FREEDOM HOLIDAY?

       A resident opened the door for me this morning. Gate Keeper's office was empty because ONE was in the kitchen with Joey! Always good to see One.

       Joey was thawing the foods we'd frozen last week for our big soup pot, and he was boiling the 4 dozen eggs I'd asked for. The soup was one of our best ever, and I made 3 dozen deviled-egg sandwiches. We served little bags of chips on the side. There were no complaints, unless you count the fluffy young woman who asked for "only" chips because, "I can't eat any of that stuff; I'm a vegan-terian."

       "What do you eat?" I asked, taking in her girth.

       "Only vegetables!" she snooted. No eggs, no cheese... gotta wonder: where are the calories coming from?

       There's a new pre-release who reminds me of my old friend Phil, so I'll call him Phil. He's tall and good looking and just as sweet as the day is long. I cannot imagine why he's there. And I believe he's gay, so being institutionalized probably takes a bitter toll on him. But he is of good cheer and helpful. Joey put him to work filling a drink bin and doing a few other chores. When Phil left, and to my surprise, Joey concurred that Phil is quite a nice fellow, "and I think he's like your friend Steve…"

        NOT to my surprise, Phil asked Joey what time he's leaving this evening, because he wanted to come back to the kitchen and hang out. Joey has that effect on the lonely ones. Sometimes he gets outright distracted by their emotional needs. That's okay—as long as I can pull lunch together on time.

       It occurred to me this morning, as our pre-release prisoners came and went for lunch, that it's a "freedom holiday." Seems like a bit of an oxymoron. We only had 5 for lunch, but the homeless made up for the count. Just when I thought we'd served the last, I'd look up and see the line growing. Still, 35 folks is not so much except that there are only two of us to feed them.

       Little people: Needy Child and his father just disappeared this week, according to Joey. Joey thinks the child was so adored by one of the head social workers that they got a home through her efforts. Who knows?

       My adorable adolescents are still there, and surely it's wearing them down. I'll miss them awfully, but they need a home now! As always, they got goodies, and I really enjoy the way they treat me—like an aunt or a grandma.

       The babies' mother and the "ends" were there, but the father and the twins were elsewhere. It was so nice not having to tip-toe around the father! I enjoyed my few minutes with the little ones and their mom. I gave the "too-quiet" 3-year-old a little panda bear. He put it over his shoulder like a baby, but he really shied away from me. On the other hand, when he was first seated and I waved to him from the serving counter, that little fellow raised his arm, smiled broadly and gave me a loud "hey!" He's got some happy in there somewhere, but apparently he's never sure when it's okay to let it out :( Joey can't even look at that child without wanting to cry because the kid looks so much like his nephew. It puts Joey in mind of how his nephew would look under those harsh circumstances.

       There's a brain living among our homeless. He wears a backpack, he's tall and handsome. He can mathspeak with the best, as One was eager to tell me. Brain is obviously down on his luck and for all we know he's never been up on it. He and One seem to share the dilemma of being over qualified.

       I didn't want to leave today. Nothing hurt. I had no pain meds. Joey had left me high and dry to prepare the soup and the deviled-egg sandwiches (and four dozen sack-lunch sandwiches), but my body didn't seem to mind. I was holding my purse, edging toward the door when Mr. Huggy came in! Still tall and striking, he came toward me slowly, measuring the pain of his steps. He hugged me. "I had a heart attack last month," he said.

       "I know. I ask about you."

       "Well, then they found something wrong with my throat," he said, holding his throat and speaking softer than usual. "I can't sing in the choir now."

       He was overheated, and I encouraged him to stay hydrated. What's a mother to do?

       Then Joey and I made plans for next Sunday—I'm so excited! We're making corned beef hash with baked eggs, and no, I don't want your opinion. It's a really tasty and pretty dish. On the side we'll have buttered spinach and mixed fruit.

       I stopped outside to ask my adolescent boy how he's been. His face said it all—can't play here, got nothing to do, sick of this place. "So how's school?" I prodded. He sank a bit lower. "Bring home any A's last week?" Nope. "Any C's?"

       "He didn't bring home anything we can talk about," his mother offered.

       "Heck," I said, "I never brought home good grades. My mother would get so mad at me, but I had a creek to play in. Who wants to do math when there are salamanders to catch?"

       A man sitting beside Mom added, "and they're a lot easier to catch!"

       Sweet people all. What would I do without them?

TO HAVE AND TO HAVE NOT

       Joey called on Thursday to say he was not able to procure the ingredients for our green bean casserole, so we scrubbed the whole menu. To my delight, he already had another menu in mind, and it sounded completely pre-fab and easy! I didn't rush in this morning.

       We were making fajitas with precooked chicken strips, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, shredded cheese, chopped onions, and sour cream. The beauty of it was that the chicken was already heating in the oven, and a pre-release fellow was happy to take care of all of the slicing and dicing!

       We were 36 sack lunches short… so I started on those. When serving time approached, I threw the 72 bagged sandwiches in the fridge, to sack later.

       Only a dozen or so pre-release came—a normal number for them. The picky 300 pounder was front and center. This is her last Sunday at the shelter (!) so I watched her more intensely than usual. She lifted her fajita on one side, picked out all the chicken and put it under the tortilla. Then she moved all the lettuce and tomato away from the bread and meat. "Can I have some more cheese?" she asked. I looked up, ready to help as best I could. "I don't eat lettuce and tomato," she snarled, as if I had been remiss in meeting her needs.

       So I gave her all the cheese she wanted, after she decided exactly where on the plate I should put it. She so obviously does not eat lettuce and tomatoes—OR green beans.

       I refer to this woman as "Angry Woman," not to be confused with "Perpetually Angry Woman," who left some time ago. Joey thinks it's neat that we have special names for some of our clients—he reminded me of Angry Child today and asked if I thought our little blonde fellow might be another Angry Child. I said I didn't think he was angry, but he never hesitates to ASK for more and more of anything I give him. "Needy Child," Joey dubbed him. And so he is. Today, the little darling wanted his "drawing kit" before lunch, and when I gave it to him after lunch, he wanted to know if I had more. One of his drawings is posted on Wendy's gate-keeper window. The kid takes a lot of pride in his work. I do wish that I could fulfill his every drawing desire. Maybe I should try harder; it's just that we have so many children now, and it wouldn't be fair to give one more than another. I told the child, "No. I bring only one each week; I have to buy those."

       His face was blank, as if he thinks I'm a millionaire, buying things is a non-event for me, and he simply could not fill in the blanks. His father seems to have much the same attitude, but perhaps not nearly the talent. I do hurt for both of them.

       My adolescent siblings were present and received the usual goodies. I think they are bored with these things, and I don't blame them, but they are gracious, and so is their mother.

       The babies. Oh, the babies. Don't you just hate it when a story won't wind around in the direction you want it to? When Joey called the other day about our menu, we got into a long discussion of the babies. Joey thinks their father hates him. I don't doubt Joey's diagnosis—he's awfully sensitive and caring; so, when his sensitivity and caring are returned with resentment, he feels it.

       Last week, I made an effort to reach out to the 3-year-old with a smile and some hey-there words, but the child stood too solemnly and without response. "He's like that all the time," his mother complained. Her announcement and the tone of her voice said clearly that she had nothing good to say about this tiny boy—and worse—no hope that HE could change.

       Today I went prepared to observe carefully. Yes, the father is controlling. More than once, plaintive cries drifted back to the kitchen from the dining room. I waited and watched. When the moment seemed perfect, I asked the father if I could give the children some goodies. He nodded. So I took coloring book pages, 4 new crayons, and little Beanie Babies to the twins. I gave the baby girl a McDonald's toddler toy, and for the 3-year-old I had an art kit. It's a black velvet board with white space. The picture is of a Disney Pixar car, and there are four little markers with which to color in the car. I told the child that his siblings were "too little" for this, but that he could have it because he is big. I encouraged him to enjoy coloring in the Tow Mater car. He looked at me, and I expected a blank or even sad expression, but I saw hope. I know, it's fleeting, but I thank him for that… big, rich person that I am… I needed that from the child.

       Broccoli. We had a TON of fresh broccoli to "deal with" today. It was not on the lunch OR the dinner menu. Our volunteer pre-release fellow cut it up, and I offered bowls of it to all takers (to eat with dressing). Not nearly enough of it went away. Joey put some of it in his salad pan for dinner, and I invented a rice, cheese, broccoli casserole for the rest. That meant actually making the cheese sauce, steaming the rice, and assembling the casserole. I was an hour late getting off my feet, but we'll live.

       Before leaving, I got Joey started on assembling the sack lunches from all those refrigerated sandwiches. We didn't have any little baggies of chips, so we were obliged to open huge bags of chips and boxes of cheese crackers, and make "little baggies" of chips. Sometimes, a sack lunch has more love in it than you might imagine.

       Mr. Huggy has returned to work, but with orders to not exert himself. I haven't seen him, but reports are upbeat.

       Joey heard that Angel is not doing well out on his own. I will miss Angel forever. Joey and I agree that some sort of care facility might be good for him, but who ever heard of such a thing for old, worn out, ex-prisoner alcoholics? The man is sick; why should he get better treatment that those who are evil…

       It was very quiet when I left after 1 o'clock. Wendy has a headache; the family room appeared deserted; the front lobby held one lone male; and even the outside had only the babies' father, sitting low with his head in his hands. It's a beautiful day—just perfect in every way—unless you live in a shelter, out of necessity or by assignment. It was several minutes before my foot cramp settled down, my back pain adjusted to being seated and I felt road worthy, but again I drove away feeling guilty.

ANOTHER MOTHER'S DAY AT THE SHELTER

       This was my third Mother's Day at the shelter. Oddly, it was not observed with as much enthusiasm as in past years—perhaps because it's raining a good lick, and that always puts a pall on things.

      Joey called last night to tell me he couldn't remember what we had planned for lunch today… so I reminded him: hamburgers (he had those), baked beans (he'd just served those), cole slaw (he forgot to order that), and chips (oops). So we mulled it over and came up with pinto beans, hamburgers, and cole slaw (that I would bring)—period.

       The butterscotch pudding idea I had last week really was too much to consider—all things considered—so I took ice cream sandwiches.

       When I arrived, Joey's pot of pintos was bubbling away. He'd cooked them from scratch! It was his first time and mine too, except he'd gone in very early to get them started. He had added a chunk of spicy jerk turkey in lieu of ham. As time passed, he added water and said Miss Lillian puts flour in hers to make the juice thick. So we did that. Those beans were so fine.

       The burgers cooked in the oven, and I put five bags of angel hair slaw in a huge bowl, with celery seed, ranch dressing, and dill pickle juice. Then we set up a little assembly line at the counter, so we wouldn't have to trek all over the kitchen for the serving.

       Our young college-educated community service worker had come in yesterday and filled the fridge with sack lunches. I'm sure I'll miss his efforts… if he ever finishes his sentence. Joey thinks the fellow is really smart, but I reminded him that smart and stupid sometimes reside in the same body.

       The country oldies were especially fine today—Joey mentioned several that he'd like to have, and we'll be going online later to see the list of songs played, as he was racking his brain for titles. It's hard to focus on any one thing in the midst of so much organized chaos.

       Our pre-release group was just middlin' today—maybe 10. Paul Bunyan was in good humor, though for him that's never even close to giddy. I'm just happy to see a vague smile on his face. And the 300 pounder was in good spirits too. No, she did not want a sugar-free ice cream sandwich; she wanted the full sugar fix. She also wanted to suggest a menu to Joey: pinto beans, corn bread, and fried potatoes.

       "Who would cut up the potatoes?" Joey asked her.

       "Don't you have a slicer?" she pressed.

       "Yes, but somebody would have to use it," Joey informed her.

       I don't know where she thinks she's living, but it's not Waffle House.

       Our homeless residents numbered about 25 or 30. The 11-year-old boy was at church, so I gave his art kit and goodies to his father. The other two adolescents came to the counter and the boy SAID, "We came to get our treats." Boy, is he growing up! And, trust me, as I told him, "You gave grown at least 4 inches since you came here!" He didn't think so, but that's just because he's looking out and I'm looking in.

       Now about those four pre-schoolers. Last week I was told they were 2, 2, 4, and 6. I prepared my goody bag for those ages. This morning, Joey said the youngest was just a baby (8 months to 1 year). Wendy (our new gate keeper) said they were 1, 3, 3, 5... something like that. Neither of those lists was correct. The babies are 1, 2, 2, and 3. They have the same mother, and there is a caring man with them who I hope is their father. I quickly made a plate of chipped turkey and cheese for the infant, and later milk for all of them. The three older ones ate heartily from the foods we served everyone.

       When most of the residents had finished and left, the family of babies was still at table. I took a baggie with 6 crayons to them, along with 6 pages from a coloring book. Before any of those things had been passed to them from their father, one of the 2-year-olds looked up brightly and said, "Thank you!" And I gave each of them an apple fruit snack. Dad wanted one too, so I passed those out to everyone (Miss Lillian missed it!). The baby got a Beanie Baby turtle. She loved it.

       At one point, she cried briefly—babies do that. Otherwise, that whole family was quiet and almost too perfect. The twins and their 3-year-old brother sat in those adult-size chairs at that adult-size table and colored enthusiastically. "I like this blue one!" a 2-year-old told me, holding up his crayon. "And I like this yellow one!" his twin said. They KNOW their colors… their language skills and manners are out there!

       To my surprise, Dad was coloring too! Now I feel bad because I, too, love to color. It's a feel-good activity. I should have left them the whole box of crayons and the whole coloring book. Next week I'll do that. Dang.

       One of the little guys brought me his artwork—an offering. I gave it back and encouraged him to color more and bring it again next week. He seemed to like the idea.

       I had to tell the parents, "Somebody has put a lot of effort into these children, and it shows."

       "Thank you!" Dad said.

       "No, thank you," I returned.

       Really—if they stay the course, these parents will launch four productive, creative, sensitive people into the world. What more could one ask?

       So… there was news of Mr. Huggy today: he had another heart attack and is again in hospital. I thought medical science had a better handle on heart attacks than that… Send prayers.

       When I left, my back and legs were hurting, so I didn't linger, and Joey and I don't have a plan for next week. As I passed by the family room on my way out, I saw one of the little ones, running in a circle, "flying" his page from the coloring book. Happy Mother's Day.

STRAIGHT UP OR OVER EASY?

       Joey and I decided on Thursday to serve chicken and dumplings today. We put green beans and fruit on the menu too. Joey would thaw the pre-cooked chicken, order a half dozen boxes of broth, and large amounts of green beans and fruit. He said he already had self-rising flour. I felt good about this menu because I had just practiced the chicken recipe at home.

       Wendy is the new gate keeper—a young, pretty woman. I don't know the duties of the job, but she seemed awfully relaxed to be new at it! The first thing she told me was that she was new and Joey wasn't there yet…

       No, I still don't know how to turn on all the lights in the kitchen, but I got a few on. I found the broth Joey had ordered and began cooking sliced carrots, parsley, and onion I'd taken. Later, I added another onion and lots of chopped celery.

       The bad news was that Joey had not thawed the chicken, nor was it pre-cooked. He ran a 5-pound block of raw chicken pieces under hot water until it broke apart and went into a pot to boil. We had 90 minutes to pull off lunch. Joey opened 18 small cans of green beans and put those on to boil. He left me to my own resources while he mopped the dining room.

       I made a biscuit dough from 5 cups of flour, margarine, and milk. Over a period of at least an hour, I rolled it out and cut it into little squares, setting them aside.

       When the chicken was tender, we poured off all the water, and Joey helped me chop it into small pieces. My arm hurt, my hand hurt, and I am not cut out for that kind of labor.

       When the chicken was thoroughly chopped, we put it back in the huge pot and I added several cartons of broth. Then I added the carrots, onions, parsley, celery, and some peas. When it was boiling, I lay little dumplings all over the top. When those seemed done, I stirred them into the brew and covered the top with more. In a separate pot of boiling broth, I cooked up the rest of the dumplings, adding them to the big pot as they became ready. This dish was served in little styrofoam bowls with a sprig of fresh parsley atop each one. Joey was so surprised when I demonstrated the placing of the parsley sprigs (I stole the idea from an on-line recipe picture).

       By 10:30, Joey and I were both running on fumes. My little breakfast yogurt was long gone, and he'd eaten nothing! So I got myself some sliced cheese and chips. Then Joey asked if I'd fry him 2 eggs. Maybe I should worry. I still know how to fry eggs, but with all those big pots in process on the stove, I could not remember how to ask Joey how he wanted his eggs. All I could think of was "straight up," and "poured." He wanted them over easy.

       A stranger wandered in before lunch, telling Joey his blood sugar was high, and asking for a soda. Then he hung around making senseless remarks that told me he wasn't wrapped tight at all. Pretty soon we got a call from Wendy asking us to send the man out, as he was not a resident there. You just never know who might wander in (in spite of the gate keeper), or how many personalities they'll bring with them. So far, they've all been harmless.

       We were 5 minutes late opening the door, but what had at times seemed like not enough food became a nearly full pot. The word "homemade" flowed freely through the lunchroom. Nothing succeeds like success—and requests for seconds.

       The pre-release group eats first, and one of them is a 300 pounder who is a very picky eater (surely I'm missing something here). She pointed to a plate on the counter and turned up her nose. "I only want the soup and the fruit; I don't want the beans." There was a line of people to serve, and I had to scrape up the nerve, but I suggested she go ahead and take the plate, and just not eat the beans. She complied—no smile, kiss my foot—nothing. But she wanted seconds! Payback. Had to smile and say thank you.

       That Paul Bunyan fellow has decided that he likes me. Remember what a grouch he was? Now he knows where to find seconds, and he's sucking up. And that's a good thing. I like him too.

       Most of today's faces seemed new. McCaulay wasn't there. The little blonde boy had gone on a picnic, and the four new pre-schoolers were not there, but my favorite adolescents were. They got the usual candies and arts 'n crafts goodies. I wish you could have heard the boy say, "Here I am!" when I stepped up to his table and didn't see him. This is the same child who wouldn't look me in the eye and who spoke in whispers just a few weeks ago. He's OUT!

       We served about 40 plates, all told. I'm still aching all over from the endeavor, but I'd do it again. Joey wants some "summer food" next week, so we plan to have hamburgers, cole slaw, baked beans, and chips. Maybe I'll take some butterscotch pudding and coolwhip—or something…