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.
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