Porch Pirates

February 10, 2026

I saw them, but they didn’t see me.

I was looking out the front window when they marched into view on my street.

A homeless couple was struggling along with their heavy loads.

He was pulling a red wagon stacked high with items.

The woman behind him was pushing a shopping cart full to the brim with the odds and ends that homeless people collect. She had a large, red pit bull on a leash.

They reminded me of two pioneer wagons traversing the Oregon Trail.

I knew they weren’t panhandlers in the normal sense of the word.

Panhandlers are the con artists who stand at street corners with hand-lettered signs playing on the sympathies (and guilt) of drivers.

I once rolled down my window, and the street corner hustler hurried over.

“Man, you’re not really homeless, are you?”

I hurt his feelings. “Yes, I definitely am.”

“Okay, why are you only wearing one layer of clothes, and they’re pretty clean?”

I peered around the intersection. “Where’s your bag? Your stash?”

A truly homeless person guards their possessions with their life. It’s all they have.

I rolled up my window and drove away. I didn’t give him money, and neither should you.

If we stay on True North, we’ll never be lost.

Back to the two travelers on my street.

They were panhandlers of a different stripe.

Grifters.

They were definitely homeless. But what were they doing on my side street, where we never see the homeless?

The woman stopped and pointed to my front door. I actually heard her say, “Lookee there.”

She and Big Red hurried along my sidewalk to the front door. I hobbled to meet her (I’m recovering from knee surgery.)

When I opened the door, she had a package in her hand.

“Here, Sir. You have a package.”

I looked from her to the package, then to the pit bull.

The dog quizzically glanced from me to her and back again.

I couldn’t think what to say. I was speechless, a rarity for me.

Then it just came out. “Well, Ma’am, I so appreciate you helping me with this delivery.”

She graciously handed my package to me as if it wa a personal gift from her.

I wanted to shake her by the nape of the neck, but Big Red discouraged that avenue.

I tucked the package under my arm as she turned and walked away.

In spite of myself, my Southern understated politeness told hold. “And thanks again for your help.”

I closed the door and opened the package. It was a set of a dozen Micron writing pens in assorted colors.

The dream of every serious writer.

I wondered what the Porch Pirates would have done with my pens.

I sat down and laughed.

I know I should have reported the Porch Pirates to the police. They deserved to be caught. It’s cold-blooded thievery, stealing treasures right off the porch of a man’s castle.

But I was already formulating this story, and we writers are prone to having one-track minds.

Well, here it is. My story has become your story. Take it, enjoy it, laugh, become angry, or shake your head in amazement.

It’s your story now, and it’s too good ‌a story not to share.