The morning temperatures in Kalispell had dropped below 40 degrees in the darkness outside. For the first time in her life, 57-year-old Gloria Freund was homeless.
On a recent weekday morning around 7 a.m., she was still struggling to walk, the result of an injured knee after being evicted. The manager of the subsidized senior living community where she lived had written up Freund three times for letting her homeless son stay with her, she said. She was given 28 days to move out and find another place to live.
“I’d never been terminated before. I always had really good recommendations from my apartments,” she said. “When it happened it just devastated me. I just stood there and bawled my eyes out.”
After moving her possessions into a storage shed, she was exhausted, injured and had nowhere to go.
A social worker introduced Freund to the Samaritan House, the local homeless shelter and transitional housing facility at 124 Ninth Ave. W. The staff welcomed Freund, provided her a warm room and clothes, three meals a day and the resources to heal up, emotionally and physically.
With 65 rooms, including an additional 23 units specifically for veterans, the Samaritan House is the largest refuge for homeless men, women and children in Northwest Montana. Founded in 1991, the facilities are drug and alcohol free and provide free residence, meals, clothing and other assistance for anyone in need. Samaritan House averages 90 percent occupancy throughout the year in the shelter and transitional living units. The staff of 12 also helps with housing and employment searches and other practical aspects that can lead to a successful fresh start.
“We’re helping build a foundation for them,” said Executive Director Chris Krager, who has managed the facility and its operations since 2001.
The Flathead Valley consistently has the third largest homeless population in the state, according to the 2011 Montana Homeless Survey, sponsored by the state’s Department of Public Health and Human Services. There are 488 homeless in the valley on any given day, based on a six-year average. Only about 10 percent are chronically homeless, while the majority are “episodically homeless,” meaning they’ve suddenly fallen on hard times without a safety net.
Besides the Samaritan House, Freund would only have one other possible public place to turn, the smaller Ray of Hope shelter.
Otherwise, as winter approaches, “I wouldn’t have had anywhere else to stay,” she said.
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Chris Krager, executive director of Samaritan House, shows the large supply of coats and jackets stockpiled in a closet at the homeless shelter and transitional housing offices in Kalispell. Krager said this time of year Samaritan House tries to give out as many coats to those in need as possible. Lido Vizzutti | Flathead Beacon |
To understand the mission of the Samaritan House and the person behind it, one must listen to the story of how Krager got where he is today. For more than 10 years he has been tirelessly devoted to addressing homelessness and helping the people it afflicts. The story of how he got here almost sounds like the well-known parable that answered the question, “Who is my neighbor?”
Krager was once a longhaired 22-year-old who dreamed of being a rock star. His band was playing gigs in cities across the Pacific Northwest, and along the way it stopped in Portland. But once the band members arrived, they discovered their shows had been mismanaged and forgotten.
It was February and cold but the band appreciated the time to rest. In true bohemian fashion it found a uniquely cheap place to stay — the attic of a three-story church in downtown. After goofing around for a few days, they grew restless and decided to make their stay more meaningful. On a Wednesday evening they turned the church basement into a free spaghetti feed for anyone who showed up. What they didn’t realize was the city’s largest homeless population hung out only a few blocks away. Within an hour the spaghetti feed was packed.
By night’s end Krager and the others felt pretty good about themselves. They believed they had made a big difference in people’s lives. As they cleaned up, one last homeless man remained.
He interrupted their celebration, growling: You kids expect to make a difference in the world? You don’t know the first thing about what you’re talking about. Why don’t you come live with me, and then you’ll have the right to say what you’re saying. Then you’ll know more about life.
He had long, wild hair and a barbaric beard. He looked like he was in his mid-50s, though Krager would later find out he was only in his 30s. His street name was Robin Hood.
“I just stared at my shoes. I didn’t move,” Krager said, recalling the moment years later. “I didn’t want any part of that. But my friend Tim said, ‘Absolutely. Let’s go do this.’”
Krager unsuccessfully tried talking Tim out of it. Afraid of letting his friend go alone, Krager agreed.
They met Robin Hood the next day. He made them agree to three strict rules — no money or identification were allowed, and, most importantly, no one else could know they were not truly homeless.
Dressed in grubby clothes, Krager followed Robin Hood into a new world. They panhandled on street corners and found creative ways to eat. They slept in parks and “hobo camps.” They experienced the desperate nature of uncertainty and learned the value of simple comforts.
“One day we went to a church meal at an old Lutheran church, and just walking in the door, I was warm,” Krager said. “I knew I was going to be warm for an hour and a half. I knew for an hour and a half I was going to be OK.”
They met homeless women and children. They were exposed to major drug use, alcoholism and mental illness gone unchecked.
“It was full-on exposure to chronically transient life,” Krager said. “It started for me a foundation of really rooting for the underdog.”
After three days the other band members were ready to hit the road. But before they left, Robin Hood wanted to celebrate. Krager and Tim had passed the test.
They went to a quiet breakfast diner after raising enough money to buy three meals. Once they sat down the owner of the restaurant came over. No transients allowed. They were kicked out. The only nearby place was a pancake house, but they could only afford two breakfasts. Robin Hood insisted the other two eat. They agreed hesitantly, but before they left, as one final measure, they made him agree to something – he had to contact his mother and father whom he had not spoken to in more than 15 years. After eating they found a pay phone and Robin Hood called the last known phone number for his family.
“It was probably a half hour of the most tearful conversation you’ve ever heard,” Krager said. “They thought he was dead.”
Over 20 years later, Krager, 43, still vividly remembers that brief time spent with Robin Hood.
“It was probably the longest three days of my life,” he said.
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Backpacks with sleeping pads, tents and other outdoor gear are seen packed and ready to be handed out to those in need at the Samaritan House in Kalispell. Lido Vizzutti | Flathead Beacon |
The experience tapped into Krager’s deepest sympathies and character. After returning to the Flathead Valley, where his band was based, he began working as a mental health counselor. In 2001 the Samaritan House advertised an opening for its top position and he inquired. Despite a low wage that made it tough for him and his wife Cary to raise two kids, Krager accepted the job. Now it’s become a family venture, with Cary also working at the shelter.
“He is so kind-hearted and soft-hearted. Sometimes I think that gets him in trouble. It’s hard for him to say no to somebody,” said Janet Veidt, who has worked at the Samaritan House since 1999. “We’ve seen so many people come in who just don’t have anywhere to turn. It’s heartbreaking. It can be pretty overwhelming.”
Since taking over as director Krager and his staff have remained dedicated. After the recession hit four years ago, the homeless population spiked. As a solution, in late 2009 the organization was able to expand its services by acquiring the old U.S. Army Reserve Center at 1110 Second Street West.
This growth has occurred in spite of shrinking funding through grants. But an important quarter of the half-million dollar budget comes from local fundraising, Krager said.
Besides battling budgets, Krager is also trying to change the perceptions and stigmas surrounding homelessness. A large percentage of the homeless population struggles with mental illness or addiction. But also locally single mothers who can’t afford high rent and basic necessities frequently arrive at the Samaritan House. Or aging veterans, of whom 23 receive aid here.
Krager remains optimistic moving forward, even though the Samaritan House is facing a shortfall in its budget this year and the homeless population faces the difficult winter months ahead. He’s already begun driving around town giving coats to everyone who doesn’t have one.
As temperatures drop, he feels the pressure to help everyone. He remembers being with Robin Hood, trapped in fear, standing in the cold, uncertain of everything. He sees how the Samaritan Shelter can only help roughly 13 percent of the total homeless population locally.
“All this can get to you after awhile,” he said. “But then I see or hear a story of somebody that we helped, and I remember why I’m doing this.”