Latest news with #PerdueFarms
Hindustan Times
6 days ago
- Business
- Hindustan Times
Who is Mitzi Perdue? Heiress of $12 billion Sheraton hotel empire still rides the subway
Mitzi Perdue, the 84-year-old heiress to not one, but two American business empires, Sheraton Hotels and Perdue Farms, is an anomaly in a world where wealthy individuals often show off their fortune through private jets and couture wardrobes. Perdue chooses hand-me-downs over designer threads and prefers fixing her old shoes to buying new ones. She could have spent her life floating above it all in first class. Instead, she stands firmly on the ground, living in a middle-class apartment and taking the subway like any regular commuter. And she insists it's not for show. In a recent interview with Perdue opened up about why she chooses a modest, service-oriented life despite her billionaire legacy. 'I'm unaware of getting praise for wearing really expensive clothes- you get praised like heck for being an Eagle Scout, or working for Habitat for Humanity. You get praise for serving others,' she says. Mitzi's story begins in 1941, as the fifth child of the Henderson family, the founders of the Sheraton hotel chain. She grew up during wartime in hand-me-downs and attended public school for a time before going on to earn a Harvard education. Her father, Ernest Henderson, passed away when she was in her late twenties, leaving her and her siblings with controlling stakes in the $12 billion hospitality business. Later, she married Frank Perdue, the man behind Perdue Farms, America's largest chicken producer which is now worth over $10 billion. The double inheritance could have easily led to a life of luxury. But Mitzi never saw wealth as a reason to stop working or contributing. She's had access to a sizable trust and immense privilege, yet she has always chosen to live simply. Her one-bedroom flat in Salisbury, Maryland, shares walls with nurses, police officers and even a few Perdue employees. The annual rent, she notes, is about the same as what her New York friends pay in a month. Mitzi could have stayed out of the spotlight, letting her wealth work quietly in the stock market. Instead, she leaned into agriculture. After buying land near the University of California, Davis, she managed a rice farm that supported research experiments. Later, she moved into journalism, covering farming practices and mental health. Then came the Ukraine war. In 2022, she started reporting on the conflict and sold her $1.2 million engagement ring to support humanitarian efforts. She now devotes time to developing an AI trauma therapist for Ukrainian victims in need of mental health care. Also read: Seeking unity, G7 meets amid escalating Ukraine, Middle East conflicts For all her travels, economy class remains her seat of choice. Even in New York City, she skips the black cars and rides the subway. 'If you're always going on private jets, what inkling do you have about the real world?' she asks. So why does a woman with unimaginable wealth choose frugality? For Mitzi, it's simple. A life of service brings her joy-far more than luxury ever could. She believes the key to sustaining a legacy lies in stewardship, not splurging. In both the Henderson and Perdue families, she says, the emphasis was always on looking after the wealth for the next generation. Mitzi may have inherited billions, but the way she lives suggests something richer: a deep understanding that meaning comes not from what you have, but from what you give. 1 Who is Mitzi Perdue?Mitzi Perdue is the heiress to both the Sheraton hotel empire and Perdue Farms. She is also a journalist, author, and philanthropist known for her modest lifestyle. 2 How is she connected to Sheraton and Perdue Farms?She inherited the Sheraton legacy through her father, Ernest Henderson, and married Frank Perdue, the man behind Perdue Farms. 3 Why does she live frugally despite her wealth?Perdue believes in service over indulgence. She says her family never encouraged extravagance and taught her to be a steward of wealth rather than a spender.
Yahoo
15-06-2025
- Business
- Yahoo
The heiress of $10 billion Perdue farms and the $12 billion Sheraton hotel empire wore hand-me-downs, still rides the subway, and flies economy
Mitzi Perdue, the double-heiress of Sheraton hotels and Perdue farms, grew up wearing hand-me-downs and getting a public education. She's quick to draw her pursestrings by flying economy, riding the subway, and living in a modest apartment—despite sitting on a fortune from two billion-dollar American businesses. The 84-year-old journalist and philanthropist says it helps her understand 'the real world.' The thought of a billionaire's lifestyle may conjure up images of Great Gatsby mansion-buying and jet-setting at the drop of a hat. But the life of an heiress with the wealth of two billion-dollar American businesses looks a lot different. Mitzi Perdue was born into the Sheraton hotel family, and at just the age of 26, she and her siblings inherited their father Ernest Henderson's controlling stake of the business. The success of her family's $12.2 billion hospitality company meant she was now sitting on a considerable nest egg. Her fortune would only swell after marrying her late husband Frank Perdue, the 'chicken king' who led America's largest chicken-producer, Perdue Farms, which brought in over $10 billion in revenue last year. The double-heiress has the riches to retire and live a life of extravagance—but it's in her nature to look at wealth differently. 'The Hendersons and the Perdues did not encourage extravagance,' Perdue tells Fortune. 'In both families, nobody wins points for wearing designer clothes.' The 84-year-old has access to a trust from her family's billion-dollar business, alongside the wealth from the Perdue empire. Yet she still lives just like anybody else: taking her shoes to the cobbler instead of buying new ones, riding the subway, flying economy, and living in a modest apartment instead of a house. Perdue has lived a double life—having access to immense privilege and money from two business empires, while holding down a regular job and living frugally. 'My apartment building I lived in for 14 years is very solidly middle-class, and I love it,' Perdue says. 'If you're always going on private jets, what inkling do you have about the real world?' Perdue was born in 1941, and as a war baby and fifth child of the Hendersons family, she grew up wearing hand-me-downs. She says she went to public school for a period of her life, later enrolling in private school and pursuing a Harvard education. When she was in her late 20's her father died, opening up the floodgates of her inheritance. But she wasn't enticed by the idea of throwing in the towel and lounging for the rest of her life. 'I could have just put everything in the stock market and let somebody else manage it,' Perdue says. Interested in agriculture, Perdue soon bought land near the University of California, Davis so the college could run experiments on the agricultural area. She spent many hours a day managing the rice farm, but years later decided to become a journalist covering farming practices and mental health. Starting in 2022, she began covering the conflict in Ukraine and sold her $1.2 million engagement ring from her late husband to benefit humanitarian efforts in the war-torn region. She's currently working on developing an AI trauma therapist for victims in Ukraine, which has lacked the resources to keep up with demand. For all of her work trips, she always flies economy. Perdue has also lived in an apartment building in Salisbury, Maryland, for many years, rubbing shoulders with working-class residents like nurses and police officers. She says one year's rent in her one-bedroom flat costs just as much as what her New York City friends pay in one month. 'Several Perdue employees live in the same building,' Perdue says. 'It's nice, but no one would call it posh.' And as a self-proclaimed 'low-maintenance badass' frequently visiting New York City, she rides the subway instead of booking Ubers. Perdue also gets her shoes reupholstered, rather than buying new pairs; and designer outfits are shrugged off, as she doesn't like flashing her wealth. Her frugal philosophy is more than just skin-deep. 'I'm unaware of getting praise for wearing really expensive clothes—you get praised like heck for being an Eagle Scout, or working for Habitat for Humanity,' Perdue continues. 'You get praise for serving others.' People who have not grown up with wealth may question why a billionaire would want to live life like the rest of the population: working 9-to-5, sardining on subways instead of calling private cars. The heiress and journalist says her reasoning stems from the emptiness of taking, and the joy of giving. 'I'd sure rather have a life of a feast of unending joy versus not being able to count five happy days,' Perdue says. 'If you want to be happy, think what you can do for somebody else. If you want to be miserable, think what's owed to you.' Mega-yachts and silk pajamas don't fill the void for Perdue—rather, philanthropy and hard work make her feel full. A huge part of Perdue's understanding of having wealth versus living a wealthy life came from both sides of her family. She noted that family businesses that are able to last 100 years are a rarity, but the Hendersons and Perdues were able to make it by putting their best foot forward. 'The families that last learn stewardship,' Perdue said. 'They're not there to go spend it all. They're there to be stewards for the next generation.' This story was originally featured on
Yahoo
30-05-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
Major food producer hit with lawsuit after contaminating local water supply: 'Every day that goes by, people's risk of getting cancer ... continues'
A major farm has been slapped with a lawsuit for its discharge of forever chemicals in its wastewater, according to WUSA9. Perdue Farms is under investigation in Maryland for contaminating the water supplies of neighbors via its wastewater processing. Groundwater and a stream bordering the farm are allegedly affected. A class-action lawsuit against Perdue on the matter is expected to take years. In the meantime, lawyers representing the residents have sent a letter to Perdue demanding action within 90 days pending the investigation, or else they will go to a federal judge to force the limitation of sludge fertilizer use. Per- and polyfluoroalkyl substances (PFAS) are a wide grouping of chemicals that have been dubbed "forever chemicals" because of their persistence in ecosystems and bodies. They're typically used in anti-stick coating like Teflon, water-resistant fabrics, cosmetics, food packaging, and potentially in this case, sewage. Exposure to these toxic chemicals has shown links to infertility and cancer. Perdue's case is far from an isolated incident. One Alabama woman suffered multiple heart issues related to exposure to PFAS in her water. An abandoned property in South Carolina remained an ongoing source of forever chemical contamination to nearby communities. Broadly, legislation is possible. Canada has been taking legal steps to protect consumers against forever chemicals. German insurance providers are dialing back coverage of companies being subject to PFAS-related lawsuits. Conversely, the EPA recently rolled back water regulations that would protect Americans from some PFAS. Perdue said it is providing bottled water and filtration systems to 356 affected homes and is nearly finished testing the wells of 920 homes. Residents say this is still not enough, so long as its waste management hasn't changed. "Every day that goes by, people's risk of getting cancer and other health problems from PFAS-contaminated groundwater continues," said attorney Phil Federico, per WUSA9. "We've got to get them clean water now and stop this. This risk that they're being exposed to." How often do you worry about the quality of your drinking water? Never Sometimes Often Always Click your choice to see results and speak your mind. Join our free newsletter for good news and useful tips, and don't miss this cool list of easy ways to help yourself while helping the planet.
Yahoo
23-05-2025
- Yahoo
A missing bench comes to symbolize missing solutions to homelessness
John Paul Shanks sits for a photo outside the Central Inn in Central City, April 27, 2025. (Kentucky Lantern photo by Austin Anthony) This is the final story in a Lantern series about homelessness in Western Kentucky. Read the earlier articles here. CENTRAL CITY — Sitting on his bed at the Central Inn on a bitterly cold January day, John Paul Shanks had already handwashed his clothes, after pre-soaking them in Gain detergent, and hung them to dry. Living outdoors in this Western Kentucky town has given him a lot of experience in making do. 'I'm probably one of the only people you'll see that can just sit there and lay on a piece of concrete with a pillow or nothing and go to bed,' Shanks said. 'That hardens you up.' Gwen Clements is why 41-year-old Shanks, his red beard long and his head shaved, had a motel room that day. Clements also knows about making do. She's a leader in a loose coalition of the compassionate, working to help her homeless neighbors in a place that offers them few formal resources. She met Shanks years before when she took a job at the Perdue Farms poultry processing plant in Ohio County around the time of the Great Recession. He was a production line leader. It's unclear to Clements what put Shanks on the path to what she describes as being 'chronically homeless.' But as she began seeing him walk the streets she started checking in with him and asking if he needed anything. On days when she wanted to find Shanks, she would make sure to get up early to drive around town and check a few of his haunts. Outside the Central Inn. Inside the local Wendy's. On a bench next to a local bank where people driving by gave him money, food and sometimes clothing. 'The only people that know him are the people who stop and talk to him, people that know him from the past,' Clements said in January. With deadly cold in the forecast that January week, Clements, through a Facebook group she started in early 2024 focused on homelessness, had urged her neighbors to send her money so that she could put people up in the motel and keep them safe overnight. Finding Shanks during severe weather and making sure he had shelter had become a priority for her. It was easy for Clements to check Shanks into a motel room for the night. Finding help for his deeper issues is not. Clements said that's true of other people she helps, some of them grappling with what seem to be untreated mental illness and addiction and living without permanent shelter. 'People like John Paul, there's no help for them. You can make all the appointments you want for him. He's not going to go,' Clements said. 'He doesn't have transportation if he did decide to go.' Shanks said he injured his back years ago when on the drive to work the vehicle he was in hit a patch of black ice that 'flipped the car.' The nerve pain was so intense, he said, it could take him 30 minutes to dress. In the motel room, he also described grappling with addiction and using prescription opioids, cocaine and methamphetamine. According to court records, Shanks has been arrested a number of times. Once he was screaming and throwing rocks from a train track. Shanks told police he hadn't realized one of the rocks had almost hit a woman. Another time he was arrested for disorderly conduct for allegedly yelling obscenities at a local IGA grocery store. In 2022, a Central City police officer and Chief Jason Lindsey found Shanks at a strip mall where Shanks had previously trespassed, according to an incident report. Shanks had allegedly told a minor 'he would take him out back and beat his brains out.' Shanks told law enforcement the minor 'had said things to him about him being homeless and getting a job.' Shanks was arrested and banned from entering the strip mall property. Tammy Piper, the director of business development for the city, told the Lantern last year the city had tried to help Shanks multiple times by putting him in a hotel room or offering work. Piper said in one instance, Chief Lindsey drove Shanks to live with family members several counties over and had secured a job for Shanks, only for Shanks to return to the Central City streets. In the fall of 2024, the city removed the bench next to a local bank where Shanks often sat, sometimes dozing or asking passing drivers for money. The move sparked debate on social media and made television news in Evansville, Indiana. Central City Mayor Tony Armour told the Evansville station the bench was removed because Shanks made people uncomfortable. The mayor also said the city has tried to offer Shanks work. Shanks, in the motel room in January, disputed that the city had offered him a job. The bench took on larger significance for some, including Clements, who saw its removal as a symbol of apathy and, at times, disregard by local officials and police for people who are unsheltered and struggling. 'That was just a small part of how our homeless are treated in this county and this city,' said Clements. Clements said Shanks and other people dealing with homelessness need more than a bench where they can spend their days or even a roof over their heads. She sees a need for mobile mental health services that can meet people where they're living outside, considering that homelessness can deteriorate mental health. 'He's suffered a lot of trauma from being unhoused. I don't think people understand that,' Clements said about Shanks. 'They just want to think that, 'He's lazy and a druggie, and he needs to get a job, get off drugs and he'll be fine.' It's much more than that. 'The warming shelters and stuff is the 'more.' John Paul needing mobile crisis mental health — that's part of the 'more.' It's just so much more than the bench being removed,' Clements said. When Shanks was asked in the motel room if he believed others in Central City cared about people experiencing homelessness, he said: 'I think they worry about others. I think there's just a lot to worry about.' Clements replied to Shanks: 'The problem is too big, and they don't know how to handle it.' Paramount among the needs is more housing and temporary shelter, according to Clements and others in the band of helpers pushing to address homelessness in Muhlenberg County. The Muhlenberg County Economic Growth Alliance, the economic development arm for county government, retained an Ohio-based housing research firm in November 2023 to better understand the local housing market. The study found a need for more than 300 additional rental units and more than 700 additional owner-occupied homes through 2029. The report noted the need for affordable rental units would continue because of persistent poverty in the county. But the path for creating more housing or even temporary shelter remains unclear. Kelsey Rolley, who has helped the loose coalition at times through her work at Pennyrile Allied Community Services, said some of the divisions among the community spring from fear of the unknown. She imagines questions from local 'higher ups,' such as who else might come into the county to seek shelter if more were available and whether it might attract more crime. When Armour, the mayor, raised concerns about a church's plans to turn the Central Inn into efficiency apartments to help homeless people transition into something more permanent, he worried his community could be 'destroyed' by an influx of people drawn by the assistance. 'It's going to take a village, and until that village can be formed, created and run properly, all of us work together — I feel like it's just going to keep us stuck,' Rolley said. The loose coalition is persisting, though. Clements and others recently visited Somerset to see how a nonprofit shelter and resource hub were started just a couple years ago, and Clements has been considering buildings to potentially start her own version of that nonprofit in Muhlenberg. The way forward to stable housing remains strewn with challenges and struggles for the people who talked about their experiences of being homeless in this series. Shanks remained on the concrete stoop of the Central Inn in May, waving at passing cars. He mentioned he needed a shower, a pair of socks and maybe another stay in a motel room. 'You gotta appreciate everything about everything,' he said. Courtney Phillips, who slept outside the Abundant Life Church for weeks, is still piecing together what she wants her life to be. The church has provided her a room to sleep in. At her nursing home job, she's working long hours and building relationships with residents who deal with mental health disorders including dementia. She wants to save money for a car — what she calls a 'baby step' toward where she wants to be. She made it to the top of a waiting list for a rapid rehousing program and hopes it will help her find an apartment soon. She's also been carrying on without her dog, Joker, who cuddled with her while she was sleeping outside. Joker died earlier this year; a wooden urn with Joker's ashes sits in her room at the church, and Joker's bed is still beside her bed. 'It's real different, but he's still with me,' Phillips said. Mallie Luken, who slept in the church parking lot before Clements helped her find housing, was anxious for weeks leading up to a hearing on her possible eviction from the apartment Clements had helped her find. After police left Luken in her wheelchair outside the Abundant Life Church on a stormy night in September, Clements came to her aid, helping her secure an apartment at the Greenville Housing Authority. But her housing situation was uncertain yet again by this month. Luken, 70, was served an eviction notice because of alleged complaints from neighbors about her behavior and inappropriate language that they said was directed at them. Clements, who admits Luken can be her own 'worst enemy,' also said the housing authority alleged Luken hadn't paid rent, something she said wasn't true. The stress of her predicament had Luken exhausted and apprehensive. 'Somehow or another I keep falling through the system,' Luken said weeks before the hearing. Earlier in May, in front of a district court judge, Luken with the help of a Kentucky Legal Aid attorney was able to come to an agreement with the housing authority: She can stay in her apartment until another apartment opens up at a housing authority in Beaver Dam, next door in Ohio County where Luken previously lived. Clements said Luken has friends near there, potentially a support system. In Muhlenberg County, Clements played a large role in Luken's support system. Their relationship has grown over the months they've been together. 'I can't imagine what she's done for other people,' Luken said in praise of Clements' generosity. Leaving Luken's apartment earlier this year, Clements told Luken she loved her. Out on the sidewalk, Clements, in a voice choked with emotion, said, 'I can't imagine my mother being in that predicament. I just can't.' Introduction Part 1: Homeless often means 'invisible,' but not to everyone in this small Kentucky town Part 2: After living outdoors for weeks, she got a place to sleep, a shower — and a job Part 3: A church called its vision for housing a 'Beacon of Hope.' The mayor had concerns.
Yahoo
23-05-2025
- Yahoo
A missing bench comes to symbolize missing solutions to homelessness
John Paul Shanks sits for a photo outside the Central Inn in Central City, April 27, 2025. (Kentucky Lantern photo by Austin Anthony) This is the final story in a Lantern series about homelessness in Western Kentucky. Read the earlier articles here. CENTRAL CITY — Sitting on his bed at the Central Inn on a bitterly cold January day, John Paul Shanks had already handwashed his clothes, after pre-soaking them in Gain detergent, and hung them to dry. Living outdoors in this Western Kentucky town has given him a lot of experience in making do. 'I'm probably one of the only people you'll see that can just sit there and lay on a piece of concrete with a pillow or nothing and go to bed,' Shanks said. 'That hardens you up.' Gwen Clements is why 41-year-old Shanks, his red beard long and his head shaved, had a motel room that day. Clements also knows about making do. She's a leader in a loose coalition of the compassionate, working to help her homeless neighbors in a place that offers them few formal resources. She met Shanks years before when she took a job at the Perdue Farms poultry processing plant in Ohio County around the time of the Great Recession. He was a production line leader. It's unclear to Clements what put Shanks on the path to what she describes as being 'chronically homeless.' But as she began seeing him walk the streets she started checking in with him and asking if he needed anything. On days when she wanted to find Shanks, she would make sure to get up early to drive around town and check a few of his haunts. Outside the Central Inn. Inside the local Wendy's. On a bench next to a local bank where people driving by gave him money, food and sometimes clothing. 'The only people that know him are the people who stop and talk to him, people that know him from the past,' Clements said in January. With deadly cold in the forecast that January week, Clements, through a Facebook group she started in early 2024 focused on homelessness, had urged her neighbors to send her money so that she could put people up in the motel and keep them safe overnight. Finding Shanks during severe weather and making sure he had shelter had become a priority for her. It was easy for Clements to check Shanks into a motel room for the night. Finding help for his deeper issues is not. Clements said that's true of other people she helps, some of them grappling with what seem to be untreated mental illness and addiction and living without permanent shelter. 'People like John Paul, there's no help for them. You can make all the appointments you want for him. He's not going to go,' Clements said. 'He doesn't have transportation if he did decide to go.' Shanks said he injured his back years ago when on the drive to work the vehicle he was in hit a patch of black ice that 'flipped the car.' The nerve pain was so intense, he said, it could take him 30 minutes to dress. In the motel room, he also described grappling with addiction and using prescription opioids, cocaine and methamphetamine. According to court records, Shanks has been arrested a number of times. Once he was screaming and throwing rocks from a train track. Shanks told police he hadn't realized one of the rocks had almost hit a woman. Another time he was arrested for disorderly conduct for allegedly yelling obscenities at a local IGA grocery store. In 2022, a Central City police officer and Chief Jason Lindsey found Shanks at a strip mall where Shanks had previously trespassed, according to an incident report. Shanks had allegedly told a minor 'he would take him out back and beat his brains out.' Shanks told law enforcement the minor 'had said things to him about him being homeless and getting a job.' Shanks was arrested and banned from entering the strip mall property. Tammy Piper, the director of business development for the city, told the Lantern last year the city had tried to help Shanks multiple times by putting him in a hotel room or offering work. Piper said in one instance, Chief Lindsey drove Shanks to live with family members several counties over and had secured a job for Shanks, only for Shanks to return to the Central City streets. In the fall of 2024, the city removed the bench next to a local bank where Shanks often sat, sometimes dozing or asking passing drivers for money. The move sparked debate on social media and made television news in Evansville, Indiana. Central City Mayor Tony Armour told the Evansville station the bench was removed because Shanks made people uncomfortable. The mayor also said the city has tried to offer Shanks work. Shanks, in the motel room in January, disputed that the city had offered him a job. The bench took on larger significance for some, including Clements, who saw its removal as a symbol of apathy and, at times, disregard by local officials and police for people who are unsheltered and struggling. 'That was just a small part of how our homeless are treated in this county and this city,' said Clements. Clements said Shanks and other people dealing with homelessness need more than a bench where they can spend their days or even a roof over their heads. She sees a need for mobile mental health services that can meet people where they're living outside, considering that homelessness can deteriorate mental health. 'He's suffered a lot of trauma from being unhoused. I don't think people understand that,' Clements said about Shanks. 'They just want to think that, 'He's lazy and a druggie, and he needs to get a job, get off drugs and he'll be fine.' It's much more than that. 'The warming shelters and stuff is the 'more.' John Paul needing mobile crisis mental health — that's part of the 'more.' It's just so much more than the bench being removed,' Clements said. When Shanks was asked in the motel room if he believed others in Central City cared about people experiencing homelessness, he said: 'I think they worry about others. I think there's just a lot to worry about.' Clements replied to Shanks: 'The problem is too big, and they don't know how to handle it.' Paramount among the needs is more housing and temporary shelter, according to Clements and others in the band of helpers pushing to address homelessness in Muhlenberg County. The Muhlenberg County Economic Growth Alliance, the economic development arm for county government, retained an Ohio-based housing research firm in November 2023 to better understand the local housing market. The study found a need for more than 300 additional rental units and more than 700 additional owner-occupied homes through 2029. The report noted the need for affordable rental units would continue because of persistent poverty in the county. But the path for creating more housing or even temporary shelter remains unclear. Kelsey Rolley, who has helped the loose coalition at times through her work at Pennyrile Allied Community Services, said some of the divisions among the community spring from fear of the unknown. She imagines questions from local 'higher ups,' such as who else might come into the county to seek shelter if more were available and whether it might attract more crime. When Armour, the mayor, raised concerns about a church's plans to turn the Central Inn into efficiency apartments to help homeless people transition into something more permanent, he worried his community could be 'destroyed' by an influx of people drawn by the assistance. 'It's going to take a village, and until that village can be formed, created and run properly, all of us work together — I feel like it's just going to keep us stuck,' Rolley said. The loose coalition is persisting, though. Clements and others recently visited Somerset to see how a nonprofit shelter and resource hub were started just a couple years ago, and Clements has been considering buildings to potentially start her own version of that nonprofit in Muhlenberg. The way forward to stable housing remains strewn with challenges and struggles for the people who talked about their experiences of being homeless in this series. Shanks remained on the concrete stoop of the Central Inn in May, waving at passing cars. He mentioned he needed a shower, a pair of socks and maybe another stay in a motel room. 'You gotta appreciate everything about everything,' he said. Courtney Phillips, who slept outside the Abundant Life Church for weeks, is still piecing together what she wants her life to be. The church has provided her a room to sleep in. At her nursing home job, she's working long hours and building relationships with residents who deal with mental health disorders including dementia. She wants to save money for a car — what she calls a 'baby step' toward where she wants to be. She made it to the top of a waiting list for a rapid rehousing program and hopes it will help her find an apartment soon. She's also been carrying on without her dog, Joker, who cuddled with her while she was sleeping outside. Joker died earlier this year; a wooden urn with Joker's ashes sits in her room at the church, and Joker's bed is still beside her bed. 'It's real different, but he's still with me,' Phillips said. Mallie Luken, who slept in the church parking lot before Clements helped her find housing, was anxious for weeks leading up to a hearing on her possible eviction from the apartment Clements had helped her find. After police left Luken in her wheelchair outside the Abundant Life Church on a stormy night in September, Clements came to her aid, helping her secure an apartment at the Greenville Housing Authority. But her housing situation was uncertain yet again by this month. Luken, 70, was served an eviction notice because of alleged complaints from neighbors about her behavior and inappropriate language that they said was directed at them. Clements, who admits Luken can be her own 'worst enemy,' also said the housing authority alleged Luken hadn't paid rent, something she said wasn't true. The stress of her predicament had Luken exhausted and apprehensive. 'Somehow or another I keep falling through the system,' Luken said weeks before the hearing. Earlier in May, in front of a district court judge, Luken with the help of a Kentucky Legal Aid attorney was able to come to an agreement with the housing authority: She can stay in her apartment until another apartment opens up at a housing authority in Beaver Dam, next door in Ohio County where Luken previously lived. Clements said Luken has friends near there, potentially a support system. In Muhlenberg County, Clements played a large role in Luken's support system. Their relationship has grown over the months they've been together. 'I can't imagine what she's done for other people,' Luken said in praise of Clements' generosity. Leaving Luken's apartment earlier this year, Clements told Luken she loved her. Out on the sidewalk, Clements, in a voice choked with emotion, said, 'I can't imagine my mother being in that predicament. I just can't.' SUPPORT: YOU MAKE OUR WORK POSSIBLE
