STUBBORN AS A MULE: THE SISTER WHO WOULDN'T LET ME GIVE UP

by Randy Reynolds

When the sugarcane is harvested from the fields around my daughter’s subdivision in Lafayette, Louisiana, thousands of field mice scurry across the road to take shelter within the hollow walls of homes like hers—cheaply built houses that sell for low monthly payments that might get even lower, according to the banker, because of the “adjustable rate mortgage.” (The mortgage banker said this with a straight face.)

The mice weren’t the only ones seeking refuge there on a certain October night in 2005: my wife Sherry and I were homeless, too. When we moved into our daughter’s un-insulated carport to live among the mice, we had no net worth--nothing left but an ancient van and a bed; and a secret weapon named Ramonda (the third of my four younger sisters.)

Sherry and I had highly successful careers in radio. I hosted a top-rated morning show and managed several stations. Sherry was a record-setting salesperson. Then the radio industry was deregulated. Ownership rules were loosened and an elite few companies bought up thousands of stations, consolidating, automating and firing thousands of employees like Sherry and me. (The layoffs helped them show their Wall Street backers an immediate profit.)

The new owner of our station fired us with a phone call late at night. “Our financial model does not include paying your salary, so don’t come to work tomorrow” said this Harvard MBA. “And tell your wife she’s fired, too.”

The month after we lost our health insurance, Sherry had a heart attack and things went downhill from there. We lost our house, our furniture, everything. That’s where my little sister, the one who's as stubborn as a mule, stepped in.

As our luck went from bad to worse, Ramonda told us to “look up,” be hopeful, our ship was going to come in, our miracle was going to happen. I told her that it was dangerous to be that naive.

I went from one dead-end job to another, from video store to box factory to warehouse, working whatever hours were available, mostly at minimum wage. Sherry’s doctor wouldn’t let her work at all, so she spent her days with grandchildren and her nights in the carport with mice running back and forth across the covers. There were mice in every box and every pile of clothes on the carport floor. A mouse fell into our coin jar and rattled the pennies all night. Sherry had nightmares about mice and told me she couldn’t stand it anymore. But I couldn’t do anything about it. I had no hope to offer, but my naive, stubborn sister did.

Ramonda began sending us money and we protested, knowing that she had nothing extra to give; she sometimes supported herself on loans and paid them back when her sales commissions came in. “I’m borrowing a little extra each time and sending it to you,” she said.

She said she "just knew" that I was going to get a better job. I told her there was no way, because I didn't even have clothes suitable for an interview. But Ramonda doesn't let people give up. She sent me a box of clothes she’d picked up at a Goodwill Store and I wore them on an interview and did, indeed, get a better job.

Ramonda said she was praying for us to get a house of our own. I informed her that after doctor bills, prescriptions, and an old loan, we had about $300 per month left over, and nobody could get a decent place for that.

The day after this outburst, I was walking in my daughter’s subdivision when a little dog began following me. I met a woman coming from the opposite direction and asked if she knew whose dog it was--(she didn't)--and she asked me if I knew someone who wanted to buy a house for $303 per month.

Ramonda urged Sherry to apply for disability. “That takes years,” I said.

But Ramonda, who didn't know any better, said “Have faith! At least try!” We did, and within a few weeks, Sherry began receiving disability income.

As soon as we became self-sufficient, the I.R.S. stepped in and garnished my wages. They took all but $4.00 per hour of my income, as well as a portion of Sherry’s disability checks.

"See there!" I said. "I just can't win!"

Ramonda said, “Look up. Your miracle’s coming.”

And without asking my permission, she borrowed money for me to hire a tax lawyer. Having fought the I.R.S. since 1987, I knew it wouldn't work, but she already had the money and wouldn't take it back. The new lawyer got the garnishment lifted within a week.

Without Ramonda's encouragement (and cash), we’d still be living in my daughter’s carport with the mice, or in my other daughter’s utility room (where we spent six months before moving to the carport.)

Like Sherry and me, millions of Americans have lost jobs in the past few years; many of these will lose their homes. My great hope for them is that they'll meet someone like Ramonda who not only believes in miracles, but does all she can to make them happen.