they’re staying with their friends. And when all that wears off, that’s when we see them.”

Sunrise Mission is a Gospel-based rescue for men, women and families. It has 34 beds and 29 rules all guests must obey or they’re out: No fighting, verbal or otherwise. No weapons. No swearing. Guests must shower daily, do their own laundry, cook their own meals, clean their own rooms. Belongings can be searched for contraband. And all guests must hit the streets from 9 a.m.-11 a.m. and 1 p.m.-4 p.m every weekday to seek work and housing, with help from the innkeepers, as the staff is called. And perhaps most important of all, no alcohol or drugs whatsoever. Those like Nickert or Foster couldn’t stay there unless truly sober.

“What we want to see happen is for everyone to develop middle-class values — and I wouldn’t call them that — but it’s the want to work and take care of oneself,” Scheen said. “They all build a plan about what they’re working on, what caused their homelessness, and they’re held accountable for that. It’s about making one’s life better.”

The shelter takes no state aid, and instead relies entirely on donations from those who believe in its tough-love approach, which is far stricter than the no-questions-asked policy of many big city shelters and the soup kitchen down the street. “I see our place encouraging them to step up and do the things that need to happen to make their life better,” she said.

Scheen sat at a table with Theresa Thayer, 62, a live-in caregiver who became homeless after her patient died. She’d been at Sunrise Mission for a month now, and Scheen was making sure she was on track with her tasks. Her role here, like the other innkeepers, is to firmly push the guests toward taking concrete steps to self-sufficiency. With fewer services in rural areas, and with increased restrictions on public assistance in recent years, relying on a social safety net is not a realistic option up here.

Had Thayer gone to the Social Security office to sign up for benefits, Scheen asked? (Yes). Did she ask them when she’d get her first check? (No). Did she apply to the low-income apartment across town? (Not yet). Would she be willing to live in Harrisville, a half-hour away? (Maybe).

“They have right now in the newspaper a notification that there’s apartments there, so I do know they have some openings,” Scheen told her. “Harrisville’s a nice little town. It has lots of sandy beach, and they do a lot of artsy kind of stuff in that town.”

Standing nearby was James Rygh, a 57-year-old trucker from Marquette. He became homeless after a costly divorce, the depression it caused and the hard times that followed. “She got the house and the Durango. I got the Corsica, and the damn Corsica broke down last summer, so I’ve been driving Adidas,” he said. After making his way to Alpena and spending his last money at a low-end motel, he wound up here at Sunrise Mission.

Scheen prodded him, too. Had he turned in job applications today?

“I have seven,” he said. “I’m waiting on them. I can hang sheet rock, I can drive a truck, I can drive a forklift. Right now, I’ll dig ditches, I don’t care.”

“So what are you doing standing here?” Sheen said, though in a gentle, joking tone.

“I got a job interview tomorrow,” he replied.

“Good. With whom?” she pressed.

He didn’t specify. “It’s on the other side of the courthouse,” he said. “It’s only 16 hours. Painting.”

“Well, it’s more than what you have now,” Sheen replied, “until something else comes along.”

Foster continued his meandering journey through Alpena, pedaling his wagon-hitched bike past the gazebo where the homeless socialize during the day; past the liquor store, past the all-night restaurant where he sometimes takes shelter from the weather, where strangers will buy him a burger, he says, when they see him nursing a cup of coffee for hours.

He came to the bridge over the Thunder Bay River. Colorful flowers grew along the riverside. Anglers fished from above. He had the whole, wide span to himself. He ducked under the bridge, sat down on the cool concrete and lit a cigarette. He was home. There were pigeons that lived with him, in the girders. A swan comes by now and then. And he likes to watch as loons fish the river.

Sure, people are antagonized by him, he admits. But he insists that’s the price to pay for his directness, which he stubbornly views as a virtue.

“I also have no filter in my brain, no filter in my mind, no filter on my mouth,” he barked. “If I’m thinking, I’m going to speak. You ask me a question, I’m going to hit you with both barrels. I’d rather hurt you with honesty than hurt you with a lie.”

He was born in Lansing, spent time in Texas, came back to Michigan, bounced from town to town for a while, then ended up in Alpena 15 years ago. He said he served in the military, worked as a nurse in an emergency room and developed addictions and PTSD from it all. “I was holding your hand while you were taking your last breath,” he said of those years.

He says he’s had serious mental health issues, which manifests as an internal tug of war between kindness and rudeness, friendship and paranoia, which only feeds the cycle of rejection by others.

So here he was again, alone and homeless, living under a bridge with a bunch of birds. And right now, his main companionship came once a day when he’d eat a meal with the people at the Friendship Room. The one place where he’s not yet been rejected.

“If you notice everybody comes up and gives me a hug,” he said, growing teary in his unprompted self-defense. “I’m the original hugger there. They know me as Uncle Dave, and I look forward to those hugs. No matter who it was in there, these people know me, they know what kind of heart I have, and they enjoy me.”

The next day, he was back at the soup kitchen, right on time, along with all the others.

There were the loners and shut-ins who came to see their friends. There were the families whose little children looked bewildered about why they were eating there, among these sorrowful people.

And there was Nickert, the man who sleeps in the woods, who’s been homeless since getting out of a long prison stint years ago, who was now even more homeless than the day before. The cops had come and rousted him the night before from his spot beneath the pines. Now he had to find somewhere new to sleep. He didn’t even have a tent, only blankets. And the cloudy skies that day didn’t bode well for the evening. Wherever he went, he’d probably wind up wet. But it was nothing new for him. “I’ve been rained on plenty of times,” he mumbled dismissively.

Dinner tonight would be chicken alfredo, zucchini and summer squash casserole, tossed salad, cucumbers, and, of course, apples and cookies for dessert.

As the meal was about to be served, MacAuley stood at the side of the room and called for the room’s attention, as is customary here. “OK, let’s start off — any intentions, well wishes, for anyone they care about?” Several people raised their hands.

“Go ahead, Diane.”

“For you and your volunteers that come here every day to take care of us, all of my children, anyone here with health issues,” she said.

“Thank you for that, thank you for kind words for my volunteers. Phyllis?”

“Anyone here who is sick that they get better. I hurt my shoulder over the weekend. I’m just grateful to be here, thank you.”

“OK, thank you for those kind words. Rick?

“So I can get my insurance.”

“OK, Donald?”

“For Melissa with the bad foot.”

A little girl raised her hand.

“Yes, you’ve got a prayer intention?” MacAuley asked her. “Fire away.”

“Yes. Pray for everybody,” the girl said.

“Pray for everybody — that’s a very nice prayer intention,” MacAuley said warmly. “Thank you for that.”

He saw Foster in his usual spot. “You want to say anything, Dave?” MacAuley asked.

And Foster began a long speech, thanking veterans past and present, calling for prayers for homeless veterans, for his own safety on the street, for his three children and nine grandchildren, for everybody here — the staff, the community that donates everything, for this gathering of castoffs, this merciful respite from loneliness.

“The Friendship Room is just that,” MacAuley said. “It’s a friendship room, and it’s a place to socialize. And if, for some reason, you’re depressed, you’ve got a lot of weight on your shoulders, we’d like to think that by coming to the Friendship Room and eating and socializing, that perhaps maybe we make it a little bit better for that day.”

Food was served. The homeless ate in silence, the lonely laughed among themselves, the parents told their kids to eat a little more, and Dave talked to everyone within earshot as he sat with his tray of food, his dirty shirt, his depression, his polarizing attitude and his table full of friends. For a little while every day, he was accepted somewhere. And he was thankful.

“The homeless are very humble type of people,” he said. “We live on the minimum, we're grateful for what we do have. We are blessed with the blessings that we do get, the gifts we do receive. So, to me, Christmas is every day. It’s a blessing, it’s a gift, just to wake up.”

John Carlisle writes about people and places in Michigan. His stories can be found at freep.com/carlisle. Contact him: jcarlisle@freepress.com. Follow him on Twitter @_johncarlisle, Facebook at johncarlisle.freep or on Instagram at johncarlislefreep

Ryan Garza is an Emmy award-winning photojournalist. Contact him: rgarza@freepress.com. Follow him on Twitter @ryangarzafreep, or on Instagram at @ryangarza.

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