YOU GOT A DUNCAN!

       Five souls were enjoying the outdoor benches when I arrived. Coming out of my shell seems to be complete because I couldn't hold back a cheerful, "Good morning!" Five bright greetings came back. I am no longer the reticent Sunday Lady shuffling in with her sacks, embarrassed to own a car. What a relief to be "out."
       Ken motioned to a pre-release to let me into the inner sanctum. The man smiled and acknowledged that he knew letting me in would lead to his lunch. Those guys are always hungry. Maybe it's the boredom.
       Doug was busy making 100 PBJs. After catching up with our news, he said Miss Lillian had told him that I like to cook (no secret), so he had decided that Sundays could just be mine—and he would use the extra time for other things. There's never a dearth of other things to do.
       With Ken's permission, Doug let a group of pre-release come to the dining room for coffee before lunch. It's against the rules to allow that, and as I told you last week, the Bureau of Prisons frowns on any show of kindness to prisoners. HOWEVER, before those men left, they had wiped down the tables, swept the dining room, and moped the long hallway from the front desk. They did it for Doug—because he's kind to them. The government will never understand the rules of life, so one must just do what one can, and hope for mercy.
       The guys wanted to know what we were making for lunch, and I told them soup and squash. I heard, "I don't like squash," and "Fried?" and "Aw," and "I love squash, but I wouldn't eat it as a kid." And I said, "Me either—it's called squash—duh!" Sweet fellows, and no scary ones right now…
        I made about two gallons of "the soup," and it was good, tho no two pots are alike. In the cooler, Doug found some nearly dead potatoes, and I saved what I could for the soup. He also showed me three big cartons of fresh summer squash. You long-time readers know what happens to fresh vegetables in that cooler—mold. So I cut up as many as I had time for, added the not-rotten half of an union, a whole stick of butter, salt & pepper. There were many remarks of delight at some "real home-style food," and many asked for seconds. Of course, a few "don't eat squash." They got peaches. We added some of that "death-in-a-tub" chicken salad and crackers. Lunch was very good, and quite colorful. Presentation is everything.
       Among the homeless residents is a young man who has never yet eaten a lunch I've served. He comes to the counter every Sunday and asks for a sack lunch. Because the fellow has "issues," Doug gets his shorts in a wad when the guy comes in, but I don't. (Admittedly, I see him only on Sunday.) Today, when the fellow asked for a sack lunch, I said of course he could have one, "but I just made this fresh soup, and it's really good!" The boy looked a bit trapped.
       "I had some traumatic experiences with food in my childhood," he said apologetically.
       I handed him the sack lunch, "I understand that completely—I do."
       We all have issues. "But you could try the soup, with your sack lunch," I coaxed. He wanted to know what was in it. I told him. Still, he declined, and I let him own those issues with no guilt.
       About 15 minutes later, the fellow came to the counter. "I'd like to try just a little bit of the soup," he said. I put about 3 tablespoons of it in a bowl. "Here's a taste," I said. Surprisingly, he looked a bit disappointed, but the last thing I wanted to do was make him feel pressured. Ten minutes later he came back for a whole bowl. And, heck, I didn't get a chance to share that event with Doug! Maybe I'll remember to tell him next week.
       So… those two little girls came to lunch today! Their mom is pregnant. All three of them had long faces, ate quickly, and left. I did have time to take them Beanies & gum. Their eyes got so wide when they saw the goodies! They took them hesitantly. Then Mom reminded them to say thank-you. Of course, their eyes had said it all. I see far too many sour-faced women with sad children.
       Well into the lunch half hour, my boy came striding up to the counter, "We have another one!" he said cheerfully. He had come expressly to tell me this wonderful news, and he was smiling. I was tipped off yesterday about "a second 10-yr-old boy," so I had yo-yos for each of them. One yo-yo lights up (I got it at a conference), and the other was newly purchased for today—a Duncan from Wal-Mart. Naturally, I gave the one that lights up to "my boy," and the Duncan to the new boy whose mother quickly announced, "You got a Duncan!"
       Surely that will make up for the fact that the Duncan does not light up. I told the boys to let me know if they break a string, and I will bring them a new one. I ordered a 5-pack of cotton Duncan yo-yo strings last week from Amazon—with shipping, $9! Five strings! Well… maybe I should order a gross next time. (Aside: "My boy" lives there with his dad; the other boy lives there with his mom, and yes, my television-serial mindset is on a roll.)
       Well… it was great. It was just great. Back's killing me, hands are sore, ankles are puffy, and I'll skip off to do it all again next week—God willing.