October 19th 2026

There are currently 41 eight foot long banquet tables sitting upstairs in the sanctuary along with the severed head remnants of a piñata; downstairs there is a pigeon named Charles Squab sitting in my lap.

To say that the last two weeks have been wild would be an understatement.

In that time I’ve learned that:

If you’re going to make a four foot tall Plants vs Zombies Michael Jackson piñata for 20 kids to beat on… A) you’re going to want at least four pounds of candy and B) to make it a lot stronger… because a whole lot of those kids play baseball and judging by the voracity of the swings… they’re also pretty fucking good.

Contrary to what David said… two hours is PLENTY long enough for a birthday party with 20 children and five pounds of candy and cupcakes.

Pigeons are vegetarians and when they’re as young as Charles Squab they need to be hand-fed. Also… wild pigeons take to domestication the same way I would to being tossed into a life of luxury… they adapt and thrive real fucking quick.

If you solicit donations for the community, this community is going to show up BIG.

**************************************************************************************

Two weeks ago I was pulling sheets of cardboard out of the recycling bin. Harrison turned 10 on the tenth of October and he had wanted a big party. I wasn’t sure what to expect as only 12 people had RSVP’d. When we had Beverly’s party 30 had RSVP’d but only 20 had shown up. I was nervous that maybe five kids would actually show up.

“You know mom… a lot of kids’ parents already have your number so they’re not going to call to say they’re coming,” Harrison said.

“Hey bud, that’s not how that works. The fact that they already have my number means that they should be that much more inclined to tell me they’re coming. That’s literally what an RSVP is.”

“Yeah… I don’t know about that…”

“Well I do…”

Well I did. I mean I thought I knew.

Either way I was sitting on the floor drawing a massive Plants vs Zombies Michael Jackson piñata for the birthday boy and maybe five kids… maybe twenty… who the fuck knew… (not me apparently). The fun didn’t stop there though because I also got the stellar frickin idea that I could save $100 and instead of buying party favors and a craft for the kids to do during the party, I could make pumpkin piñatas for the kids to decorate and fill after they pulverized the Michael Jackson piñata.

“Not to give you more work or whatever… but maybe you should make some extra pumpkins… just in case more kids show up…” David had advised.

(Pro tip… when your wife is ten hours into a piñata project turned massive undertaking, wait until she isn’t holding the box cutter to offer up ideas.)

So… Twelve pumpkins became twenty. And if you know anything about pinata making (I sure the fuck do) you know that you need a front and a back… and sides to hold it all together. Which means that I cut out 40 life sized pumpkins and god only knows how many strips of cardboard to hold it all together.

Actually… I used enough cardboard to house an 8’ x 7’ shed. My neighbor’s shed specifically. He gleefully gave me his shed boxes… less shit for him to have to cut up. And after cutting it all up… he definitely made the right choice because… total pain in the ass.

Now when David scoffed at my idea of a two hour kids’ party I almost bumped it up to three. I didn’t want to be the Debbie Downer ending the fun prematurely. I also knew all the kids that had RSVP’d and the majority were little girls who would gleefully sit, quietly painting pumpkins for hours on end. Except my brain kept screaming: DON’T YOU DARE. DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING DO IT. ARE YOU NUTS? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE LAST PARTY? KIDS ACT DIFFERENT AFTER SUGAR… SO MUCH SUGAR. TWO HOURS. DON’T YOU DARE DO THREE.

Sometimes I’m right. Sometimes David is right (don’t tell him I said that). In this case… we were both right… him about the number of piñatas I should make… and me about the appropriate amount of time for a kids’ party.

More than twenty kids showed up. Apparently if you have someone’s phone number: Fuck RSVPs. I don’t know… I don’t make the rules. Harrison and David were right. I don’t get it. So 20 pumpkins were enough because a good chunk of the kids that showed up not only wouldn’t sit for hours on end to paint pumpkins… they wouldn’t sit period. So not everyone painted pumpkins… some kids had to be supervised so that they wouldn’t smash each other’s heads in with the piñata stick which brings me to the time I was right about two hours being MORE THAN ENOUGH TIME for a ten year old’s birthday party.

By the time it ended, despite having fun… I was ready for a shot of something stiff and a cigarette. I don’t do shots or smoke cigarettes. But if I was ever going to start… It would have been at 4:05pm on October 10th, or exactly five minutes after the party ended.

Earlier that morning we had finally cleared out the sanctuary. The last time it had been empty was at 10:49am on July 31st 2025… right before we began hauling all of our shit in there. And since then there had been varying amounts of our lives packed and unpacked and repacked into boxes along with furniture and a never ending supply of building materials that streamed in and filtered back out. An ebb and flow of stuff.

The goal was always to get the space emptied so we could do things like host two hour long (not three) children’s parties where we beat the hell out of piñatas and ate way too much sugar (while some kid tried to whack other kids with the stick).

According to Siri… it took us 436 days to get there. And while I’d be happy to revel in the win that was an emptied sanctuary 436 days later… it lasted less than 24 hours.

Which brings us to the 41 eight foot long banquet tables sitting upstairs: On October 11th stuff started showing up. The first load filled our entire portico. It had been raining so the bags were dropped off on the side of the building. So many in fact that I could barely open the door to get out. David and I made multiple trips the following morning to haul them up to the sanctuary.

Honestly I found it pretty comical. The sheer volume of stuff. Here our goal was to empty out the sanctuary and less than 24 hours later we were filling it back up. The bags and boxes and bins kept coming though. More and more and more.

“Mom! Someone just dropped off more stuff! There’s bags at the front door!”

“Hey Vaness… there’s more bags…”

“Mom did you see all the bins at the front?”

We had to laugh. The absurdity of spending almost a year and a half getting rid of shit only to bring it all back in was hilarious. Even more hilarious was that none of it belonged to us.

“I swear… it’s not mine! It’s my friend’s!”

Ha!

In addition to renting the space out for (two hour long) kid’s parties and proms and weddings and anniversaries and roller skating nights and whatever the hell else we can and will come up with… the goal was always to add a heaping dose of non-profit work to wash our hands clean of the capitalism game we need to play (gotta eat somehow). And our first call to duty came in the form of a Facebook post on our local community page.

A young woman was looking for some help getting clothes for her little girl. Knowing I had nothing for her I almost scrolled by without a second thought until I remembered our St Petersburg Buy Nothing Community. I loved that group. I still keep in contact with a lot of the members, many who became good friends over the years. One of my favorite things about that group were the swaps where people would donate items depending upon the type of swap and people would come and swap/shop for free.

I had always wanted to host one but didn’t have enough space to do so outside of a small plant swap under the tiny bit of shade we actually had.

Now I not only had the space… I had the time to pull something like that off on a grand scale.

So what started as a woman asking for some help turned into a memory jolt and our first non-profit event at the church. I put out multiple calls for donations over the next few weeks and our little community did not disappoint. We soon had so much stuff that I was quickly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of donations.

A local vendor was kind enough to give us one fucking hell of a deal on table rentals and thank god because did I mention that I had SO MUCH STUFF? Another vendor reached out to me and came with her daughter to set up a table to give out free lemonade and hot chocolate that you could mix with different flavors and toppings. We had another community member come by with bikes… he had donated over 2000 bikes in the last five years and he gave out everything he brought with him for the event. Two women showed up and helped me sort and organize everything. We literally worked side by side for hours just going through everything and laying it all out neatly over the course of two days.

The entire ordeal took us a good week to pull off but we did it without a single hitch…

Except for Charles.

The pigeon.

Charles Squab remember? Kinda like Charles Schwab… the financial service… you know what… it’s not as clever when I have to explain it… either way…

Just when I thought, “Geez… I have got so much going on… I couldn’t possibly fit one more thing on my plate…” here comes Charles just waltzing right in.

“MOM! There’s a pigeon outside and it’s not flying.”

Like I know what to do.

Like I’m some sort of fucking pigeon expert.

Apparently my kids… and Charles both think I am.

So I did what any sane person would do and I went outside and grabbed the pigeon and brought it inside, trying not to trip over the fresh drop of bagged donations sitting in the church’s vestibule. Now here’s something else I learned that I should have mentioned earlier. Sometimes young or injured birds will get a little bit of bird crap stuck on their toes. It doesn’t come off and next thing you know it snowballs, or in this case shitballs out of control (another theme in this crazy life of mine) and next thing you know they have these calcified balls of shit attached to their toes that make it nearly impossible for them to walk or fly. Charles was weighed down by sever kettlebells of shit on both feet.

You just learned something new too? You’re welcome.

Oh but there’s more. You see these little kettle-shit-bells don’t come off with just warm water and soap alone… you have to use warm salt water and a good soak and then gently with gloved hands work them off slowly so that you don’t injure the nail sheath.

Again: you’re welcome.

Which means that amid the onslaught of boxes and the table drop off and god only knew how many people were going to show up at the church… I found myself massaging shit balls off pigeon feet.

If that’s not classic Vanessa then I really don’t know what the fuck is.

Now for whatever people want to say about pigeons: bird brained comes to mind… I got to say: Charles is far from dumb.

That little guy went from being abosultely terrified of me to doing his best to burrow into me within less than 24 hours. He knew he could remain feral as fuck and go right back outside after “operation shit ball” was completed OR he could get all cute and snuggly and live in the lap of luxury never again having to fend off a hawk or an empty belly. Since then he’s been eating raisins and sweet corn and peas and carrots.

“Can you believe how quickly this little guy warmed up to me?” I had mused to David.

“You’re hand feeding him raisins and sweet corn, Vaness… what did you expect?”

“I don’t know… I guess for him to be wild and want out ASAP.”

“Again… you’re feeding him sweet corn and raisins. Speaking of… when is the bird going…?”

“Did you know that pigeons are domesticated animals and also I named him Charles Squab. Get it? Charles Squab.”

“Jesus Christ… you’re keeping him aren’t you?”

“Do you like that name?”

“He’s not allowed in our room. I’m putting my foot down there. The diapered chicken in our bedroom was enough… I’m serious Vaness… not in our room.”

“That’s fine… we have three other floors where he can hang out.”

We took a little break just now while I was writing this and practiced flying. Which means that Charles is now preening himself on the stainless steel commercial sink in the kitchen while I type. I just finished feeding him more peas. David is questioning his life choices.

All this to say that while we prepped for a SWAP we kept a baby bird well fed. When it was nearly time for the SWAP to begin we had a line wrapping around the church. The parking lot next door was nearly full… I’ve never in the 445 days that I’ve been here seen it full. I’d even reckon that the last time there were that many cars there, was many years ago when the hospital was actually operational. The event was a massive success. I have no idea how much stuff was donated, there was no way I could have counted everything. I don’t even know how many people came but it was A LOT.

People shopped for free. People filled up bags and boxes and baby strollers. People sipped lemonade and hot chocolate. Kids picked out toys and Halloween costumes. Our kids helped people put their goodies into bags and drank in four hours, the amount of sugar it would probably have taken them six months otherwise to drink. Everyone had a great time. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was thankful for wonderful weather and a beautiful community event.

Honestly I think for an event outside of a kid’s (two hour long) birthday party… I can’t think of a better way to have kicked off what I hope to be the beginning of a wonderful legacy of community events at the church.

If two years ago you had told me (an atheist) that I’d be spending all my time, energy, and money working at ‘the church’ with a baby pigeon named Charles Squab on my shoulder after having just made twenty pumpkin piñatas for a bunch of kids who didn’t RSVP because their parents already had my number… I’d have said you were fucking nuts.

Now look at us… 41 banquet tables deep and a profound knowledge of calcified pigeon shit ball removal later and I have to ask myself (among other things):

Who’s nuts now?

Don’t answer that. It’s rhetorical.

Charles knows what’s up… hawks be damned… he’s all about that soft life. Peas and sweet corn for the win.