TOM FINN, WE HARDLY KNEW YE:

LOCAL HOMELESS MAN LIVED AND DIED ON THE STREETS

by Kate Tarasenko

[Originally published in the Rocky Mountain Bullhorn (Fort Collins, Colo.),

week of Jan. 13-19, 2005, pg. 13]

In the shelter of Oak Street Plaza‘s 20-foot evergreen tree, still illuminated by holiday lights, a candlelight memorial was held Sunday evening for
Tom Finn. It was a sad occasion, though not solemn. The chilly air was punctuated by live music -- courtesy of the Salvation Army Band – along with
wailing, laughter and drunken profanity -- courtesy of the mourners. Except for the venue, it was an event befitting any respectable Irish wake. Some
of the 50 attendees didn‘t even know Finn. The rest knew him as intimately as he would allow -- as well as someone who always has his bags packed.

Finn was a talented 48-year-old finish-carpenter who still had all of his tools. Most homeless people keep their belongings limited to what they can
carry, their lifetime of mementos and the tools of their trade relinquished to the local pawn shop, lost in transit, or bartered for something more
immediately useful. Finn had recently received a small inheritance from his deceased father‘s estate; perhaps that was why he was able to hang onto
the few remaining possessions that kept him connected to his former life. Some of his friends say it was also why he was able to keep himself steadily
supplied with vodka.

Finn was found unconscious early one morning a couple of weeks ago in an alley in Old Town, finally broken by the effects of acute alcoholism and
life on the streets.

Why didn‘t he use his windfall to turn his life around, maybe rejoin his family back in Rhode Island?

"There are just some things you can‘t undo," offers Tammy Steele, one of his friends who found him that morning. She was speaking as much for
herself and the rest of the "Wrecking Crew" – the tight-knit band of homeless people who populate downtown Fort Collins – as for Finn. In between
readings from the Bible, the Wrecking Crew crowds around the band‘s mic for a spontaneous rendition of "Amazing Grace."

One of the organizers of the memorial is determined to make homeless people -- the "invisible phenomenon" -- more visible. Nicole Salamander, a
homeless shelter case manager, says that she plans to hold an annual vigil to highlight the humanity and diminish the social stigma of Larimer
County‘s 2,600 homeless. She‘s shocked by how passers-by – in this age of fashionable enlightenment and politically-correct compassion – still
manage to look right through a street person rather than acknowledge that, but for a paycheck in the pipeline or the grace of benevolent family and
friends, "that person could easily be you or me."

Salamander is all too aware of what it takes to coordinate housing, meals, substance-abuse intervention, health care and vocational opportunities for
both the transitional (or "hidden") homeless and the more chronic of her caseload. But she is fierce in her admonition that, "Everyone with any
resources should give something back to the community."

Officer Bud Bredehoft — "Just ‗Bud‘" — has been the police liaison for the homeless community for the past three years, working out of the Walnut
Avenue storefront. He lingers on the plaza well after the memorial to talk with some of Finn‘s friends. He hands a cigarette to Ricky Kidd, one of the
people who found Finn and called 911, and who acts as his unofficial "deputy" to the Wrecking Crew. Bredehoft lights a Camel for himself and
waves away some smoke in the same manner he eschews any moralizing or sentimentalizing of Fort Collins‘ homeless situation.

"It‘s a very complex problem," he says, but his job is to help keep the population – and their attendant problems – to a minimum.

Bredehoft has his work cut out for him. With at least 20,000 chronically homeless people in Colorado, federal and state funding continues to be cut.
Nationally, more than half the homeless are women with children fleeing domestic abuse. Roughly a third abuse alcohol or some other substance.
In spite of this, 20 percent have regular jobs, but cannot afford adequate housing long-term.

Nevertheless, Bredehoft is hopeful. "It‘s not something we can solve, but we can definitely mitigate it," he says. He cites Poudre Health District‘s
ongoing effort to establish a local detox unit for people to get immediate help, without also having to walk or hitchhike back to Old Town from Island
Grove in north Greeley, the nearest facility.

"Life on the street has its rules," says Kidd, noting the resulting positive relationship between Bredehoft and the Wrecking Crew. Even panhandling,
recently outlawed in Loveland but still legal in Fort Collins, has guidelines which Kidd recites, partly for Bredehoft‘s amusement: stay on the
sidewalk, don‘t solicit people under 18 or over 55, and don‘t be aggressive – "no" means "no."

"I don‘t panhandle anyway," says Kidd, still tearing up from the memorial, as well as the plummeting temperatures. At over six feet tall, he says,
"I‘m too big; I know I scare people." Geared up with travel-friendly electronics, mountain-wear and a sturdy bike, Kidd gives the appearance of a
typical local of Boomer vintage; only his extra bike bags, bedroll and weather-worn face give him away. "The way Tom went – that‘s the way we
might all go," he says.

Officer Bud smiles, shakes his head, and tells Kidd to take it easy on the extra-large Mountain Dew that he suspects is spiked. But tonight, no one is
immune to the effects of losing a member of the family, even one as ―ornery‖ as Finn.

Steele remembers Finn that way, too. She administered CPR while awaiting the ambulance. Her husband, also named Tom, is in prison. She‘s been a
part of her street family for a couple of years, but would like to be reunited with her own family, in spite of the barrier that her illnesses, loneliness
and shame have conspired to create which prevent her from making that call.

Tonight she has brought to the memorial one of her prized possessions: a metalwork music box in the design of a church – a house with doors that
open outward. As it tinkles the notes to "Amazing Grace," Steele says, "This is for Tom."

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