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.