HOW SWEET IT IS

      So Rick is now the new Sunday gate keeper. Wendy just works weekdays. Seems like finding qualified folks to work that desk on weekends is a stretch.  But I like Rick—very nice young man. For the first two weeks he was there, I got the impression that he was almost too serious—no fun. Yesterday, though, I called to ask the number and ages of the children I should bring goodies for. Rick dutifully rattled off their genders and ages. Then he added one, "And we've got another little girl, only two years old, and she's just the cutest thing you ever saw!"

       So Rick's staid façade is out of the closet.

       Speaking of the closet, Phil is upbeat today, and I realized that he's among our pre-release folks. Just never paid enough attention to notice that before. What in HELL did that gentle soul do?

       Joey had rounded up two huge paper bags of soup makings. I got to pick and choose, to create just the right homemade flavor. I filled that pot to within 3 inches of the brim—the largest batch yet. For reasons unknown, I felt strongly that our crowd would be large today. Whatever is giving me these feelings never seems to miss—we had more than 40, and that enormous pot of soup was consumed.

       Joey boiled 3 dozen eggs, and I made deviled-egg sandwiches (31). At Joey's suggestion, I made 2 dozen chicken salad sandwiches from the pre-mixed salad we had used last week. When all was said and done, I had to hurriedly make an additional dozen sandwiches. That "soup-kitchen/sandwich" meal may sound unappealing to you, but it was embraced greedily by our customers. We got many thank-yous as they left. Sweet thank-yous—the kind that you know are heart-felt. THAT is the "spirit" I find at this "church" of mine.

       We have a tall, thin fellow among our homeless who has something of a handlebar mustache. He came to the counter to ask for another sandwich. I made him a whole one. "Oh," he said, "I can't eat it that way. Can you cut it up?" motioning to his mustache. I quartered it. No problem. Nice fellow.

       The family with the 6-year-old girl was at lunch, sitting with the 2-year-old and her mother. I got to have some alone time with "my" little girl. She was the first to come to the counter after Joey announced that the "residents" could come in. She was holding out a little fist to me—one dandelion, one morning glory, and one unidentified blue flower. I have them in a shot glass in my kitchen window now.

       Of course I had goodies for her. She was thrilled with the bright blue Beanie Baby bear and matching bottle of bubbles. She chose a pack of Juicy Fruit over Big Red, and I added some apple chewies.

       For the baby, I had a long-eared brown puppy (Beanie Baby). I thought she would swoon over it (I know I did), but she barely acknowledged it. The apple chewies went unacknowledged. She shied away completely, and I do understand. Her mother, though, was thrilled. Later, as I watched, that baby ate a hearty lunch (no mention of her not "liking" what was served), and her mother seems to be a well-adjusted person. Too, by the time the baby got well into her meal, I saw that the puppy was squeezed under her left arm, safe and warm… oh, the rewards are always too many…

       Very early in the day and well before we served the first meal, Mr. Huggy came by the kitchen. His color is good today, and he's walking a bit more sure-footed. He was smiling. Thankfully, I had my hands in the sink, peeling boiled eggs, so the only hug he could give me was the "shoulder hug." I remarked at how much better he looks this week and asked why. He said he had rested. I hope he stays on that train.

       Joey and I had many words about the vegan-terian while I cooked and he mopped. He must deal with her 5 days a week—really hard to imagine! Too, Joey says she's living at the shelter because she left her boyfriend and had no place to go (parents not an option—what a surprise). So I was ready for that veggie heffer by the time we opened the doors! We didn't have one thing on her "can eat" list. She didn't show.

       As I said, the other two children came in from church after everyone else had left. In fact, I was leaving the dining room when they came in. "Oh! I have some goodies for you!" I told them. They gathered around the table where I opened my bag. They are greedy and picky, and their sibling rivalry is alive and well.

       Outside, I found my 6-year-old blowing bubbles for the baby. Their parents were enjoying some time to relax with the kids. So I stopped to chat. The subject of next week's lunch came up, as Joey and I hadn't been able to think of a menu. "What would you like?" I asked them.

       Young people that they are, they had ideas about ribs and potato skins, but the daddy was smart enough to inquire about the source of our food—all contributions, or ordered from a supplier? Mostly ordered, I told him, but we can't get ribs, it's hard to do baked potatoes, and what we serve for Sunday lunch must be put together in about 90 minutes. All three parents were thinking hard! "How about chili," the baby's mother asked. "You make good chili!"

       "I do make good chili, but I haven't made it here," I told her. Somebody had made good chili there recently. Let's blame Miss Lillian. Anyway, the daddy said the quiches were so good that he'd like to have those again. The other parents agreed. I guess we'll have those again next Sunday. It seems redundant to me, but those folks eat 21 meals there every week, and to have the same food twice in 63 meals is not redundant—I had to do the math to understand their request.

       Okay, there's wine to drink, and feet to prop up. That's a wrap.

FATHER'S DAY

      Naturally, a shelter would see change, as folks come and go, but lately it seems as if this shelter is in overdrive with change. Rick, the new social worker I met last week was keeping the gate this week. When I arrived, Joey was mopping and keeping company with one of the pre-release. Joey had set out everything I needed to prepare the meal we'd planned. It was so well orchestrated that I had time to pack 20 sack lunches (ew).

       I made some little kabobs yesterday, with cheese cubes, olives and cherry tomatoes. The chicken salad was heaped on a fresh lettuce leaf and flanked with kabobs. We had fruit cocktail with bananas and little marshmallows in one of the other plate sections, and in the third we had diced potatoes, buttered and parslied.

       This attractive and healthy meal went over well, but didn't make the big splash that last week's quiche did. Still, it was worth the effort, and we had enough to offer seconds. "Vegan-tarian" lady grumped that she "couldn't eat" the chicken salad, and to my surprise, she asked for several extra kabobs (with cheeses), after telling me in no uncertain terms last week that she eats ONLY vegetables. Something has added an extra 75 pounds to her grumpiness—maybe it's that vegetarian cheese.

       Children: Joey and I were looking out the back window at a parking lot where we saw two families walking toward our building. One person was pulling a suitcase on rollers. Joey was quick to tell me how disgusted he is with those people, "dragging their children around like that—might as well be sleeping under a bridge!"

       One of the families was that of last week's little girl. The other was also a young couple, and they have two children, about 4 and 6. They all came to lunch, but I was forced to scrape up goodies for the kids because I was expecting only the little girl, and I hadn't gone prepared for more.

       The family with the four babies has left. I am relieved to not have them there as watching the dysfunction was wearing on me. Word has it they have their own place now, so that's good.

       Phil was in a good mood, laughing it up with Joey, and planning to hang out with him this afternoon. Why is he there? Where did he come from? Where will he go?

       Mr. Huggy came dragging in as I was preparing to leave. He's not doing very well. His hugs are even weak. I gave him a plate to take home. Then Joey and I made plans for next week. Joey says people have been asking for "the soup." I've heard it myself. So I went through the mystery box and came up with many cans of wonderful things for our next Sunday meal. Joey wanted us to make stone soup. "We always make stone soup," I reminded him. I'll make deviled egg sandwiches to go with it… gosh, I guess our extra-large vegan-tarian will go hungry!

       So today was quiet. Preparation was simple, serving went smoothly, and when I left, positively everyone was outside sitting in the grass. Now to go find the grass for me.

GOURMET CONNOISSEURS

       Last things first: Wendy is back at her post as gate keeper, and we have a new social worker, a tall young man. When I arrived, he was in the kitchen getting coffee, Joey was not there yet, and the young man turned on the lights for me—no, I still can't find the #$^@%$^ switches.

       This was a very busy morning in the kitchen, and I had no time to ask about Mr. Huggy. I did get to speak to Phil, and I think he's depressed.

     As I prepared to leave the shelter today, I asked Joey if he had a menu in mind for next week. "Soup," he said.

       "Soup? Soup??"

       "Well, M'am, I think we need to get these people weaned off gourmet foods."

       Yes, the quiche went over so very well, that it scared Joey. Come to think of it, Miss Lillian will probably get her panties in a wad when she hears about today's meal. She's been known to accuse me of "spoiling them."

       Oh, but I did spoil them today. It was wonderful. Joey dashed about while I barked orders, and within 90 minutes I had put together 10 quiches, a pasta dish, and broccoli. We had several kinds of quiche: cheese, cheese & broccoli, cheese and bacon, cheese and sausage, and the last two were made of the leftovers: sausage, cheese, black olives...

       (Just an aside: Joey cooked the bacon in the deep fryer. Who knew? Furthermore, it was SO crispy that I didn't have to do much more than touch it to crumble it.)

       The pasta dish was made with small egg noodles slathered with pesto sauce and butter, with a generous portion of minced black olives, and a dash of salt.

       I always think of the pre-lease folks as our test group, but their tastes are truly different from those of our homeless. They began with whiny faces, frowning brows, and questions. I felt like Joey and I were having to sell the food, but pretty soon, we were handing out seconds—and thirds.

       A woman among that group requires gluten-free foods, so we prepared a plate for her with two boiled eggs, 4 sausage patties, broccoli, and grits. She eyed the quiche enviously. Finally she returned to the counter and said sadly, "I really wish I could have some." When I questioned her level of wheat intolerance, we decided that she could have the quiche if she carefully avoided the crust. So she had a big slice!

       Then the homeless came in. The group appeared to be small at first, and we still had a number of pies left! One tiny old man looked at the plates, gave me an apologetic look, and said, "I don't eat that."

       "It's quiche!" I said.

       He wasn't sold.

       "Do you like omelets?" I asked.

       Yes, he did!

       "Well," I explained, "it's just an omelet in a pie shell. It's eggs with cheese and bacon, or sausage, or broccoli…

       He brightened up and chose a flavor. Later he came for seconds. He was one of the last to leave, and made sure I understood that I had sabotaged the "diet" he was on.

       Then another wave of homeless came in, and soon those quiches were flying off the serving shelf.

      One of my favorites among the pre-release is a very large man who always get seconds, and today he was anxious to try all the flavors of quiche, but he had not touched the pasta. I asked him about it. His nose wrinkled up. "Well," he said, "I'll try it, just for you." And he took a big bite. "It's not bad." Later he had another bowlful.

       I've never seen such a rush on food in that shelter! It was exhilarating! People were asking Joey my name so they could thank me personally—Miss Joy—Mrs. Joy—Joy… thanks!

       …and Joey wants to wean them from gourmet. I don't think so!

       So the babies were not there today, and I was quite relieved to not have to deal with them, BUT, we have a new child—a little girl—age 6! I mean, of all children, that gender and age are no doubt my favorite. I gave her a Beanie Baby—then some candies and gum and an art kit. Her parents are young, well spoken, and very intelligent! Again, I don't know what brought them there, but they have no signs of drug abuse, so I'll assume they are just victims of hard times. At any rate, I surely felt like Santa himself, and there will BE no weaning!

SLINGING HASH

      Met yet another gate keeper this morning. Wendy still works there, but has taken a couple of Sundays off. Today's young woman has worked there a long time and is obviously comfortable behind that desk. I enjoyed meeting her. While she visited in the kitchen, I learned a lot about back-row and front-row Baptists. She seems well-versed on the subject and carries her share of humor.

       Joey had our eggs set out and two big pans of corned beef hash heating in the oven. When the hash was dry enough, I made little nests in it with the bottom of a catsup bottle and dropped an egg in each nest. Then the pans were returned to the oven—long enough for the eggs to be overcooked... but they were lovely to behold.

       We had a big pot of buttered spinach and a pan of canned fruit chunks. Altogether, that was lunch. The pre-release were about a dozen strong. They weren't very impressed with their gourmet lunch, taking one look and frowning. And you may remember the nasty fellow who once bellowed, "I don't eat ham and I don't eat white bread!" Remember? Joey had to make him a special sack lunch that day. Well, today, he took one look at the meat dish and announced that he didn't eat those foods!

       I could choose to let that get under my skin, but I don't. Joey told the fellow that "Miss Joy" could cook him an egg. So Miss Joy said to the man, "How do you want your egg? Over easy?"

       "No! I don't want nothin' raw!" he snapped.

       And no matter what I offered, he wasn't in the mood to be accepting. So I told him I was going to make him an omelet, and with his permission to add cheese, I went to the prep table.

       It took about 10 minutes, but, Honey, that was the prettiest omelet I've ever rustled up. It was so pretty that Joey wouldn't let me hand it to the man. He wanted to give it to him! The man refused to say thank you or to smile or show any emotion at all. He took his plate and sat down. I looked from time to time, to see how his meal was going, and when he finished he plainly told me, "That was good. Thank you!" And he smiled.

       Really, his behavior is so much like that of our 3-year-old homeless fellow. They both need cajoling; they're both unwieldy; and neither has had any good breaks lately.

       Memorable was a handsome homeless fellow whose smile lit up the room when he saw the hash. "I haven't had that in 18 months!" Later he agreed with me that, yes, the eggs were over baked, but he just didn't care. There wasn't a scrap left on his plate, and he wanted to tell me about the 12-inch cast-iron skillet he has. WHERE do you keep your cast-iron skillet while you live in a shelter? I so wanted to ask…

       My precious adolescents are gone. Their mother told Joey to thank me for the goodies I'd given the children. Neither Joey nor today's gate keeper has details of the family's moving out, but we hope they got an apartment where the kids can throw a ball and have a place to call home. I missed them awfully—and selfishly.

       Midway through the noon lunch, someone delivered a huge batch of kale to the kitchen. Joey came through the doors hugging those enormous greens like a bushel basket. Someone chided him. "Well," he shot back, "some people get roses; I get kale!" Later, he said, "Miss Joy, nobody is going to cook that kale; I'm taking it home! I love greens!"

       Phil was around. He was visiting with Joey in the dining room when I arrived, but made a hasty exit. Later, I saw him at lunch, and he ate well—no complaints.

       The four babies and their mother were there—no dad in sight—and you just hope with all your might that she's had her tubes tied, but you know she hasn't… You know what she said when I took little bowls of hash and spinach to their table? She said, "They don't like that." I asked her if they'd ever had that, and she said no. So I suggested they try it. I gave a bowl to each of the three boys. They pushed them back to me and asked for a toy. I said they could have a toy, after they ate their lunch—their one teaspoon of lunch. Later, those bowls were said to have been consumed (who knows?), and I made some turkey and cheese and milk for the kids. But really… "they don't like that?" I even TOLD her to not SAY that! …woman's got some basic stupid going on there!

       Next week, if Joey can get the supply house to send us a case of frozen pie shells, we're serving quiche! Quiche 'n sausage, quiche with ham and cheese, quiche with cheese 'n broccoli… You know, I can't remember when we last used that nasty deep fryer! Ain't it great?

FREEDOM HOLIDAY?

       A resident opened the door for me this morning. Gate Keeper's office was empty because ONE was in the kitchen with Joey! Always good to see One.

       Joey was thawing the foods we'd frozen last week for our big soup pot, and he was boiling the 4 dozen eggs I'd asked for. The soup was one of our best ever, and I made 3 dozen deviled-egg sandwiches. We served little bags of chips on the side. There were no complaints, unless you count the fluffy young woman who asked for "only" chips because, "I can't eat any of that stuff; I'm a vegan-terian."

       "What do you eat?" I asked, taking in her girth.

       "Only vegetables!" she snooted. No eggs, no cheese... gotta wonder: where are the calories coming from?

       There's a new pre-release who reminds me of my old friend Phil, so I'll call him Phil. He's tall and good looking and just as sweet as the day is long. I cannot imagine why he's there. And I believe he's gay, so being institutionalized probably takes a bitter toll on him. But he is of good cheer and helpful. Joey put him to work filling a drink bin and doing a few other chores. When Phil left, and to my surprise, Joey concurred that Phil is quite a nice fellow, "and I think he's like your friend Steve…"

        NOT to my surprise, Phil asked Joey what time he's leaving this evening, because he wanted to come back to the kitchen and hang out. Joey has that effect on the lonely ones. Sometimes he gets outright distracted by their emotional needs. That's okay—as long as I can pull lunch together on time.

       It occurred to me this morning, as our pre-release prisoners came and went for lunch, that it's a "freedom holiday." Seems like a bit of an oxymoron. We only had 5 for lunch, but the homeless made up for the count. Just when I thought we'd served the last, I'd look up and see the line growing. Still, 35 folks is not so much except that there are only two of us to feed them.

       Little people: Needy Child and his father just disappeared this week, according to Joey. Joey thinks the child was so adored by one of the head social workers that they got a home through her efforts. Who knows?

       My adorable adolescents are still there, and surely it's wearing them down. I'll miss them awfully, but they need a home now! As always, they got goodies, and I really enjoy the way they treat me—like an aunt or a grandma.

       The babies' mother and the "ends" were there, but the father and the twins were elsewhere. It was so nice not having to tip-toe around the father! I enjoyed my few minutes with the little ones and their mom. I gave the "too-quiet" 3-year-old a little panda bear. He put it over his shoulder like a baby, but he really shied away from me. On the other hand, when he was first seated and I waved to him from the serving counter, that little fellow raised his arm, smiled broadly and gave me a loud "hey!" He's got some happy in there somewhere, but apparently he's never sure when it's okay to let it out :( Joey can't even look at that child without wanting to cry because the kid looks so much like his nephew. It puts Joey in mind of how his nephew would look under those harsh circumstances.

       There's a brain living among our homeless. He wears a backpack, he's tall and handsome. He can mathspeak with the best, as One was eager to tell me. Brain is obviously down on his luck and for all we know he's never been up on it. He and One seem to share the dilemma of being over qualified.

       I didn't want to leave today. Nothing hurt. I had no pain meds. Joey had left me high and dry to prepare the soup and the deviled-egg sandwiches (and four dozen sack-lunch sandwiches), but my body didn't seem to mind. I was holding my purse, edging toward the door when Mr. Huggy came in! Still tall and striking, he came toward me slowly, measuring the pain of his steps. He hugged me. "I had a heart attack last month," he said.

       "I know. I ask about you."

       "Well, then they found something wrong with my throat," he said, holding his throat and speaking softer than usual. "I can't sing in the choir now."

       He was overheated, and I encouraged him to stay hydrated. What's a mother to do?

       Then Joey and I made plans for next Sunday—I'm so excited! We're making corned beef hash with baked eggs, and no, I don't want your opinion. It's a really tasty and pretty dish. On the side we'll have buttered spinach and mixed fruit.

       I stopped outside to ask my adolescent boy how he's been. His face said it all—can't play here, got nothing to do, sick of this place. "So how's school?" I prodded. He sank a bit lower. "Bring home any A's last week?" Nope. "Any C's?"

       "He didn't bring home anything we can talk about," his mother offered.

       "Heck," I said, "I never brought home good grades. My mother would get so mad at me, but I had a creek to play in. Who wants to do math when there are salamanders to catch?"

       A man sitting beside Mom added, "and they're a lot easier to catch!"

       Sweet people all. What would I do without them?

TO HAVE AND TO HAVE NOT

       Joey called on Thursday to say he was not able to procure the ingredients for our green bean casserole, so we scrubbed the whole menu. To my delight, he already had another menu in mind, and it sounded completely pre-fab and easy! I didn't rush in this morning.

       We were making fajitas with precooked chicken strips, shredded lettuce, diced tomatoes, shredded cheese, chopped onions, and sour cream. The beauty of it was that the chicken was already heating in the oven, and a pre-release fellow was happy to take care of all of the slicing and dicing!

       We were 36 sack lunches short… so I started on those. When serving time approached, I threw the 72 bagged sandwiches in the fridge, to sack later.

       Only a dozen or so pre-release came—a normal number for them. The picky 300 pounder was front and center. This is her last Sunday at the shelter (!) so I watched her more intensely than usual. She lifted her fajita on one side, picked out all the chicken and put it under the tortilla. Then she moved all the lettuce and tomato away from the bread and meat. "Can I have some more cheese?" she asked. I looked up, ready to help as best I could. "I don't eat lettuce and tomato," she snarled, as if I had been remiss in meeting her needs.

       So I gave her all the cheese she wanted, after she decided exactly where on the plate I should put it. She so obviously does not eat lettuce and tomatoes—OR green beans.

       I refer to this woman as "Angry Woman," not to be confused with "Perpetually Angry Woman," who left some time ago. Joey thinks it's neat that we have special names for some of our clients—he reminded me of Angry Child today and asked if I thought our little blonde fellow might be another Angry Child. I said I didn't think he was angry, but he never hesitates to ASK for more and more of anything I give him. "Needy Child," Joey dubbed him. And so he is. Today, the little darling wanted his "drawing kit" before lunch, and when I gave it to him after lunch, he wanted to know if I had more. One of his drawings is posted on Wendy's gate-keeper window. The kid takes a lot of pride in his work. I do wish that I could fulfill his every drawing desire. Maybe I should try harder; it's just that we have so many children now, and it wouldn't be fair to give one more than another. I told the child, "No. I bring only one each week; I have to buy those."

       His face was blank, as if he thinks I'm a millionaire, buying things is a non-event for me, and he simply could not fill in the blanks. His father seems to have much the same attitude, but perhaps not nearly the talent. I do hurt for both of them.

       My adolescent siblings were present and received the usual goodies. I think they are bored with these things, and I don't blame them, but they are gracious, and so is their mother.

       The babies. Oh, the babies. Don't you just hate it when a story won't wind around in the direction you want it to? When Joey called the other day about our menu, we got into a long discussion of the babies. Joey thinks their father hates him. I don't doubt Joey's diagnosis—he's awfully sensitive and caring; so, when his sensitivity and caring are returned with resentment, he feels it.

       Last week, I made an effort to reach out to the 3-year-old with a smile and some hey-there words, but the child stood too solemnly and without response. "He's like that all the time," his mother complained. Her announcement and the tone of her voice said clearly that she had nothing good to say about this tiny boy—and worse—no hope that HE could change.

       Today I went prepared to observe carefully. Yes, the father is controlling. More than once, plaintive cries drifted back to the kitchen from the dining room. I waited and watched. When the moment seemed perfect, I asked the father if I could give the children some goodies. He nodded. So I took coloring book pages, 4 new crayons, and little Beanie Babies to the twins. I gave the baby girl a McDonald's toddler toy, and for the 3-year-old I had an art kit. It's a black velvet board with white space. The picture is of a Disney Pixar car, and there are four little markers with which to color in the car. I told the child that his siblings were "too little" for this, but that he could have it because he is big. I encouraged him to enjoy coloring in the Tow Mater car. He looked at me, and I expected a blank or even sad expression, but I saw hope. I know, it's fleeting, but I thank him for that… big, rich person that I am… I needed that from the child.

       Broccoli. We had a TON of fresh broccoli to "deal with" today. It was not on the lunch OR the dinner menu. Our volunteer pre-release fellow cut it up, and I offered bowls of it to all takers (to eat with dressing). Not nearly enough of it went away. Joey put some of it in his salad pan for dinner, and I invented a rice, cheese, broccoli casserole for the rest. That meant actually making the cheese sauce, steaming the rice, and assembling the casserole. I was an hour late getting off my feet, but we'll live.

       Before leaving, I got Joey started on assembling the sack lunches from all those refrigerated sandwiches. We didn't have any little baggies of chips, so we were obliged to open huge bags of chips and boxes of cheese crackers, and make "little baggies" of chips. Sometimes, a sack lunch has more love in it than you might imagine.

       Mr. Huggy has returned to work, but with orders to not exert himself. I haven't seen him, but reports are upbeat.

       Joey heard that Angel is not doing well out on his own. I will miss Angel forever. Joey and I agree that some sort of care facility might be good for him, but who ever heard of such a thing for old, worn out, ex-prisoner alcoholics? The man is sick; why should he get better treatment that those who are evil…

       It was very quiet when I left after 1 o'clock. Wendy has a headache; the family room appeared deserted; the front lobby held one lone male; and even the outside had only the babies' father, sitting low with his head in his hands. It's a beautiful day—just perfect in every way—unless you live in a shelter, out of necessity or by assignment. It was several minutes before my foot cramp settled down, my back pain adjusted to being seated and I felt road worthy, but again I drove away feeling guilty.

ANOTHER MOTHER'S DAY AT THE SHELTER

       This was my third Mother's Day at the shelter. Oddly, it was not observed with as much enthusiasm as in past years—perhaps because it's raining a good lick, and that always puts a pall on things.

      Joey called last night to tell me he couldn't remember what we had planned for lunch today… so I reminded him: hamburgers (he had those), baked beans (he'd just served those), cole slaw (he forgot to order that), and chips (oops). So we mulled it over and came up with pinto beans, hamburgers, and cole slaw (that I would bring)—period.

       The butterscotch pudding idea I had last week really was too much to consider—all things considered—so I took ice cream sandwiches.

       When I arrived, Joey's pot of pintos was bubbling away. He'd cooked them from scratch! It was his first time and mine too, except he'd gone in very early to get them started. He had added a chunk of spicy jerk turkey in lieu of ham. As time passed, he added water and said Miss Lillian puts flour in hers to make the juice thick. So we did that. Those beans were so fine.

       The burgers cooked in the oven, and I put five bags of angel hair slaw in a huge bowl, with celery seed, ranch dressing, and dill pickle juice. Then we set up a little assembly line at the counter, so we wouldn't have to trek all over the kitchen for the serving.

       Our young college-educated community service worker had come in yesterday and filled the fridge with sack lunches. I'm sure I'll miss his efforts… if he ever finishes his sentence. Joey thinks the fellow is really smart, but I reminded him that smart and stupid sometimes reside in the same body.

       The country oldies were especially fine today—Joey mentioned several that he'd like to have, and we'll be going online later to see the list of songs played, as he was racking his brain for titles. It's hard to focus on any one thing in the midst of so much organized chaos.

       Our pre-release group was just middlin' today—maybe 10. Paul Bunyan was in good humor, though for him that's never even close to giddy. I'm just happy to see a vague smile on his face. And the 300 pounder was in good spirits too. No, she did not want a sugar-free ice cream sandwich; she wanted the full sugar fix. She also wanted to suggest a menu to Joey: pinto beans, corn bread, and fried potatoes.

       "Who would cut up the potatoes?" Joey asked her.

       "Don't you have a slicer?" she pressed.

       "Yes, but somebody would have to use it," Joey informed her.

       I don't know where she thinks she's living, but it's not Waffle House.

       Our homeless residents numbered about 25 or 30. The 11-year-old boy was at church, so I gave his art kit and goodies to his father. The other two adolescents came to the counter and the boy SAID, "We came to get our treats." Boy, is he growing up! And, trust me, as I told him, "You gave grown at least 4 inches since you came here!" He didn't think so, but that's just because he's looking out and I'm looking in.

       Now about those four pre-schoolers. Last week I was told they were 2, 2, 4, and 6. I prepared my goody bag for those ages. This morning, Joey said the youngest was just a baby (8 months to 1 year). Wendy (our new gate keeper) said they were 1, 3, 3, 5... something like that. Neither of those lists was correct. The babies are 1, 2, 2, and 3. They have the same mother, and there is a caring man with them who I hope is their father. I quickly made a plate of chipped turkey and cheese for the infant, and later milk for all of them. The three older ones ate heartily from the foods we served everyone.

       When most of the residents had finished and left, the family of babies was still at table. I took a baggie with 6 crayons to them, along with 6 pages from a coloring book. Before any of those things had been passed to them from their father, one of the 2-year-olds looked up brightly and said, "Thank you!" And I gave each of them an apple fruit snack. Dad wanted one too, so I passed those out to everyone (Miss Lillian missed it!). The baby got a Beanie Baby turtle. She loved it.

       At one point, she cried briefly—babies do that. Otherwise, that whole family was quiet and almost too perfect. The twins and their 3-year-old brother sat in those adult-size chairs at that adult-size table and colored enthusiastically. "I like this blue one!" a 2-year-old told me, holding up his crayon. "And I like this yellow one!" his twin said. They KNOW their colors… their language skills and manners are out there!

       To my surprise, Dad was coloring too! Now I feel bad because I, too, love to color. It's a feel-good activity. I should have left them the whole box of crayons and the whole coloring book. Next week I'll do that. Dang.

       One of the little guys brought me his artwork—an offering. I gave it back and encouraged him to color more and bring it again next week. He seemed to like the idea.

       I had to tell the parents, "Somebody has put a lot of effort into these children, and it shows."

       "Thank you!" Dad said.

       "No, thank you," I returned.

       Really—if they stay the course, these parents will launch four productive, creative, sensitive people into the world. What more could one ask?

       So… there was news of Mr. Huggy today: he had another heart attack and is again in hospital. I thought medical science had a better handle on heart attacks than that… Send prayers.

       When I left, my back and legs were hurting, so I didn't linger, and Joey and I don't have a plan for next week. As I passed by the family room on my way out, I saw one of the little ones, running in a circle, "flying" his page from the coloring book. Happy Mother's Day.