OH, BROTHERS!

      Mr. A. opened the back door for me this morning. There was no cooking underway, but he had some frozen corndogs on the work table and some huge boxes of potato salad. There was a plan. Doug had a family emergency, so we didn't know when or if to expect him. Everything seemed to be doable, until Mr. A. found that the oven wouldn't light. He was going to bake the corndogs. He tried everything; gas fumes began to build up; I turned on the big fans; and he turned off the gas.

       About that time, Doug came in, announcing that we were surely lucky he came to save our butts. First, corndogs are cooked in the deep fryer which I knew. I thought Mr. A. needed the oven for something else… Too, our other regular helper (the fellow who mostly socializes) had come in, and before long BOB arrived. We have gone from "who will help Doug on Sunday?" to "Where will we put all these helpers on Sunday?"

       Within an hour, the corndogs were sizzling in the deep fryer, and the other dishes were ready to spoon onto plates. It was not a very peaceful scene, as a young man had come to repair the stove. In cramped quarters, a repairman can easily take the space of two people. In the end, one of the ovens had to be abandoned while parts are being ordered (for this HUGE 17-year-old stove).

       Murphy's Law went with me this morning. I spent $15 this week to make a pot of chili (especially for the resident who asked for it last week). I had only about 4 quarts, so I reserved it—didn't flash it in front of everybody—and made it last. Of course BOB and one Helper Man had eaten two bowls, and I think Doug had one too… Murphy's Law stepped in when I was told that Miss Lillian had served chili on Thursday, plus cornbread! Surely it wasn't as good as mine…

       The pre-release were a very small group today—maybe a half dozen—and of those was the visiting brother of an inmate. But everyone was happy and "normal." I kinda miss the days when we had those shaved-head/Muslim-converted/tattooed/strutting fellows. But if you haven't heard the news lately, it's NOW becoming "news" that prison converts are increasing at a scary pace. Scroll back about 5 years in this blog, and you will see that I observed that long ago. Anyway, we don't get those prisoners anymore, and I can only believe the prison system is being more cautious about giving them halfway-house privileges. I'm not "in the loop," I don't have political savvy, and I am only able to report things as I see them—right or wrong.

       So there we were: Doug, Mr. A, Helper Guy, BOB, me, and the repairman. "God, it's hot in here!" I stated about midway through making up 2 dozen sack lunches. Mr. A. was quick to remind me, "You're surrounded by brothers!"

       You need to factor in that we aren't all the same color or of similar cultural backgrounds. "Oh!" I exclaimed, "I have to write that down!" I grabbed a bit of paper and began to write. The brothers were laughing loudly while at the same time innocently wondering why. So I told them: I leave here every Sunday and write down what happens at the shelter—no names, no places, just events.

       "You could write a book!" one said; and yes, I have. These shelter reports add up to a 375-page 6 x 9 book, and not in large print. I hate it (I hate it) when people tell me they don't read blogs… I hate the word "blog," because this is a history of a people and a place. It's not somebody's rambling ideas of how the world might be if squirrels had rat tails; it's not a covert ad for someone's achievements; and best of all, it's not in Dutch… Sorry, I got distracted.

       We have two new "ladies" at the shelter. One you may remember from last year. "She" has bright red hair, hot-pink earrings, pink crocs, and a healthy appetite. She also sleeps downstairs, with all the other men. The other new arrival is wheelchair-bound and quite large, but is said to have lost a ton of weight! Today is her birthday, and she's quite cheerful. If she can be cheerful in that condition, the very least I can do is shut up when I'm feeling underprivileged.

       The scraggly-bearded man who sweetly calls me by name was at lunch, and I remembered to ask him, "What do the guys camping in the woods do when it's raining?" The line of hungry folks didn't give us time for a lengthy explanation, but he was able to say, "They hang a tarp on the trees!"
       There were no children, though three are said to live there—and those three don't include the two who've been coming with their grandmother. I miss having children, but I'm glad they aren't there. We did get in a large box of mini candy bars this week, so I put one on each plate. One of the brothers wanted me to give them out by the handful, but I explained to him that sometimes we go many weeks with nothing, and that if I bring them home, there will be candy for next week too. I'm not too sure he grasped my intentions, but I promised to be a good steward of the candies. THAT he grasped.

MIXED BAGS & FRUIT

       I had to knock twice before the back door was opened, and there stood Mr. A, the fellow who used to live there but now comes to volunteer (to give back). Doug had not arrived, and his whereabouts were unknown. Mr. A was sweating adrenaline. He gave me a quick rundown on the pizza and fried onion rings he'd planned for lunch, and soon slid large pans of pizza in the oven. He didn't want me to make the soup because, he said, the leftover soup from last week was still in the fridge. I told him to throw it out.
       Mr. A. went on to say we needed 45 sack lunches, 6 breakfast sacks, and 25 PBJ sacks. I was onboard and ready to pull my weight when Doug came in.
       No! We were not having pizza. "Put 'em pizzas back in the freezer, Buddy"; I need them for Thursday. We're having deep-fried chicken fingers and French fries. And what's all 'em po-lice cars doin' out front?" We also had some really fancy fruit—mixed melons, red grapes, orange slices and fresh pineapple. Doug said the salesman got a little extra for selling us the special fruit. NOBODY complained about that fruit!
       The police cars (and ambulance) had come to see about a man who'd come to the shelter seeking medical aid. He was turned away by the authorities as just a freeloader. I'm told this happens at all the shelters and not infrequently.
       Just before serving time, Gatekeeper came to the kitchen to ask Doug for a sack lunch, "for a lady out front."
       "NO!" he replied, as always. Doug teases awfully! So I teased back, "What do you need, Sweetheart? Just tell me."
       Doug didn't like being shown up as unkind (because he certainly is not), so he launched back into the conversation, and said of course Gatekeeper could take a sack lunch to "a little 85-year-old woman out front who doesn't have anything to eat." Have you ever? What are we doing to each other? Who are we? Why can't we get a better system?
       Before you forget about our "freeloader," 2 hours later, he fell in the parking lot, cut his head, and was taken away by ambulance as I was leaving to go home.
       In addition to Mr. A., that other fellow (the one who mostly socializes in the kitchen) was there most of the morning, so our kitchen was crowded at times. To my surprise, we were all useful! BOB was said to be coming in "later," because he had too much fun last night and was having to rest up…
       Doug took last week's soup pot and put in on to boil. It was much larger than what I had left last week, and I asked why. Doug said he'd added to it. When serving time came around, I looked for the soup, but it was gone. "Where's the soup?" I asked Doug.
       "I threw it out," he said.
       The lunch groups were interesting, and there was a lot of cheer in the crowds, tho the "crowds" weren't as large as on colder days. The 57-yr-old who has a crush on me was front and center for attention. "Good morning, Joy," he said softly, his toothless smile shining thru the scraggly gray beard. And we have a new fellow, a Vietnam vet, who is said to be in our care just until the VA gets his planned accommodations set up. He's beautifully ebony, tall, and dressed all in black with a black bowler hat. His wrists are thickly covered in bracelets, he has earrings, and a gentle demeanor. And he ate six big pieces of that fried chicken.
       Our other extra-tall fellow came to the counter after lunch and asked why didn't we have the soup today. I couldn't give him a satisfactory answer. "Well," he said, "If you're gonna be here on Sundays, I'd really like to have chili!" I made a note, but he needn't hold his breath. I've mentioned chili many times, but always been put off…
       The grandmother who brings the two children arrived a bit late. Doug swears every Sunday that he has not laid eyes on those children all week, so I assume the grandmother only has them on Sunday. The children are still playing some sort of "hide" game, even after I've greeted them and promised them goodies—the little boy in particular. Today, he was hunkered under the serving counter. I wonder if they've been threatened… Still, I gave each of them plush toys and a durt-de-dur (with a definition and a demonstration).
       Mr. A. and I made those 45 sack lunches and the 6 breakfast sacks before serving the lunch groups. My back hurts, my shoulders hurt, and my feet cramped all the way home. It's hard to drive with cramps in your toes. Still, I'll do it again—God willing.

WHO? WHAT? WHY?

      The social system was a bit unusual in the kitchen today. Doug was working on dinner prep, and his often-handy volunteer fellow was "hanging around," as he does best. I had opportunity to get to know that fellow better: he's disabled because of numerous strokes; he's only 50 but looks younger; he's overweight but says he's lost a lot; oh, and I think he's the one with 11 children and 17 grandchildren. But he's nice, and if I ask him to help with anything at all, he will.

       Doug said my job today was to make the soup, so he and I took a large sack and went up to the pantry. A single lost soul had fallen out on one of the plastic cubes in the foyer. His hat covered his face, and he lay on his back with his feet dangling. Just looking at him gave me a miserable feeling. We passed a long rack of coats outside the pantry door. "Don't touch those," Doug said, "there's been a bed bug situation, and the news media came last week to report on it." I asked about the health department, but there was no word on them.

       As Doug and I exited the pantry closet, we noticed that the man had moved. He was lying face-down on the floor, in the far corner, near a bathroom door.

       Doug asked Gatekeeper if she wanted him to get the man up, but she said, "No. I've already had to move him once today; it's no problem."

       I think it must take an enormous amount of chutzpah for a young woman to make a grown man get up off the floor—not knowing his mental or physical state. But she says he's harmless and easy to handle.

       The soup pot was again filled to the brim, and I had plenty of ingredients (at least 26 cans of vegetables). I added some water, and then I cooked a package of brown rice mix and one of ramen noodles together in another pot. When those were done, I added them to the soup. Too, I asked Doug for okra today. He gave me all I wanted, but didn't think the breaded, frozen okra would do. I knew better. Maybe the best pot of soup ever… ain't it great that they can keep getting better?

       Another honest-to-God volunteer made the PBJs today. He used to live there! I vaguely remember him, but there are so many, and they change so often. Anyway, he has work now and an apartment, so he comes back on his day off to "give back." I think he's a first, and I've seen him there numerous times lately, so I think he might stick.

       BOB didn't show up, but Doug looked for him all morning.

       Mr. Huggy is said to be in hospital again. Miss Lillian is apparently there on certain days (one of the volunteers made it well known that he NEVER comes on any of those days). Someone also wondered aloud why the Styrofoam plates keep disappearing. In many ways, not much has changed. Doug told me, as he has many times, of a better job opportunity he's found. It's just a matter of time before he slips through the shelter's fingers.

       The pre-release were a formidable group and a happy one. They were almost giddy about having seconds of everything (chicken salad and fruit on the side). They were thankful and kind.

       The homeless, too, were of good cheer and ate very well. Near the end of their mealtime, the grandmother with the two children came in, and today they seemed "normal," not hanging back. I was happy to have an opportunity to give them stuffed toys, crayons, and a coloring book, all scrounged from the thrift store yesterday.

       Our last straggler was too late for chicken salad. He looked sad about that. I offered to make him a chicken/turkey/cheese sandwich, and he accepted. After he'd eaten, he came to the counter and thanked me for the sandwich. "Nobody else would have done that for me."

       why?

       So the other day, as I drove toward town, I saw a tall, strong-looking man with a thick white beard, walking away from town. He'd come about 6 miles, and I don't know how far the next shelter might be, but I imagine perhaps 15 miles or more, so he was on my mind a lot. I see many of his kind along my road, and I always wonder where they are going. He had on warm clothing, he wore a large backpack, and he carried a strong walking stick. My curiosity got the better of me, as my eyes wandered through the homeless in the dining room. One "old," worn-out fellow with a thick beard impressed me as someone who could answer my questions. So when he came for more soup, I asked him about the men I see walking along the highway, "Where are they going?" He was bursting with information, but our tête-à-tête was interrupted, so I asked him to come back when the line cleared, and he did.

       He was eager to explain the system wherein those walking homeless survive. Sometimes, he says, they have a blood disease or other disease, and they can't stay at a shelter. Sometimes they just don't want to. Apparently, it's easy enough to get meals, but lodging is another issue. These men, I was told, walk that highway until they are well out of town, and then they veer off onto trails into wooded areas. They mark trees, so they'll know how to get back out. Once in the woods, they make themselves a little camp for the night, and they build fires when it's cold. He went into great depth to explain how the ashes stay warm, and a fellow can just add wood in the night, to keep from having to go "ffff, ffff, ffff" again. We didn't get into "what if it's pouring rain," but maybe I can pin him down on that next week. I have a feeling he's going to be there a long time.

       He asked if I was married, and shamelessly admitted that he likes to go out and jitterbug from time to time—drink a little—maybe even smoke a little pot… He told me his name (all of it) and asked me mine. He gave me his age (which I assumed to be close to mine), and I told him I was in 7th grade when he was born. "Oh, that don't make no matter," he said.

       So I guess all the good ones really aren't taken, if you're not looking for a fellow with teeth or employment or housing.

WHERE ARE THE ROOMS?

       It appeared that Doug was working alone, when I arrived this morning. That was wrong. THREE guys were helping him; one at the moment, and two who came a short while later. Of course, BOB was among them. So there was one to clean out the walk-in freezer, and one to keep us entertained, and one to help the entertainer as well as check off names of diners. I'm not sure what Doug was doing, but he had already put a ton of chicken pot pie on the ovens, and I did come home with a container of that!
       Doug let me into the pantry, and we chose 26 cans of vegetables and chicken for the soup, planning to feed about 50 souls. We added 2 or 3 cups of macaroni and that much brown rice to the finished soup. THIS is a bona fide FULL pot of soup:

       Among the pre-release is a new fellow who hadn't seen his toddlers in a very long time. They didn't know him, and the older one cried with a shrill whine about as often as he gleefully shouted, "Daddy!" He just wasn't sure how to respond, but Dad gave the child his best effort. After watching them for more than an hour, I remembered a creepy fuzzy spider toy in my bag. The toy had a velcro opening in its belly where a child can hide a small treasure like a special rock or a few coins. I gave the spider to the little boy (he wasn't keen on it at first), and I gave a pack of bubble gum to Daddy. If the child wanted to interact, perhaps Daddy would put a piece of gum in the secret spider pocket. I hope they played the game, and I hope for great success for all of them.
       After nearly 3 hours of cooking and serving, I checked the soup pot to find about 3/4 of a gallon left, but it was thick. We need leftover soup in winter for the people who come in to sleep on the floor at night. So Doug gave me the key, and I went back to the pantry to get more tomato sauce, to thin the soup. Passing thru the lobby, I saw a tiny "old" woman with a cane. I assumed she'd come in to rest, as she doesn't live there. Then, on my way back to the kitchen, I passed the woman in the hall. She had on a white mask (the kind used to prevent spreading germs), but it was only tied around her neck. She stopped me, "Do you know how to get back to the rooms?"
       Honestly? I think I do, but I've never been back there. I suggested she try the glass doors to her right OR that she ask the gatekeeper…
       Next, I asked Doug about the woman, and he told me that gatekeeper had obviously felt sorry for her and maybe assumed she wanted food. We're getting lax about helping those starving homeless, I tell ya!

P.S. The tiny woman made her way to the dining room and ate a whole plate of food. It's balmy today, and tonight is predicted to be a pleasant 28°. What will happen to this tiny soul in Wednesday night's 7°? My grandmother was just about that size—less than 5 feet tall and 85 pounds soaking wet—but never so lost.