NOTHIN' BUT CHANGE…

       Surely this shelter sees more change than most places or situations. The plupart of what I have to report today is scuttlebutt… but it's making Doug crazy, and I do get some of the brunt of that. He began with a typical hissy fit, but this time he wasn't stressed about getting the work done. He was flat-out angry because Miss Lillian had just called to tell him she hurt her back and couldn't come in on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday…

       Yesterday, she came in and did a bunch of work and said she wasn't feeling well. It wasn't her day to come in, but as the worm turned, she was only setting Doug up for the fall. "So, is she not feeling well, or did she hurt her back?" he grumped. Either way, we're not buying it, and he was feeling left high and dry. After about an hour, the boy pulled himself together. As he ruminated over the situation, he contrived a plan to enlist Dean to fill in. Dean, you may recall, always loved the kitchen anyway, so things will work out, but I would not work Doug's job for 9 bucks an hour—it's just criminal.

       The big, big director of the institution is leaving, and will be replaced in a week or two. Doug is looking forward to the new fellow who seems to have better ideas for the shelter. The old director has moved out of his house, and reports got back to Doug that the place was too nasty for human occupancy. Just shows to go you: a person can dress up mighty fine and walk tall, while living in filth. Sigh.

       Last night's gatekeeper handed out 22 sack lunches, but only accounted for 7, so we had to make up the difference today. That rankled Doug's nerves. Oh, and the Crazy One who didn't eat ham or turkey (if we were watching) and who questioned the contents of her Twinkie is back. She didn't come to lunch, and I was disappointed.

       Our 1-year-old has left, but the two teens are still there, and now we have a mom with toddlers, ages 2 and 3 year. The little girl is quite beautiful and pleasant. The boy cried for most of lunchtime. I noticed folks trying to comfort him. Babies shouldn't have to live in such places.

       My French trainer donated about 40 pounds of canned goods for the shelter, so Doug asked me to make soup. I could have made soup 2 or 3 times! I filled a huge pot with vegetables, beef, sausage, chicken, tomato sauce, and mystery ingredients, and a smaller pot with just chicken and rice soup for those who won't touch beef or pork. And you won't believe this, but a good-looking young man came to the counter late (among the homeless) and turned down everything we had! NO MEAT! He's a vegetarian. Period. "Don't you want some fruit cocktail?" I asked. No, he didn't. When he realized that he had just shot himself in the foot, he took the fruit and a roll. This is nothing but "control." These people find themselves without control of their lives; but, what they eat, they can control because our "government policies" dictate that we honor every person's "beliefs." This has nothing to do with religion.

       One of today's pre-release took the chicken soup when I was honest, "There might be a tiny bit of beef in the vegetable soup."

       "Oh, that would be very bad!" he said.

       Really? Why? Would he swell up like a toad? Turn into a prince? Go to Hell? Yes, I'm tired, and I'm ranting. It is what it is.

       Mr. Huggy has been given the position of "head social worker." He was only a volunteer; he has no degree; he... well, he did "save" that one pretty woman a few years back, so she could swindle him out of his cash. I mean, he's inept, and this is a homeless shelter! So now Huggy is too wrapped up in his position to go to the town's food bank and pick up supplies from there, meaning we have no goodies. Nothin'.

       At least Doug picked himself up and will sally forth—good man that he is. I did offer to come in and help him this week, but he didn't want to impose.

       We have a volunteer's sign-in sheet listing the date, name, and hours worked. For weeks now, there have been only two of us: the gal who came at Christmas and swore she was dedicating her Saturdays to the place forever (and followed through), and me.

       The Christians won't come to the door if Miss Lillian is there; they just drop the breads on the back porch. I'm telling you: it's a sad state of affairs. God help those who are obliged to take a bed there.