THE (BATTLE) AXE HAS FALLEN

      My service to humanity is being crowded out by the sheer volume of intrigue and scandal at the shelter. That's just the way it is of late. Last week I gave Doug a padlock for his cleaning-supplies cabinet. Folks outside the kitchen had been helping themselves to his supplies, so he locked them up. I gave him a key for himself and one for the head gatekeeper. The other day, Doug came in to find the lock missing—it had been cut off! Nothing is sacred in that sanctuary.

       Miss Lillian's presence on Wednesday (the usual delivery day) brought mounds of goodies for the pantry. I loaded my goody sack with dozens of packs of gum for the children. There was box upon box of pastries and chips—things we haven't seen in the months she's been gone. That was the upside. The downside was that Lillian failed to order the canned goods that Doug needed, so while lunch today was good, it was concocted on the fly (chicken salad, applesauce, baked beans, and plates of leftovers).

       One day this week, Lillian called Doug and told him to put a frozen turkey on the back porch. He did. Later, Mr. Huggy came cruising through the back door and told Doug, "There's a turkey on the porch." Sometime after that, Lillian came by, collected the turkey and a sack of other foods, and left. She's never had any qualms about helping herself to the food there, but… um… gosh.

       We had two volunteers today. BOB did come back, as he'd said he would, and he contends that he'll come back as long as Doug is working there. He's a nice man. He was in prayerful thought about me "all week" because I don't go to church. Wants me to come to his church. Ooh.

       Our other volunteer was  a student nurse. The local nursing program is requiring their students to work community-service hours as part of their training. I approve!

       The young man was just delightful to be around, and he soaked up everything we were doing. I assigned him to check off names when the homeless group came in, so he could look them in the eye and get a good feel for who those people are. I explained that while the pre-release are quite intelligent and able, our homeless are mostly not. And, good grief… there's a flamer in the group this week. I thought Doug was going to take me to task, threatening to shave his eyebrows next week and draw on some crazy ones—like that homeless fellow. After announcing that plan, Doug walked away from me, swishing his hips from side to side.

       "If you do that, I'm telling your mama!" I said sternly. Doug's just out to get my goat—and for a minute there, he had my goat.

       Angry Mom was in a special rage today when Doug observed her screaming at her boys in the laundry room… with f-this and f-that. So he narced her out to Gatekeeper. Poor Gatekeeper is very young (really cute), and just did not want that duty, but he left his post and told the woman that she could not treat the boys like that, or he would put them out. It's a dirty job.

       My baby and the little girl were there, and were treated with goodies. That little girl is such a sweetheart—she delights in her treats, and the joy comes right back to me… where it belongs… because I'm in church, you know.

       It was hard to sign out, but my job was done and my body was done in. The Christians didn't show up with their bread donations, so we were all disappointed—we'd planned a game of shooting hoops, and it promised to be especially fun because the dumpster is nearly full and a good shot would require skill. Heck.

       Next week—same time, same place. Wouldn't miss it for the world.

SPICEY AND DICEY

       Miss Lillian does not return until tomorrow, not the "tomorrow" in last week's report. Still, massive preparations (emotional and physical) are underway in anticipation of her return. The scuttlebutt has it that she's really just sliding back in to become full-time again (which would put Doug out of the decent job). I think the boy is paranoid about his job, and I don't blame him. I also don't believe Lillian is in the mood to work there full-time—she's no spring chicken, and she has other fish to fry, if you'll forgive my foodiness.

       Anyway, Doug is sick again, coughing something awful. He's going to the Urgent Care on his way home. It's either pneumonia or bronchitis, but the job stress has done nothing for his health.

       About those quiches we were planning: I took 10 frozen pie shells, but the head gatekeeper had already told Doug to feed out the food that was in the freezer. Last week, after the big snow, Mr. Huggy came cruising through the kitchen one day, snooped through the freezer, and announced that there wasn't enough food. (Remember, he's a volunteer.) Then he and another fellow went out and bought a truckload of frozen foods—foods that were already plentiful in the freezer. If they had bought crackers, milk, and bread, last Sunday would have gone much better for us.

       So this week, Doug was instructed to feed out what was in the freezer. That will take a couple of weeks. He took my pie shells and stuffed them on top of some boxes high in the freezer. Someday, we'll make quiche, but no time soon.

       Today we had chicken salad, fruit cocktail, and no plan for the other section in the Styrofoam plates. Doug wanted ideas. I thought a carbohydrate would be good, but something that was not commonly served and was not in great demand. I suggested we cook some pasta and flavor it with parsley and butter. When it was finished, Doug added a sprinkling of hot red-pepper flakes. He made at least 2 gallons of the dish (four boxes of spaghetti), and we scraped the pot clean.

       A volunteer, BOB, who is new to me joined us for the morning. He's a tall fellow who is working off some community service hours in exchange for partial payment on his housing. He has not committed a crime. He's middle-aged and very engaging. He was front and center every time I even looked like I was struggling with anything—like mixing up a tub of peanut butter and jelly. I made the first tub, and he made the second. His was perfectly and completely blended. We made 50 sandwiches and sacked them into those 25 sacks for the street folks.

       Rory (cute gal with sheared black hair) was keeping the gate. When I called her desk and said, "You can send the RCC in now," she said, "You mean the pre-release?" So I'm going back to using pre-release. What the heck is an RCC anyway?

       We served about 55 people. The pre-release were clustered at only three long tables, not spread out all over the room as they usually do. They were happy. We don't have any strutters in that group—even the Intimidator was absent today.

       The homeless did not barge in before being invited, but their line was long, stretching far into the hall. Our volunteer and I had a brief exchange about Angry Mom, before she came in. He's been working there all week, so he knows the group. He asked what she looked like, and I gave him the best description I could. Then he gave me his description of her. His was spot on; mine was vague. As I told him later, all I can sometimes remember about these folks is their personality and some idea of their size. Again, the woman came to lunch saying she wasn't going to let the boys come to the dining room until she'd eaten in peace. Doug says if they catch her doing that, they'll kick her out…

       There's a woman about 65 among our homeless who is just not wrapped tight. Doug says she recently asked him if he was married. When he said yes, she flatly told him, "That's too bad. What I couldn't do with you." Poor Doug still shivers when he recounts that moment.

       A teenage, heavily pierced boy and a fellow about 40 came to the counter together today. The boy was a bit sullen, but when I said, "Good morning!" to the man, the man smiled and said, "Well, I guess this is as good as it's going to get." They're new there, and they are together. One gatekeeper thinks they are a couple, but to my eye, they are father and son.

       My baby was there, and I made her a special bowl, having carefully picked out all of the red pepper flakes from her pasta and the bell peppers from her chicken salad. She got a toy that was intended for a teething baby, but my stash is running low, and the colorful, busy toy seemed to interest her. The little girl was watching me expectantly as I cooed at the baby. Then I asked the child, "Would you be interested in a big, soft, brown teddy bear?" It's a beautiful toy, but hard to place… until today. Ted was embraced with glee.

       Angry Mom's boys got gum and a little packet of candy. I've run out of specialty items, and they would ridicule each other with, "Baby toy! Baby toy!" if I gave them things from my usual stash. So they will wait.

       I, however, did not wait when I'd been there 2-1/2 hours and my body was screaming for a reprieve. Shoveling 7-1/2 inches of snow off the front walk, out from around the car, and off of the car on Thursday did me in. I was still high from that accomplishment on Friday, but yesterday arrived with a dose of reality. Spending the day in bed with movies and popcorn is all that saved me.
       Tomorrow—oh, to be a fly on the wall. There is fear and trepidation among all the "inmates" of that place, be they employees, prisoners, or homeless. Will Lillian "take over" again? Will Doug still have a decent job "after Lillian?" BOB says he won't work his community service hours when Lillian is there… I remember a certain Sunday Lady who once refused to work on those rare Sundays when Lillian was there. She is harmless, but she makes the place a one-chef, full-gospel kitchen, and it appears that she can do that from afar and on a part-time schedule.

SEVEN INCHES OF SNOW—on THURSDAY

      "Doug? You got anybody helping you today?"

       "No, Miss Joy; all the volunteers called in, and the three people who're working had to stay overnight."

       "You want me to come in?"

       "Miss Joy, the roads are bad. You shouldn't come out."

       Right there, when he told me not to, I knew I was going, but first I had to shovel a path to my car and clear 7 inches of snow off of it. I let it run for about half an hour, and that helped a lot with clearing off the car itself. And, bless her heart, Car trekked right out into that deep, crunching frozen stuff, down the road, into town, and up to the front parking lot of the shelter.

       Every soul who is housed there was at lunch. I failed to count, but maybe 60. Doug made potato soup, cream of broccoli soup, and corn dogs. We're out of crackers, bread is running short, plates are running short. Canned drinks are being rationed for the sack lunches, but some benevolent secret soul left several dozen gallons of orange juice on the back porch.

       Tall, dark handsome Intimidator was surprised to see the Sunday Lady on a Thursday. "How are you?" he asked, big baby that he is… All of the RCC were in especially good spirits. Again, before their half hour was quite over, the homeless residents came boldly to the counter—it was noon, and they can tell time. Angry Mom took food for herself and her boys, but I never saw the boys. She said she wasn't bringing them to the dining room until she was finished eating, "because they just jump around and go wild." Of course they do; they're cooped-up children with lots of energy! Oh, sigh.

       The little girl and the baby were there, and I got to HOLD that baby! I haven't held a baby in years! She felt so good…

       The Crazy One appeared at the counter, the first thing out of her mouth being, "I don't eat beef."'

       "That's okay," I told her, passing by on my way to the sink.

       "I don't eat beef," she repeated.

       "That's okay," I said again. She frowned, took two bowls of soup and walked away. Of course, Doug misses nothing. He was gloating and listening. Shortly, Crazy came to the counter and asked Doug if there was pork in the corndogs. When he told her they were beef, she took one. She ate it, too!

       Besides serving up dozens of plates, I made 90 sandwiches and sacked them into 45 lunch bags with drinks, chips and some candies that I found in the back. I hurt pretty much all over.

       "You coming in on Sunday?" Doug asked, as I headed for the door.
      "Like having served my time on Thursday would get me out of Sunday? Are you kidding? Sunday here is mine."

GET OUT!

      Doug had a fellow working with him today—I assume he was there to work off some community service hours. There wasn't much for him to do, either, so he wound up sticking his hands in my pies, though ultimately there was more than enough to go around.

       Before I could scope out the set-up, Doug told me that our pre-planned recipe would not be coming off today because he forgot to thaw the 5-pound log of ground beef. So he was going to make potato soup and serve it with chicken salad, applesauce, and crackers. Then the gatekeeper told him that all of the homeless residents were staying in-house for lunch, so I made a small pot of vegetable soup, just in case we needed a bit more food.

       The refrigerator was full of sack lunches (Doug had three volunteers yesterday), and I saw many changes. He'd hung curtains in the kitchen, and put out a special container labeled "soiled aprons." There was only one apron in it because those volunteers had freed him up to do so many little things that had previously been neglected. The back porch did not have stacks and stacks of drink crates on it. In fact, there was nothing on the porch but a tall stool which is occasionally used when taking a break.

       The big word today was that Miss Lillian will be coming back part-time, starting tomorrow. Doug said the mean honcho had given Lillian three days and taken away one of his. But today's gatekeeper (who also has clout) told Doug to TAKE his fifth day—just show up and work with Lillian. So Doug was feeling his oats about that chain of events.

      He asked me to sack up the PBJs that were already made, so I set up my assembly line on the work table while he put together his famous potato soup. After it had boiled a short while, he got a spoon to taste it. Then he cruised by me with a very self-satisfied grin on his face, stopped to pat himself on the back and said, "I'm gonna be honest with you—that's probably the best pot of soup I've ever made."

       The man's in high cotton today—God's in his heaven, and all's right with the world.

       Before I finished my PBJ work, I looked up to see the new guy and Doug making up plates and ladling soup into bowls. It was five minutes until the first group would arrive, and they were doing my favorite job! I dropped everything and rushed to take back my place just in time to greet the RCCs. The tall, handsome intimidator came strolling in late. He'd had two weekends of home visits and a haircut. I remarked on his new haircut. "No," he said, "that was 2 weeks ago." But I reminded him he hadn't been there on a Sunday in 3 weeks …and they think I'm not watching.

       About 8 minutes before that group's mealtime was over, the homeless residents had made a long line out in the hall. Gatekeeper told them to move away from the dining room door, but they didn't. About 5 minutes before the RCC lunch was over, the homeless marched up to the serving counter, Angry Mom leading the pack. There were only a few plates prepared, and I was at the stove and didn't realize they'd come in until I heard her instructing her children. I looked up in shock. "We're not ready! I said. "It's not time for your group. Go back OUT!"

       The small mob shrank back out. I began hustling to fill plates, but something over by the icemaker caught my attention. Doug was standing there with paper towels covering his face, his body convulsing as if he were in tears, but he was laughing! His face was red. Then he began to tell the other fellow that I had yelled, "GET OUT!" to the homeless. He loved it. They walk all over him all week, and just for a moment my "instructions" to the crowd had filled a deep void in Doug's life. One of these days, surely they will fire me.

       After eating, Angry Mom came to the counter with one of her children and I told the boy to ask his mom if he could have a toy. I'm learning. Then I went out into the dining room to give a toy to the world's cutest high-chair baby and a bag of goodies to the 10-year-old girl—two neat kids with good moms.

       We served more than 50 today and ran out of chicken salad and applesauce about a dozen plates shy. No one complained that they got only soup and the makings for a PBJ. Also, those benevolent Christians came by with their multiple 50-pound potato sacks of week-old bread. When the dining room cleared out, Doug and I found some long, hard loaves for throwing passes. My first pass slammed into the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. The only thing that broke was Doug's laughter. Then we made some hoop shots into the dumpster off the back porch.

        As for next week, The Intimidator has hounded Doug for "that egg stuff," so we'll be having quiche again. Good times.

IT's ALL GOOD—FINALLY

       It has take him the better part of a year, but Doug has finally chilled. He says I am the one who has chilled, but clearly, it is he. He says when he first came there, I was waiting on the patrons like an eager mother hen, but that I am now laid-back and not so accommodating. He's right, but I don't believe my attitude has given him the pressure relief. He has simply (finally) realized that he is not required to fulfill every wish and whim of the shelter folks.

       I was going to say "residents," but we don't have "pre-release" and "homeless residents" anymore. By government edict, we now have RCCs and homeless residents… I've forgotten the definition of the acronym.

       An RCC came to the counter well before lunch to inquire about the menu. "Snails," I told him. He was not amused. "Soup," I said, "chicken and vegetables." He left appearing satisfied. Later, another of that group asked if there were eggs in the chicken salad. I read the label, and told him there were. Doug was most interested in that news because the man eats eggs for breakfast every morning. Heck, I even asked the guy, "What happens when you eat eggs?" and he said he breaks out in a rash. Those people have no limits to their need to finagle. It must be a psychological need, for it's surely not physical.

       Angry Mom had come in long before I got there to ask about the dinner menu—beef stew, green beans, mashed potatoes, rolls. Fine. She didn't ask about lunch, which I found curious.

       The RCCs were happy enough with their lunch, but before all of them had finished eating, Angry Mom brought her boys to the dining room and stepped up to the serving counter to get their meals. "We're not serving your group yet," I told her. "Come back in a few minutes."

       This woman will not be put off. She sat her boys at a table and presented them with prepackaged foods. When the intercom announcement invited the homeless residents to lunch, she came again to the counter and took three plates.

       After everyone had been served, I motioned to her boys to come up and get the toys I had for them. Their mother told them to "SIT DOWN!!!" Then she came to get the toys. Much later, the boys came to say thank-you.

       The Crazy One came for a sack lunch to take to her job. Doug handed it to her and walked away. She opened the bag, removed the cookie, placed it on the counter and said, "This is stale."

       I was busy stirring my soup, but Doug was long gone, so I said, "That's okay; just throw it away." Then she grumped that the sandwiches were stale too. "You can throw them away too," I said, "it's okay."

       I saw her walk toward the big trashcan but paid her no more attention. When I told Doug about the incident, he said, "You're kidding!" and he went to look in the trash can. Guess what? She did not throw away her sandwiches. The sandwiches—one ham and one turkey—were not on her diet a few weeks back. I'm just sorry I didn't have a Twinkie for her, so I could have heard about the "drugs" hidden in it.

       So we had soup, chicken salad, and fruit again for lunch, but today's soup was not tomato-based, as we didn't have tomato ingredients. It was based on what I found in the mystery box: great northern beans, black beans, lots of chicken broth, chicken, spinach, fresh diced potatoes, corn, carrots, peas, and a box of multi-colored pasta. We thought it was unusually tasty.
       During both lunch periods, Doug and I put together 30 sack lunches. After the last diner had left, we made up 30 PBJ sacks for the street folks. Each sack has two sandwiches, so that totaled 60 sandwiches, but we have a system :)

       The church folks dropped off three 50-pound potato sacks of stale bread again. Doug slammed one boule on the floor several times—and caught it when it bounced back up. I took a hard thin loaf, dashed to the far end of the kitchen and ran a long pass. He caught it with one arm. We didn't miss any of our 2-point dumpster shots! Good times.

       Next week we're planning to try a recipe I got from a friend in Rhode Island. It will be interesting to see how well the disparate cultures intermingle. It's all good—it really is.