WHERE ARE MY WORDS?

     It's Hottie's last Sunday. When I arrived at 10, he was in the kitchen with Doug, but he said only, "I gotta go," and scooted back to the office. Doug says Hottie cries when he sees me. Later, Hottie said something to the effect that I had made a great impact on his life. Now isn't that just the pits? I mean, if he feels impacted in an uplifting way, that's a good thing; but, to get that from an old woman who is just crazy smitten with him is kinda sad. I guess this is our queue to say, "Sometimes lust is a good thing." No? Yes?
     I made more than a gallon of potato salad for today's lunch, and I managed to haul all of it up the back steps by myself, along with my goodie bag and purse. It's a beautiful day—sunshine and warmth. Kevin who slept on our back stairs last week would enjoy this weather, but he's in jail this week. Doug says he committed a felony or two. In spite of Kevin's shortcomings, Doug cares about him. He took me to the back porch and pointed across the street to an empty lot where Kevin has created a poor man's version of an apartment, complete with metal folding chair. Imagine coming home to this every night. Nothing in your world would be safe, like it is when you and I close and lock our doors.

     I suppose the fencing gives Kevin a certain feeling of security, but that space is no more secure from predators than it was from him. The big blue trash bin would keep a fellow dry, albeit cramped, and those other trappings consist of the folding chair and sundry fabrics. As for his important belongings, Kevin keeps those in a broken refrigerator on the shelter's back porch. Doug wrenched the refrigerator away from the wall until he was able to open the door so I could see Kevin's winter jacket, a big bag of popcorn, and a few other things—safe from molestation.

     Waiting for the lunch hour, we made breakfast bags and PBJ sacks. Lunch was to be my potato salad, Doug's pasta and chicken casserole, and English peas. We had only about 20 guests, but many requested seconds, and most of the food was eaten.

     The fancy lady has left the shelter. Doug says she was angry because she always kept up with her rent payments, whereas many others do not, and though she had a private room, apparently she felt that she was not receiving enough. It's curious. Where did she go? If she needed the shelter (at about $5 per day), how did she find better? And what is her goal?

     Our autistic boy was cut off abruptly by his mother when he reached a hand toward his plate to a) pick up and reject some of the food or b) complain. I heard nothing, but the corner of my eye saw the whole thing.

     One of our 9-year-old boys was at lunch, and I asked him if he'd like to have some Play Doh. "What's that?" he asked. I took a green and a red can from my bag.

     "Which one would you like?"

     "Both," he said.

     "Choose one," I said. He took the green. Then I offered him a box of crayons. He took that too.

     I enjoyed engaging our "crazy as a shot cat" girl with smiles. She was sweet, gave me eye contact, and was enjoying bits of rapport with others.

     I met "the gay one" today. Of course, he is beautiful, and one wonders how he came to be there. His manners are impeccable, and he had a whole second plate. Next week, I think I'll tell him he has a hag—we all need support.

     When the lunchroom had cleared out, Doug and I cleaned up and began dinner. He prepared green beans, fried okra, fried chicken and rolls. We made up 40 plates, wrapped them and put them in the warming oven for Hottie to serve at 4:00. I didn't get out of there until 2:00. As I neared my car, the little boy and his dad passed down the sidewalk and called to me, "Thanks for all you did today!" I wished them a good week, but really, I should be thanking them.

     Doug will take a vacation day tomorrow, and I will go to the shelter to help Hottie make sack lunches, PBJs, breakfast bags, and dinner on his last Monday there. Sometimes you just want to take a child home with you…