New Surroundings, Familiar Worries

The search for a place to live continues for two families who have spent the summer and early fall at a Hartford campground. In Lebanon, a single dad's future hangs on a general store's bulletin board.

Chapter Two

As pine needles swirl in a stiff autumn wind, the campground has fallen silent. On a Sunday morning in mid-October, the campfire is a mound of cold, damp ashes.

The red, checkered tablecloth that covered the picnic table at campsite No. 24 has been tossed into a trash can. Plastic spoons litter the ground. Discarded pots and pans are heaped in a pile.

At the edge of White River Junction, the Maple Leaf Camp Grounds closes for the season today. But the two families who have lived here since summer are already gone.

THE LARGE, HAND-CRAFTED SIGN, painted green and pale yellow, serves as a beacon for the BMW and Mercedes set as they zip along Route 4 toward Woodstock. "Civilized Seclusion in Vermont," the sign declares.

Quechee Lakes, where homes cost up to $3 million, offers a pair of championship golf courses, a ski slope and a man-made lake for swimming.

Across the road from the development's welcome sign is the driveway to the two-bedroom ranch where Kerrie Ramsey sleeps on the living room couch. Her 17-year-old son, Matt, has one bedroom while his two younger brothers, Chris and Sam, share the other.

Gazing out the living room's picture window on a late October morning, Kerrie, a respiratory therapist at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, can hardly believe her good fortune. She daydreams of the garden and flowers she will plant next spring.

Two weeks ago, she was living at the campground with little hope of finding an apartment or house to rent. She was on the verge of having to move into a motel for the winter. And her estranged husband's offer to have Chris and Sam move back to Arkansas with him was something she thought she might have to consider -- for their sake.

Then, the same night she talked with her husband, she saw a newspaper ad for the Quechee rental. I need to call the first thing in the morning, she told herself.

But she did not want to call from the outdoor pay phone next to the campground. Truck traffic from Route 5 made it difficult to hear, and she did not like having to explain to potential landlords why she was living at a campground. She carried a pager with a recording that sounded like a home answering machine to conceal the fact that she did not have a telephone.

Kerrie waited until she arrived at the Haven, a White River Junction homeless shelter, to make the call. Kerrie volunteers at the shelter a few days each week, answering the phone, writing thank you notes to contributors and filling grocery orders at the food bank.

She dialed the number listed for the Quechee house. The ad did not mention a monthly rent. Because it was in Quechee, however, Kerrie assumed it was going to be expensive.

"I'm calling about the house for rent in yesterday's paper," Kerrie began.

Not wanting to waste time with small talk, she asked, "how much is the rent?"

"It's $650, plus a one-month security deposit."

Wow, Kerrie thought. It would only take $1,300 to move in. She could swing that.

"You'll have to provide your own refrigerator," the landlord said. "And heat is not included."

"It's not electric is it?" Kerrie had learned all about electric heating during her first winter in Vermont. She had rented a condo in Quechee for $850 a month. But she nearly went broke keeping the place heated, paying $800 one cold month.

"No, it's oil."

Kerrie mentioned that she had three boys and wanted them to stay in the Hartford school system. The landlord could relate, her children had gone to school in Hartford.

"Can I come over and take a look at the house?"

The landlord hesitated, figuring Kerrie would find it too small.

"Please, just let me take a look."

THE CLOCK INSIDE THE MCDONALD'S on Route 12A reads 11:15 p.m. Except for a night janitor and manager, Kate and Margrette are the only ones left.

Kate cleans the milkshake machine while Margrette wipes down the counters. Together, they sweep the kitchen floor, a nearly impossible job because of the countless sesame seeds that fall off the top of Big Mac buns throughout the day and land in tile cracks. After bagging the trash, their work is done.

The door locks behind them as they leave. The sight of her own breath in the night air persuades Kate to raise the zipper on her fleece jacket. Margrette quickly follows suit.

"Watch for skunks," Kate reminds her younger sister.

On fast-food alley, where McDonald's, Burger King and Pizza Hut are lined up like bowling pins, sea gulls scavenge for parking lot leftovers by day and hungry skunks stake out the territory by night.

"I hate skunks," Margrette pronounces.

"Not our skunks," says Kate, reminding her sister of the night they re-routed traffic to the drive-thru window while a particularly brazen skunk finished the hamburger bun he had found in the car lane. "They're cute. They hardly ever spray anyone."

Shortly before midnight, they are back in Room 260 of the Fireside Inn, just down the road from the restaurant. They enjoy the room's warmth, free of guilt. One benefit of hotel living is not having to worry about keeping the thermostat low to save money.

Kate's mother, Robin, is at a desk in the room, working on her computer. Olivia, Kate's three-year-old daughter, is asleep in the bed nearest the window.

When it comes to the nightly sleeping arrangements, Olivia is in charge. This night, she has chosen to sleep in her grandmother's bed, leaving Kate and Margrette to bunk together in the room�s other double bed. Kate points the remote control at the TV before flopping down on the bed. After 8 1/2 hours on her feet, she's too tired to read.

Surfing through the channels, Kate rubs her left eye. Her disposable contact lenses are irritating her again. She can't remember the last time she bought new lenses, but it's been at least a month -- far longer than eye doctors recommend.

But she will have to tolerate the itching for a while longer. Pay day isn't until Friday.

"COME ON GIRLS," Robin urges. "It's time to wake up." Kate rubs her eyes. The hotel room's digital clock reads 9:05 a.m. She has slept seven hours.

Olivia, holding a juice box, is jumping on the other bed. "Come on, Margrette," says Kate, nudging her younger sister. "We've got to get up."

Usually, they sleep longer. But this is Friday, pay day at McDonald's. If they don't pick up their checks before the lunch rush begins, they will have to wait until after 2 p.m.

Robin drives her daughters to the restaurant.

"Checks ready?" Kate asks the assistant manager. Taking hers, she smiles. "Thank you."

Back in the car, the sisters tear open their pay envelopes. It was a good week. Gordon Wright, the manager, knows the sisters struggle to make ends meet, so he tries to help out by giving them an extra shift per week when he can.

Kate's check is for $338 and Margrette's is $10 less. They worked the same number of hours, but Margrette earns less per hour than Kate's $8.45.

Even with their two checks combined, Kate and Margaret rarely bring home more than $600 a week. Together, they earn less than $35,000 annually, roughly $7,000 less than what experts consider a livable wage for a family of four. Robin turns into the drive-thru at Mascoma Savings Bank. Kate and Margrette cash their checks, taking all the money in $20 and $50 bills. It makes no sense to open a checking account, Kate figures. In a couple of hours, after they shop for groceries and buy her mother's two cartons of cigarettes, they'll have less than $100 left.

Kate counts out $380 and places the crisp, new bills in the glove compartment. "That should be enough to cover the hotel bill," she says.

Robin nods. "I hope so."

"Do we need gas?" asks Kate.

Robin looks at the gauge. "We're practically empty."

Kate makes a mental note: There goes another $15.

If all goes well, they will not have to fill up the gas tank for another two weeks. It is one of the reasons they picked the Fireside Inn when they were looking for a place to live before winter set in. It was within walking distance of McDonald's, a critical factor since neither she nor Margrette has a driver's license and the family car is a 1986 Toyota.

After living at a Hartford campground for most of the summer and fall, the Fireside offered them a deal of $50 a night plus tax, including a buffet breakfast. As long as Kate and Margrette can each keep working at least 40 hours a week, they will be able to afford the $1,500 a month for the room.

"Wouldn't an apartment be cheaper?" a Fireside housekeeper asked Kate shortly after they moved in. "Sure," Kate responded.

"I saw a two-bedroom in Lebanon in the paper for $750 a month."

Kate has done the math. The Fireside costs twice as much as that apartment a month. But in the Upper Valley's tight housing market, Kate has found that landlords rule. They all want -- and have no trouble getting -- the first month's rent and a sizable security deposit, often equal to another month's rent, up front.

To get the $750 a month apartment the housekeeper mentioned, Kate would have to give the landlord a check for $1,500 to move in. Add deposits for electricity and telephone and the price of admission approaches $2,000.

"Who has that kind of cash? I know I don't," Kate told the housekeeper.

Trying to be helpful, the young woman mentioned that she lives in a small public housing apartment complex in Lebanon. "You could try there."

Kate didn't immediately respond. "Maybe."

She didn't tell the housekeeper what she was really thinking. Growing up in Massachusetts, she had friends who lived in public housing. She saw how people reacted when they learned somebody was living in a place where the government paid part, or all, of your rent.

Nobody will ever call her daughter a welfare brat.

WITH THE GAS NEEDLE SINKING toward empty, Michael DePalma pulls into the Meriden Deli Mart. A teacher, he still has 35 miles to drive to work at his school in Springfield, Vt.

He fills the tank and heads inside to pay. A poster on the store's bulletin board catches his eye. Upper Valley Habitat for Humanity is accepting applications for a house it is planning to build in Lebanon.

"Building houses with God's people in need," is the nonprofit group's motto. Michael has heard how the group, using mostly volunteer labor, builds affordable houses for low-income residents living in the Upper Valley.

He jots down Habitat's telephone number. I'll call Barry when I get to school, Michael tells himself. Michael met Barry Seaver last year at the First Baptist Church in Lebanon, where both are members of the gospel singing group. He knows Barry is looking for a place, but is having trouble finding one he can afford.

At school, Michael calls Barry during his first free period.

"Hellllloooo," answers a slow, deep baritone voice at the Lebanon social service agency where Barry works. During the disco era of the late '70s, Barry worked as a disc jockey at an Upper Valley dance club. Now, there's his Elvis gig.

For the last 10 years, Barry has earned extra cash by performing at private parties as the King.

A radio station once hired him to appear at the White River Junction post office on the day the Elvis stamp was released. He even wears his hair slicked back like Elvis.

"Hi, Barry," says Michael. "I've got the solution to all your housing problems."

From the other end of the phone, Michael can hear Barry chuckling. "Sure you do," Barry responds.

Michael explains the Habitat for Humanity poster he saw. "Barry, you'd be perfect. You're a single father with three kids. You work in social services, and you really don't make a lot of money."

"Well, you've got that last part right. Make sure you tell them that I've moved six times in the last three years."

Michael does not let his friend's cynicism deter him. "Barry, I'm serious. If anybody deserves a break it's you."

Michael has seen the Lebanon apartment where Barry's two boys have to sleep in the living room. He knows the apartment has no range or oven, leading Barry to cook on a Coleman camp stove set up on the kitchen counter.

"I'm going to give Habitat a call and tell them about you," says Michael.

"OK, my friend," Barry replies. "You do that."