BUGLING THE HOUNDS

       Cutie Gatekeeper moussed his hair for me today! He did the sides and the top—very short and just-right curly. I do adore that child.

       We have a number of new residents among our pre-release and our homeless, and I'll try to introduce you to some of them, but before I could meet them there was lunch to prepare. Doug had his dinner plans well underway, and his lunch plans were, "Joy, you think of something."

       I never mind hearing that! Within a short while I had a big pot of soup on, and Doug said we could serve ham and chicken salad with it. I mixed some odd cans of applesauce, apples, and pineapple in a large bowl, and added bananas from the huge stash in the refrigerator. Sadly, the bananas had to be picked through carefully and most of them discarded. We added cinnamon to the mix and it was all consumed, as was the soup and meat salad. There was just enough left for one or two plates. The soup received rave reviews—even from Doug, the cook!

       I was amused with Doug's follow-up story about last week's chicken pot pie. When Miss Lillian had arrived on Monday, word of the pot pie was still spreading through the shelter. At her first opportunity, she asked Doug, "How did you make that?" He never told her the winding tale, only his (final) biscuit ingredients and that he'd added more chicken. All's well that ends well.

       One of my favorite pre-release fellows is leaving this week. He'll be missed. All of the women pre-release have left, but sadly one went back to "the big house." I don't understand how a person with five state warrants out on them can slip through the cracks far enough to get to a shelter in the first place…

       Among the resident homeless, we have two interesting new fellows. One is a special-ed case, and I do wonder why he is there and not in a better equipped facility. The other came to lunch bearing the bruises of a recent skirmish and not appearing altogether sober. He probably won't be there next week.

       A while back I mentioned that we had three 400-pounders. We did. There was the couple with a child, and a woman (I thought). I served "her" many, many weeks, always cringing from the pains that her mass seemed to inflict on her. Last week I arrived at the kitchen to learn that "she" was in hospital with life-threatening cardio-vascular problems (duh), and  that she is a man! Whoa!

       This week, the news is that "he" is somewhat improved and is expected to be back at the shelter soon, "sucking mayonnaise from the condiment packettes." Ew.

       Again, both of my children were in attendance. My little girl's father strode to the lunch counter with a smile on his face, no cane, and no limping. It was miraculous! (No dieting either—if lunch was any indication.) But I was happy to see him feeling so well. The child was still in her pajamas, skipping gaily through the lunch room, showing a little old beggarly-looking man the boo-boo on her finger and telling him about a similar injury she'd had in kindergarten. I've never seen her so animated. I motioned her to the kitchen door where I offered her a choice of a green Beanie bear or one that looks like Winnie the Pooh—she chose the Pooh and dashed off to share her goodies with her adult friends.

       Whatever got into the girl had also infected the boy, as he too was undeniably cheerful and talkative. I called him next to the kitchen door for goodies, but having run out of lizards and creepy boy things, I wasn't feeling very optimistic about my offerings: A black & white gibbon monkey OR a very floppy, adorable speckled pup. He snatched the pup with a gleeful "yes!" and dashed away to show it off, his arm leaping the puppy across the room. Who knew?

       Almost as an afterthought, I had also given each child half of an empty paper towel roll. "It's a durt-de-dur," I told them. As the little girl left, I put my hollowed fists to my mouth and called after her, "Durt-de-durt-te-dur!"

       Doug and I put together 30-some sack lunches and sorted the gifted bakery bread that arrived around 12:30 (a Sunday ritual now). The dark breads cannot be served at our shelter because of poppy seeds and possible drug-test contamination. We froze some for Dean, and we froze a batch of large loaves to slice and heat for next Sunday's lunch.

       There was sweeping, organizing, and dishwashing to do—just the usual. I left with a right smart sore back and an enormous grin on my face. Several folks called to me in the parking lot, "Thanks for lunch!"

       Doug had already thanked me for all the help I was today. "Hey," I said, "I had a great time, and that's really all that matters!"