NINE DEGREES?

       Do we need a protractor or compass to figure this out? No. We need a thermometer, and we need only to set it outside—that is what we awoke to this morning—that and no power.
       I must tell someone why we had no power. Be a pal and listen. There is a high-brow condo complex across the road from where I live. The grounds that border the road have a 35-yr-old row of pines that are gnarled with vines and brush. In my town, LAND belongs to the owners all the way to the pavement of every road. There are no rights-of-way. So when a landowner is negligent, there is no recourse. Case in point: Last night, a fierce wind blew over yet another tree from the fancy property. The tree fell in the road, taking a power line with it. The power company (and more than three police cars came to remedy the situation (with taxpayer dollars), and the negligent property owners are scott free, as usual.
       So I put on thermals, top and bottom, heated my car for 20 minutes, and scurried out early to the shelter kitchen where I knew it would be warm. BOY, was it warm in there! Mr. A. and Helpful Guy were making sack lunches and cleaning. Soon, Doug came in and gave us the weather report—wind chill "minus 20." I knew it was cold!
       Doug had been up all night with a sick child, and by the end of the shift, he too was not well. I just hope he didn't share that bug. He did whip up a fine meal for the residents: scrambled eggs, biscuits, applesauce, and sausage gravy. He gave me permission to make "just one pan" of corned beef hash with poached eggs. That didn't take long, and I spent more than an hour making sack lunches with Mr. A. We made about 50… enough to last 2 days.
       Serving was the most tedious event I've attended at the shelter. The biscuits had to stay in the warming oven; the sausage gravy had to stay in the pot on the stove; and plates could not be made up ahead of time because… some people don't want gravy on their biscuits, and some don't want eggs… the permutations went on forever. On top of that, I was told to give small portions of the eggs.
       The pre-release group was small—maybe 8 people. We have a new gal among them. Doug says she's a kleptomaniac and not to leave anything of value (especially credit cards) where she could get it. I said, "Doug, that's not a kleptomaniac, that's a thief!"
       "Yeah," he said, "and she spent 15 years in prison for it!"
       The resident homeless group was also smaller than any of us expected. I don't know where they went in such bitter cold. However… the "little girl" who is sometimes said to be 14 and whose mother says she's 11, and who is listed on the roster as 12 came to lunch! I grabbed the most delicious stuffed bear in my bag and a big "car cup" of gum and presented them to her excitedly. The child was ecstatic! While she ate, the bear sat by her plate, and the gum was nestled between its arms. Good times.
       I was there more than 3 hours, and SO glad to get out! It was hot, we had too much "help," and tensions run high when Helper Guy is around. He often appears to be jesting, but there's an undertone that makes me awfully uneasy. Doug is going to tell him to find someplace else to go on Sundays; he, too, feels the aggravation.
       Thanks for listening. You faithful readers surely save me a lot of money on therapy!

RUNNIN' NEKKED IN THE FRONT YARD

      We had us a kitchen full of workers today, with Mr. A., Helper Guy, Doug and me. Doug shoved the soup pot at me and indicated that I was to fill it, handing me the key to the pantry. Mr. A. made sack lunches, and Helper Guy followed me down the hall to help me carry the canned goods back to the kitchen. He's quite an amusing fellow, never silent, and quick witted. If I heard one quip about being a white woman today, I heard a dozen. I was clearly outnumbered—and then he started calling me "Mother." We were knee-deep in laughter.

       Having been told that we have a young teen girl there, I took a big, beautiful teddy bear that I've been saving for special. I put it under the serving counter near the cracker box. And I actually saw this child come to the dining room with her mother early in the day, just for water or coffee. Her mother is not rowing with both oars, has been in and out of this shelter numerous times, and drives Doug slap up the wall with inappropriate requests and comments—she wants special. We don't have special, and we are not a full-service café…

       The soup was extra good today! I was going to make use of a can of beets, hiding it in the soup, but Mr. A. tossed it out when my back was turned. Later, as he ate the soup, he carefully picked out all of the chickpeas.

       On the side, we had our death-in-a-tub chicken salad, crackers, and apples that I painstakingly cut up. The canned fruit supply was low.

       The pre-release group numbered maybe a dozen. They ate well and were fairly quiet. It's a gorgeous day, and that kept a lot of folks from coming to lunch—they had better places to be. The resident homeless numbered around 18, but there were no children. Those who came ate very well! I didn't see my "old fellow" with the scruffy beard. The other old man (the one who has "methed himself up" pretty bad was at lunch. He's so battered, and so much younger than I.

       Early in the day, a black fellow came to the kitchen for coffee and announced to Mr. A. that he wasn't taking any food from any WHITE people (speaking of Doug). Mr. A. was most unhappy with the fellow, and spent some time plotting a comeback.

       Then there was the big fuss that filtered from the Gatekeeper all the way back to the kitchen about some squatters who were using our front lawn. Mr. A. and I went out to see, especially to see the "little old lady" among them who was showing out (that's Southern for making a spectacle of herself—among other definitions). To our disappointment, the woman was not around when we got to the front.

       As we neared the end of the 2nd lunch period, Mr. A. reached under the counter for more crackers and came upon the stuffed bear. He grabbed it and held it to his chest. He LOVED it! He wanted it. "Can I have it???" he asked excitedly. Yes, of course. Then he held it out to the last diners and presented his new roommate—no trouble, no needs, no feeding or walking—just lots and lots of love. I guess for him, it's a  puppy—a perfect one.

       My 3 hours were ended, everyone was fed, and I started to disapron when I saw the men making up the dinner plates. I still had lots of energy(!), so I stayed and helped with that. The kitchen phone rang, and I heard Doug saying, "You're kidding! You're kidding!" It was Gatekeeper, calling to announce that the "little old lady" had disrobed from the waist up, and was making quite a stir on the front lawn.

       Oh! And the big cheese got wind that Doug was shopping for other jobs. He got a nice raise last week! I told you they'd wake up someday, and it's so gratifying that they woke up before they lost him.

       See you next time; keep your shirt on.

THE MORE THINGS CHANGE…

…the more they stay the same. Doug had a gigantic pot of his potato soup on the stove, and it was full of fresh, diced potatoes! Usually, it's just made from potato powder and milk, but this pot was hearty. To appease me, he asked me to make a little pot of vegetable/chicken soup. We served chicken salad and fruit on the side. For dinner he was making deep-fried breaded chicken breasts, green beans, and rice.

       Mr. A. was busy making sack lunches; "the helpful one" was not there, and we appreciated not having the help. If BOB came today, it would have been after 1:00, and I forgot to tell you I saw Mr. Huggy last week. He's been in hospital with gastrointestinal issues that you don't want to hear about either.
       Because the deep fryer was in use so much, the large overhead fans were running most of the morning, and the rice steamer was too. Either of those is enough to drown out all other noise, so there was little room for light banter.

       Doug said that two of the guys who work there regularly "got into it" one day last week, right there in the kitchen. Thankfully, it was only words, but when Doug tells a story and demonstrates how he stealthily avoided physical contact, it's just plain funny.

       Of our diners, several stood out. Among them were a 72-yr-old man who looks much older  because of meth, a silver-haired short paunchy fellow who is said to have been a mafia head (and looks the part), and a child. I didn't see the child until I was about to leave near 1:00. He was in the dining room with his parents. All were well dressed. They were not there to eat, but to visit. According to Doug, the father is a pre-release but doesn't eat there because "they have money." He has done time because he embezzled money from a bank, and didn't I remember that story? Nope. So they "have money" and don't eat at the shelter.

       The pre-release who brought a friend last week (not allowed?) brought him again today—it's his brother. They've both served time, and the brother has those tattooed tear drops at the corners of his eyes, indicating having served two sentences. Those can also indicate having committed murder or having been raped in prison. These brothers also have a sister  and parents who've served time; I think Doug said it was a family business…

       The scruffy fellow who thinks I'm special was there, but unusually quiet today. And our bottomless pit, the disabled guy who is always so neat and dapper but had a brain tumor… he ate and ate and ate, as always. There's something about his system that allows him to hold vast amounts of food but never gain weight. He's a pleasant one to have around—always cheerful.

       We have a very large woman resident who uses a wheelchair. Doug said they had a fire drill last week, and the woman got out of her chair and ran outside where she began to yell, "help!" Doug asked one of the head honchos if he should help the woman but was told, "only if you want to hurt your back." Sad.

       Late into lunch hour, Gatekeeper brought a young woman to the kitchen to get her started on some community-service hours. Mr. A. put her to work making PBJs. She said it was fun…

       The candy bins (two!) are well fixed, and again I brought home enough to hand out little candies to every diner for the next two or three Sundays. It's apparent that feast and famine can both be depended on to visit the candy bins, so I'm stashing it away.
       today's chuckle: The stove repairman refused to bring the replacment part on Thursday because Miss Lillian was working that day; and that's the way it is.

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.