DEAD OF WINTER

       It's 70° on this mid-January day, and I fully expected to have few residents at the shelter for lunch. No. We served about 50 meals. Our pre-release have raised the number considerably, and I've no idea why their population has suddenly increased there. I do know that preparing and serving lunch has become such a large task that I no longer have time to banter with my people, to get to know them, to establish any sort of relationships. Admittedly, it was always sad to hear that a favorite had returned to prison or to his old ways.

       We had a lovely young woman working off her service hours today. She prepared the dining room, mopped it, filled the cutlery containers, and occasionally disappeared to the back porch for what I assumed was a smoke. She's willing and helpful, but not self-starting. I asked her if she has children, and she said, "No! I'm waiting until I get married!"

       "Good girl!" I applauded her. "I've always said there are too many children in the world and not enough parents!" She agrees. I do admire that about her.

       Today Joey made "the soup." In fact, he had a huge pot already on the stove when I got there. In time, a few macaroni noodles burned on the bottom of the pot, and we put his soup into two pots and I added more food (because I KNOW that our biggest pot will not feed more than 35, and we were expecting more than 50.

       Joey said he would have fruit for today's meal, but by the time I got there, other workers had given the fruit out for snacks, and there was only one #10 can left. I gave each of the 50 diners 5 little chunks of fruit. It worked.

       Joey had boiled 40 eggs for me. I took my little Cuisinart processor, and in time, we had two platters of deviled eggs. Each diner got a bowl of soup (or two), deviled eggs, a bit of fruit, and crackers. There were no complaints and many requests for seconds. Today's soup was filled with large slices of broiled chicken breast, roast beef, sausages, broccoli and other vegetables. It was possibly the most hearty soup we've ever served.

       Only two children were at lunch—a boy about 11, and his sister who looks to be about 14. They were delighted with the Beanie toys I gave them, a pen, and some crayons. The little artist still lives there, but was spared Sunday lunch at the shelter. It's always wonderful when they have someplace else to go.

       On leaving, as I passed through the dining room, the face of a sweet young man turned toward me. "Thanks," he said. I laughed a little, and then I hope fiercely that he'd never think I would laugh at him. No, I laughed because the pleasure is surely all mine. It feels silly to be thanked for having such a fulfilling morning.

       Many residents were outside when I left—the pre-release smoking on their side of the front door, and the resident homeless on theirs. As I drove away, and no doubt because I know nothing about living on the streets, I was drawn to make note of the many folks in town who appear to have no place to go. Women. Men. Their sacks. There are many of them out there today. They are the ones who never "qualify" to live at the shelter—who cannot control that thing in them which will not be tamed.

       They make a utility bill look awfully appealing.