MAY DAY!

Another wonderful Sunday morning in Joey's soup kitchen. Today he actually made soup! It was delicious!

The rhythm of our duty seems to be clear—we spend the first 90 minutes talking while we work. The boy can talk! He even admitted at one point, "Here I go again, running over!" He poured out a lifetime in a short while, threading quickly through his birth as an alcohol-syndrome baby, his time spent in foster care as a young boy, his recovering mother, his baby-bearing sisters, and their offspring that he now parents. He went from living in the projects to a nice apartment. Joey is thankful. I can plainly see the scars of his mother's alcohol abuse, but he doesn't appear to have any resentment. It's hard for Joey to find his words sometimes; he'll sputter around looking for them, anxious to express himself, but he doesn't quit. When the words do come out, they are eloquent, meaningful... THIS is a memoir needing to be written.

I told Joey he'd make a great restaurant manager. After all, he's running a very tight kitchen almost single-handedly—orchestrating every meal, all of the clients' needs, his supplies, and preparing for what comes next. And his kitchen is far cleaner than the grocery store deli where I started my food career... However, he still needs his GED because the special-ed classes he had in high school didn't provide that. He asked me to go on-line and see what it entails to sign up for GED classes at the community college. I promised to do that. I asked him about his reading and writing skills, and he said "they said" his reading was college level, but perhaps filling out forms is a struggle. It's not his fault, and it is NO indicator of his intelligence. Boy, would I like to put Joey out there as an example to some of those who feel slighted in life.

I made 40 sack lunches (80 sandwiches) today, and packed them with drinks, chips, a cookie, and condiments. Then I made 10 breakfast bags. Then I opened some large bags of chips and reappropriated them to little baggies—for another day.

I met three more guys today. Except for Slick, I couldn't hear their names, but I assumed they held a position of authority. There is the usual fan-drone noise, typical of commercial kitchens, so I just smiled and pretended I heard the introductions. Joey I could hear—"This is my Sunday lady, Miss Joy." Isn't that dear? His Sunday lady. The other guys came and went—they do not work in the kitchen.

"Miss Joy, Miss Joy" was often heard as we shared our lives and our glee—that country/western station pumping out oldies to my heart's content. At one point I just had to stop and dance it off. Joey said, "Just go for it, Miss Joy!" Of course, when the clients come in to eat, I find my propriety.

No sore back today, no aching legs, same full heart. And NO, you CAN'T come help on Sunday mornings. Those are mine!