The Sally

I had called ahead and was told to come in at 9 a.m. but we arrived early.  Here, there were no queues.  We sat in the car and awaited signs of life.

About a quarter of nine, the side door was flung open and three women proceeded to lounge in the doorway.  Cigarettes came out and smoke rose as they chatted.  Initially, I thought that perhaps they had come out to set up tables for the incoming hordes.  Apparently, however, they were just sharing a few butts before clocking in.

I noticed one man waiting near the front entrance, and at two minutes to nine, I joined him.  “Good morning,” I greeted him and was pleased to find him a friendly chap.  He perched on the edge of a planter and I leaned against the building’s stucco façade as he told me his story.

He’s had a bad month, he confessed as he lit up a cigarette.  He explained that he has cancer, is homeless and has been mired in the mess of red tape that is the benefits system.  I’m sorry to hear that, I responded.  I never know what to say when people tell me how things really are.  Expressing regret or offering sympathy somehow seems so lame in the face of troubles on such a huge scale that I cannot begin to imagine the feel of the experience.  Placed in such perspective, my own problems seem minuscule indeed by comparison.

Despite everything he is going through, this gentleman maintained a positive attitude.  (You’re trying to teach me a lesson today, Lord, now aren’t you?)  Things will improve on the first of July, my companion assured me, which is when he expects to receive his very first Social Security check.  Disability and widower’s benefits, he explained.

When checking up on one of our relatives the other day, she texted us back to say that she feels frustrated, confused, exhausted and alone, and that tomorrow promises only more of the same.  I think she needs to meet this man who I encountered at the door of the Salvation Army first thing on a Monday morning.

I asked the guy what kind of food he’s been able to get here.  Oh, peanut butter and jelly, he told me — bread, cans of beans and stuff.  Rice, although he has no means of cooking it.  I told him that I was glad about the bread.  “We need bread,” I told him, but before I could describe the debacle of picking up pounds of expired bread products and then having to give it all way when our freezer broke down, he stood up, tried the door and found that it had been unlocked.  He held the door open for me.

“Let me follow you,” I protested.  “I don’t know where I’m going.”

“Neither do I,” he called over his shoulder, barreling straight down the main corridor as if he had been here a hundred times.  I watched an employee take him into an office.  A second employee popped out of an office on the opposite side of the hall and asked how she could help me.  I explained that I had called in advance about the food distribution; she pointed to where I should wait.  I entered an empty conference room with a brochure rack containing a few leaflets about SNAP benefits, the Affordable Care Act.  Notices on the walls:  “We may refuse service to anyone!”  I sat down at a dirty table that appeared to have been marked up by countless crayons over the years.  Streaks of red, green, purple.  Ghosts of an endless stream of desperate mothers trying to keep their children occupied for a few minutes as they await the intake worker’s embarrassing questions and, eventually, their bag of peanut butter, jelly and bread.

An employee appeared in the doorway to retrieve me and I stepped into her office a few doors down.  It was a small office, neatly kept, with a blue carpet that must have been cleaned recently.  Faux wood grain desk, nearly empty but for a PC with a 17-inch monitor.  Not unlike the offices I occupied myself until not too long ago.

The worker was friendly, if a bit annoyed that I didn’t have my Social Security card with me.  I presented by driver’s license and my wife’s, recited our Social Security numbers.  She couldn’t verify them without Social Security cards, she informed me.  It’s okay for today, but if I ever come back, I needed to have our cards with me.  She handed me a Post-It note marked with the number 2 (food for two people) and sent me outside to the food pantry that opened onto the parking lot.  We probably could have obtained more food had I admitted that we are living with my mother-in-law, but I didn’t think it worth the effort.  After all, I didn’t have her Social Security card with me.

“Rice?” the employee asked me as he filled a paper bag with items from shelves in a closet-sized room while I stood in the doorway.

“Sure!” I said cheerily.  “We’ll be happy to eat whatever we get.”

“Oh, well, some people don’t like rice,” he said by way of explanation.  Yeah, I thought, and some are homeless and have no way of cooking it.

He thrust the full bag at me, loaf of Wonder Bread balanced on top, along with a list of area churches to which we could go for more food as we need it.  I thanked him and walked off to the car.  I really appreciated the list, particularly since the intake worker warned me that I am not to return to the Sally for at least four months.  My wife astutely quipped that four months is an awfully long time to go on one paper bag of groceries.

Running through the list, I noticed a church that I had not heard of and that appeared to be nearby.  We Googled directions and headed over there.

The place was a huge Catholic church and school that was comprised of multiple buildings.  We drove around through a couple of parking lots until we found someone to direct us.  The proper entrance turned out to require walking up a series of rickety metal ramps that appeared to have been installed for the benefit of wheelchair users.  As they clanged loudly with each step I took, I held the handrail and prayed that the ramp wouldn’t collapse beneath my feet.

There were forms to fill out.  There always are.  How much monthly income do you earn?  Zero.  How much monthly income does your wife earn?  Zero.  Who’s this other person you live with?  My mother-in-law.  And she has no income either?  She has Social Security.  Oh, well, that requires filling out another paper.  I had to text Pastor Mom for the specific information they wanted.

Two workers tag teamed me at the Catholic church food pantry.  Both of them had a bit of an attitude, but the woman was the worst of the two.  She spoke loudly and repeatedly interrupted me.  I wondered if she hailed from my native New York City.  “Hey, I’m from da Bronx, ya hee-yuh?” I wanted to say so badly.  But when you’re asking for charity, you keep your mouth shut.

Through an open door, I could see another worker unloading boxes of food onto already groaning shelves.  On the other side of the front counter were clothing bins marked for various sizes, stuffed with pants, shirts, blouses.  A long sign stretched across the wall behind the counter — a paraphrase of Matthew 25:35.  “For I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was naked and you clothed me.”  The part about clothing was beginning to come loose from the wall, with one edge hanging off.

The Book of Matthew notwithstanding, we received no food from this church today.  Apparently, all the Catholic churches in the area are connected.  A quick phone call revealed that we had already received food from Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard earlier in the month.  We aren’t eligible again until July.

Ms. Loudmouth handed me a list of other food distribution points, boldly circling some items and underlining others three and four times by way of emphasis.  I explained that she is misinformed, that there is no food to be had at the food bank, that they are opening their warehouse to charitable organizations only, not to individuals.  Ms. L took offense that I contradicted her and had a staff member call the food bank immediately.  She returned triumphantly, indicating that her information had been confirmed.  “You’re saying the wrong thing!” she yelled.  “Don’t say ‘food.’  Say ‘brown bag!’  You have to say ‘brown bag!’”

My, my, apparently you have to know the secret password to obtain a bag of charity food these days.

Loudmouth suggested that I go to the Salvation Army.  I think she really wanted to tell me to go someplace else, but hey, there are some things you can’t say at a church.

I nearly told her that we had already been to the Sally today, but I stopped myself just in time.  I could see this was going nowhere.  Ms. L’s paper was now marked up to within an inch of its sorry life.  It looked like it had fallen into the hands of a maniacal toddler.  Her final sendoff was a recommendation that I go right back to the food bank and then head back to my own town where a church was offering a free lunch today.

We took the first part of Loudmouth’s advice and drove back over to the bi-county food bank.  I had called them on Friday for information after I heard rumors from my fellow queuers that there were churches where we can get food almost anytime.  This one does Mondays and Wednesdays!  That one does Tuesdays and Thursdays!

On the phone last week, the food bank volunteer confirmed that I could get no food there and suggested that I call the Salvation Army.  The Sally rebuffed me, suggesting that I call back the food bank.  “They’re the ones distributing the drought relief!”  I was informed.  “Anyone who’s affected by the drought can get food from them.  That’s all of us!  Look how the drought is raising the prices of food!”  I asked for a list of local churches distributing food.

We’re a church!” she informed me.  “Oh, I didn’t know,” I admitted.  “A lot of people don’t know,” she told me.

Considering that the Salvation Army is a church, I fully expected to have to sit through a church service this morning before I would be provided with any food.  Not at all.  I was in and out of there with a bag of food in just a few minutes.  The Catholic church is what took me forever and from whence I left empty-handed.

Back at the food bank, I was hoping that Barbara, the worker who helped me last time, would be around.  She wasn’t, and I ended up chatting with Shirley.  I told her that I needed a blue card so that I could attend the county and USDA food distributions.  They were still out of cards, she told me.  I then explained that I had been given a handwritten temporary card last time and that it had been confiscated at the “brown bag” food distribution.  Oh, don’t worry, she assured me, I’m on the list now.

The importance of being on “the list.”  The things you learn when you’re poor.

I ended up having a lengthy chat with Shirley, during which we discussed our respective families and she very kindly clued me in on the food programs for which my niece and her baby would be eligible.  Wednesday turns out to be the day to do this.  I promised to do my best to appear with my niece next Wednesday.  This Wednesday I have a job interview out of town, I explained.

Among the reasons that we need to do everything we can to stretch our remaining savings is the cost of traveling to job interviews.  Even if we take our own food, there is the cost of the hotel and goodness knows how many tanks of gas to get there and back.

Today, I received an email regarding a job I had applied for some time ago.  I had passed the initial screening, I was informed, and have been invited to come to Denver to sit for a two-hour written examination.  Those who score highest on the test will be invited back for interviews.  Well, we cannot afford to make the 2,200 mile round-trip to Denver even once, much less twice.  So I had to cross that job off my list, my hope for a phone interview dashed.

So tomorrow we head for a job interview in Oregon.  Although only 250 miles away, it’s still going to be an expensive trip.  But it’s a necessary expense.  After all, I’d much rather be working than standing in endless food lines.

Giveaway Bread

food box

On Friday, the man ahead of me in the food line began regaling a fellow queuer with stories of the local food bank’s largesse the day before.  “They were giving out huge packages of ribs and even hamburger!” he reported.  Having been there, I felt sufficiently knowledgeable to jump into the conversation.  I saw those frozen pork ribs, I said, but none were offered to me.  I guess I don’t have a big enough family.  I didn’t see any hamburger, though, I added.  Oh, you must have gotten one of those little packages of sausages then, he replied.  Actually, no, I responded.  We got a frozen chicken instead.

I haven’t seen much sharing of food at the government and charitable food distributions I’ve been attending.  Considering the warnings printed on the food boxes, I can only imagine that the powers that be wouldn’t look too kindly on recipients trading their cans of carrots for frijoles or their chicken for beef like third graders swapping an egg salad sandwich for a PB&J.  But what does get shared is even more valuable than the food itself:  Information.

It’s not always the easiest thing to learn where and when to go stand on line and what you’re likely to get if you do.  I received my initial information from the bi-county food bank, but there are things they don’t tell you.  And probably a few things they don’t even know.  Keeping your ears open for snippets of conversation while you’re standing in line for hours is where you get the real skinny, the underground intel.

And so it was that, while waiting for the trucks to arrive at the USDA food distribution, I overheard a conversation about yet another handout that was to occur that very day, at 5 p.m. at a local church.  When I got home, I mentioned the name of the church and asked Pastor Mom whether she had ever heard of it.  She had, but I really wasn’t sure that I had gotten the name right.  Frankly, I didn’t trust myself very much on this one.  Who gives away food on a Friday evening?

I looked up the church online and tried calling them several times.  No answer.  Leave a message for the pastor.  Beep!

As the location is only about two miles from home, my wife suggested that it might be worthwhile to go over there and see whether anything was going on.  When we arrived, we could see that some type of line was forming.  I got on the end of it and soon learned that this was the bread line.  Not in the traditional sense, as in a bread line where the poor can receive a hot meal, but the bread line for real — the place where they hand out, well, bread.

My mother always taught me that bread was filler, the way to extend a home-cooked meal cheaply and the way that restaurants fill you up so that they can serve smaller entrée portions.  Well, bread may be cheap, but it’s not free.  You may line up for free peanut butter, free rice and free cans of beans, but you don’t often see bread on that menu.  Unless you come here, that is.

This place was bread heaven!  And fast, too.  Walking down a path from the parking lot to the side entrance of the church, I found the line moving right along.  Within five minutes, I had reached the worker standing in the doorway.  He handed me a tied-up plastic bag containing I knew not what (it turned out to be cartons of yogurt), then reached back and loaded up my arms with a package of bite-size strudel and another of glazed donuts.  I knew my wife would be happy.  She has been craving donuts lately.

I noticed that some of the people ahead of me had walked away with small sheet cakes covered in white frosting.  I suppose the blank tops of those cakes had been destined for the Bakery Department to pipe “Happy Birthday Irma” onto in pink and green script, but never made it that far.

I thanked the church volunteer and began walking back to the car when another helpful worker called out to me.  Hey, he said, go over to the tables and get some bread!  What I thought was a staging area for the workers turned out to be tables loaded down with items that were free for the taking.  With my arms already full, I had to call for backup.

I texted my wife, who walked over from the car and relieved me of my packages.  I then began to peruse the contents of the many long tables set out on the grass toward the rear of the church.  A few of them were staffed, but most were not.

At one end were boxes of bananas.  Just like the bananas at all the other food distributions, these were brownish.  Pass.  I’m in no position to be picky, but neither my wife nor I can tolerate mushy bananas.

At the bread tables, I picked up a package of 24 dinner rolls, another of 24 sandwich rolls, some pita bread, a bag containing two long loaves of soft French bread, a package of six bagels and a loaf of wheat bread.  Other than at a supermarket, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many bread products in one place.  I was able to pick and choose, checking the ingredients for items that contained neither eggs nor dairy.  I found plenty that fit the bill.

So what’s the catch?  This was not day-old bread.  This was days old bread.  Most of it appeared to be castoffs from Save Mart and FoodMaxx.  The freshest items were four days past their expiration dates.  The majority of the bread, however, was eleven days past expiration.  And there were even a few items that were three to four weeks past expiration.  I checked everything for mold and found none, testament to the quantity of deadly poisons, er, “preservatives” that the manufacturers use.

Still, I knew that at this stage, my bread haul would likely turn green faster than I could say “calcium propionate” if I didn’t get it into the freezer post haste.  The small freezer attached to the refrigerator in the parsonage doesn’t hold much and was already pretty full, thanks to the turkey and chicken we had received earlier in the week.  There is another combination refrigerator-freezer out in the church fellowship hall, and that’s where we deposited most of the bread that we brought home.

By unfortunate happenstance, the fellowship hall refrigerator-freezer broke down the very next day.  Everything started to thaw.  The meat that was out there we brought back to the parsonage and stuffed into our kitchen freezer.  We began the process of giving most of the bread away.  What remained went in the trash.

I held onto the two loaves of French bread, some of which I ate with margarine and some of which I turned into sandwiches over the weekend.  My wife and Pastor Mom tried small slices, but didn’t like it at all.  Well, what can I say?  Giveaway bread is not going to be fresh.  It is what it is and I plan to continue eating it until it is gone or the mold spots begin to appear, whichever comes first.

Oh, and we ended up throwing away the glazed donuts.  My wife reports that they were totally stale.

 

The Kindness of Strangers

watermelon

The little wiener dog hopped merrily up the church steps and lay down at my feet.  Its long leash trailing down the stairs, the dachshund looked up at me with pleading eyes and a Mona Lisa half-smile.  I might have bent over to rub its belly had not a volunteer worker from the Catholic Ladies’ Relief stepped out of the church vestibule at that very moment to thrust a clipboard into my hand.

I had to sign for the food boxes I was about to receive, listing my address and the number of people in my family.  My eyes fell upon the line above, and I noticed that the last visitor had indicated his address as “Homeless.”

That’s when he came around the corner to retrieve his dog.  Grabbing the leash, he called his canine partner by name, although I couldn’t understand the disembodied syllables.  He was likely not much older than I, although he hadn’t a tooth in his mouth save a straggler or two.  The story of how the remainder had escaped was burrowed in the deep lines and creases of his grizzled face.  Shirtless as well as homeless, I could tell he had had a hard life.  He looped the leash around one of the handlebars of his bicycle and pedaled off.  As he disappeared back around the corner, I noticed his two food boxes, fifty pounds of aluminum cans, stacked in a wire basket attached to the back of the bike.

That was Monday, four days ago, but I think of the gentleman and his dog as I wait in yet another early morning food distribution line.  I’m just a mile or two from the freeway and the shopping centers, but the wide swath of green athletic field on the other side of the chain link fence makes me feel as if I’m out in the country.  Across the street is a low-income apartment complex, likely infested with vermin, while up the road is a similarly afflicted SRO motel where Pastor Mom visited a parishioner yesterday.  The woman needed a ride to her previous place of residence to retrieve her clothes.  She had lived there prior to her recent stint in the state mental hospital.  Tomorrow we will go see her again, bringing along Kotex, headache pills and a box of clothes culled from the closets and bureaus of my wife and my mother-in-law.  On the way, we will stop at the Burger King drive-through to bring her some food from the dollar menu.

SRO

But for now it’s Friday and all of us waiting in line on this grassy strip between the parking lot and the fence outside the American Legion hall are grateful to be able to obtain some free food, maybe even meat and fruit, before the start of the weekend.  We are the beneficiaries of yet another U.S. Department of Agriculture distribution of foodstuffs to the poorest among us.

Pain and suffering is all around us, if only we would choose to see.  It is there in the faces, just beyond the wan smiles and the mumbled “good morning”s.  There are women and men, twentysomethings and senior citizens, some neatly dressed in sporty attire, others in filthy t-shirts and ratty old cutoffs.  Some have been here dozens of times before; others, like myself, are first-timers.  All of our stories are different, and all of them are the same.  Gravity has dropped us to the bottom of the heap and tamped us down firmly.  Illness, unemployment and family troubles are written in bold somewhere on the pages of our lives.  Some of us are on fixed incomes; some of us receive $23 in Food Stamps each month.  Some of us are mired in bureaucratic red tape, the holy grail of a Social Security disability check forever just out of reach.  Some of us are homeless now or were at one time; some of us hang on to the roofs over our heads by our fingernails.  Some of us live month to month, or week to week, or meal to meal.  We dodge bill collectors and eviction notices and soothe our children, telling them it will all turn out alright.  We may don a mask of stony stoicism that allows us to do what we have to do to feed our families.  Just ask, however, and we will tell you all about what we’re going through.  We have nothing to hide.

After yesterday’s debacle at the county “brown bag” food distribution, I have learned a thing or two.  This time, I come prepared.  I show up early, at 7:30 am.  Already, all the parking spaces are taken.  I pull up onto the grass next to a dirty red pickup that is unlikely to pass a smog test.  About fifteen people are already in line.  One group, apparently friends, converse animatedly.  I greet them, mentioning that the food bank sent me.  “The end of the line is over there,” a man among the group gruffly informs me.  “Then to the end of the line I shall go!” I reply as cheerily as I can at this ungodly hour of the morning.

My supplies consist of a folding chair and a Walmart bag containing a bottle of water and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  I have no idea whether I’ll be here for half an hour or until the middle of the afternoon.  As Barbara from the food bank reminded me yesterday, “the truck gets there when it gets there.”  I take her warning to heart.

Retreating to the end of the line, I open my metal chair and sit down.  In front of me, a man and woman chat amiably about the relative merits of Ford trucks.  I wave hello, take out my phone and attempt to mind my own business.  About fifteen minutes pass and my neighbors each produce cigarettes and proceed to smoke.  I am grateful that they have the courtesy to blow the smoke away from me.  Soon, the man leaves the line, excusing himself by saying that he must sit down.

Without her partner in conversation, the woman begins chatting with me in short spurts interspersed with long periods of silence.  I am unable to determine her age; she could be forty-five or sixty-five.  She apologizes for her dirty t-shirt.  No need, I assure her.  I learn that she has two sons in college in Reno and that she cannot seem to convince them to take part-time jobs for minimum wage to help defray their expenses.  She says she can’t afford the petrol to get up there to see them much.  After a while, she mentions that her husband, who used to be a ranch cook, has been disabled and out of work for some time and was just recently diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  I tell her that I was laid off from work nearly nine months ago and that I have applied for 130 jobs without success.

Nearly an hour after I join the conga line, the food truck arrives.  “There’s usually two,” my new friend informs me.  And sure enough, five minutes later, truck number two shows up.  Tables are set up and the slow process of unloading the trucks commences.  Box after box is handed down from the trucks while workers hurriedly make up food bags.  About ten more people have queued up behind me.

At 9:00, the line begins to slowly creep ahead.  The chatty woman in front of me unfolds a miniature grocery cart on wheels.  I stand up, drag my chair two steps forward and sit down again.  I repeat this process about a dozen times before I approach the steps to the side entrance of the American Legion hall and I fold up my chair and lean it against my leg.  Meanwhile, I have confided to my friend that I anticipate difficulty in carrying whatever food I am given to my car since I already have a heavy chair and a bag with me.  “Stick with me,” she says, assuring me that she can squeeze the food bags for both of us into her little cart.

I climb the two steps into the foyer, noting the rest rooms I pass on my way into the main hall.  I reach a table staffed by three workers, where I engage in the usual routine:  Print your name, sign, list your address and the number in your family.  But I notice an extra question on the form this time:  Is this your first time here this month?  “This is my first time here ever!” I assure the clerk.  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that,” she tells me, handing me a food ticket.

The line moves through the building to an exit door on the other side, then down two more steps to the food distribution tables.  To my surprise, I am handed a frozen turkey.  At the next table, I receive a paper bag filled with canned goods, then an 18 pack of eggs.  Noticing a bin of bananas, I reach out to take a few and am rebuffed.  Only the workers are allowed to touch the foodstuffs.  Bags of produce have already been prepared (a few potatoes, a bell pepper, a large beefsteak tomato, some brown bananas); I may have one or choose a watermelon instead.

A watermelon!  Imagine that!  My wife loves watermelon and I am rather a fan thereof myself.  As I ask for the melon, a worker quickly grabs back the produce bag that she had thrust into my friend’s rolling basket.  At the last table, I hand in my ticket.  True to her word, my friend has arranged all of our food into her cart, tucking the two packages of eggs into the sides (only two of the eighteen eggs in my package end up breaking) and balancing the two watermelons on top.  At each table, she tells the worker “I’ll take hers, too.”  Although I have referred to my wife several times, mentioning that she is at home with the flu today, my friend appears to be confused about my gender.

She asks me where I am parked and we begin the trek back across the parking lot.  I notice that about fifty people are now in line for food.  Arriving at my car, my friend helps me unload the bags into the rear hatch.  I thank her over and over again.  I relate that I am overwhelmed by her generosity.  She tries to hug me, which devolves into us giving each other a couple of pats on the back, somewhat embarrassedly.  My gratitude notwithstanding, I have always been horrible at navigating social situations.

When my wife was with me at the brown bag food distribution yesterday, she referred to the woman who allowed me to briefly sit in her wheelchair as my “girlfriend.”  “It’s good to have girlfriends,” was Pastor Mom’s pithy response.

Like Blanche DuBois in Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, I will always be grateful for the kindness of strangers.

 

Brown Bag

queue

I hate the wind.

Windy days make it difficult for me to breathe, give me pressure headaches, kick my allergies into high gear and set me on a direct course for a panic attack.

This morning, the weather report put the wind speed at 17 miles per hour.  Not exactly a hurricane, but just enough to drive me crazy.  So I went outdoors and stood in the county food distribution line for two hours.

My wife, God bless her, drove me over there and waited in the car even though the poor thing is coming down with the flu.  We arrived at Calvary Church at 8:30, right on time.  Neither of us knew what to expect, but we figured there’d be a lot of people queued up because this is the one time of the month that the “brown bag” food distribution comes to our little town.  You can still get food at other times of the month, but you need a car or a bus pass to get to nearby towns up the freeway.

At the food bank last week, I asked whether “brown bag” meant that you got a brown bag lunch.  Uh, no.  It means that, instead of getting just a box filled with “emergency” canned goods (every week is a food emergency for many of us), you get a brown grocery bag packed with things like meat and fresh veggies.  No wonder this particular food distribution is so popular.

We found about 25 people already in line, with no food truck in sight.  We had been sitting in the car for about half an hour when we saw the truck pull around the corner at the other end of the strip mall.  Another ten to fifteen people had joined the line, which now ended right where we were parked.  About 9:15, the Dial-A-Ride bus pulled up.  It was full, so I jumped out of the car and got in line ahead of what I was sure would be a crowd.

The SNAP (Food Stamps) people set up a table about halfway down the line.  Their workers wore blue blazers, one of which screamed out the message “We love fruits and veggies!”

We waited.  And waited.  And waited.  The sun rose in the sky and beat down on us while the wind whipped about.  One woman complained about it being winter in June.

I stood in line for an hour before it began to move at all.  I couldn’t tell what was going on, as the truck was far away and out of sight around a corner.

Someone stank like poop.  Now, I knew it couldn’t possibly be me.  Um, could it?  Nah.  I took a hot shower before coming out for this dog and pony show.

The woman in line in front of me was reminiscent of some people I used to know in Boston.  She liked to grin a lot, displaying the gaps in her teeth like a jack o’lantern.  The guy in line behind me refused to stay in place, instead standing right next to me for two hours as if he were my best buddy.  He was probably a few years older than I am, wearing a black T-shirt featuring the image of a gun and the words “Stars and Stripes” on the sleeve.  He sported a little salt-and-pepper beard and mustache, with tufts of gray and black hair escaping the back of his cap like a tiny pony tail.  Salt ‘N Pepa struck up a conversation with Jack O’, telling stories about his Navy days stationed at Pascagoula and how he eventually transferred out to California.

I was woefully unprepared for this.  I had not worn a hat nor had I brought a folding chair with me nor had I carried so much as a bottle of water.  I may as well have had the word “newbie” tattooed on my backside.

To make matters worse, I hadn’t eaten anything before coming even though I had taken my pills, a no-no in itself.  My stomach was rumbling and revolting and begging for a rest room.  This is what I get for eating those damned canned kidney beans that they handed out at the Welfare office on Friday.

An hour in, the line began to creep forward, half an inch at a time.  There were so many people ahead of me and such a long way to the truck that I considered quitting.  Was this really worth it to get more peanut butter and diarrhea-inducing canned beans?  I overheard a snippet of conversation from farther down the line; apparently they have bread, bananas and potatoes today.  Then my wife texted me that she saw the first people walking to their cars with their food bags, including sacks of potatoes.  Okay, so I’ll try to stick it out.  We need potatoes.

Not to whine, but I have bad knees, a bad back, diabetes and hypertension.  I can’t stand on my feet for long periods of time.  And I take medication that bears the warning to avoid prolonged exposure to the sun.  Each time the line moved, I looked forward to reaching the next pole so that I could lean for a few minutes.  But then we ran out of poles and out of overhang and I was in the open again.

After about 90 minutes on line, my feet were burning, my back was killing me and I didn’t think my knees could hold up anymore.  I bent over, sticking out my rear end so that I could relieve my back a little by leaning my hands on my knees.  The people behind me immediately became concerned that I was about to keel over.  One woman said she had a camp chair with her and asked if I wanted to sit down.  I said yes, that would be wonderful, and she removed the chair from its pouch and unrolled it.  As she set it up, it became apparent to me that the chair was appropriate for someone about half my size.  “Is this going to hold a big guy like me?” I asked, as visions of flipping the thing over and landing on my butt raced through my mind.  She agreed that this might not work and began to roll the chair back up.

At that point, another woman jumped out of her electric wheelchair and asked me to sit.  Incredulous, I asked whether she was sure.  She told me that she’d be fine as long as she could stand in one place.  I gratefully sat down in the wheelchair, feeling stupid and relieved at the same time.

And then the line started to move forward.  I, however, did not, creating a bit of a gap in front of me.  When the owner of the wheelchair motioned me forward, I sheepishly admitted to having no idea how to work the controls.  She turned on the power and showed me where the switch was.  Terribly unskilled in navigating the wheelchair, I jerked forward in fits and starts.

food truck

A few minutes of blessed relief later, we reached the end of the pavement and the sign-in table.  Jumping out of the wheelchair and thanking its owner profusely, I showed my handwritten note from the food bank, telling them that I didn’t have a blue card because they had run out.  Fortunately, Barbara from the food bank was there and vouched for me.  I stepped off into the gravel parking lot, and turned the corner toward the food truck with the Katrina Relief logo still emblazoned on its side.  There were still about five people ahead of me.

I could see that two workers were making up food bags on the truck while other volunteers tended to bins of produce that had been set out on the ground.  People were walking away with quite a bit of food, including huge slabs of frozen ribs.  When I reached the truck and asked for supplies for three people, they asked to see my blue card.  Again I told my story about the food bank having run out.  A woman jumped off the truck and ran over to the sign-in table to verify.  When she returned and cleared me, I was handed a heavy grocery bag filled to the brim.  Then one of the workers opened a plastic bag and inserted a whole frozen chicken and a package of boneless chicken parts.  I guess three people doesn’t constitute a large enough family to merit ribs.  Although I am a vegan, I was disappointed for my wife, who would have enjoyed the meat.

I lifted both bags off the truck and set them on the ground while I grabbed another plastic bag and began pawing through a bin of bell peppers.  I shoved one into my bag and asked a worker how many I was permitted to take.  A couple of those or a bag of leaf lettuce, he told me.  I grabbed a leaf lettuce, which looked brown.  I was not putting back that pepper.

As I was not provided with one of those sacks of potatoes, I asked how many spuds I was entitled to take from the potato bin.  Four, I was told.  Well, better than nothing, I thought.  I took the largest ones I could find, knowing I’d be eating baked potatoes for dinner this week.

Another worker handed me a bag with some bananas and other items and I struggled to carry everything away.  My wife saw me coming and began to drive the car over.  I was about to lose the heaviest of my bags and a kind man rushed over to help me.  As my wife pulled up, he took the bag from me and set it in the rear seat of our car.  I dumped everything else in and collapsed into the front seat.

“Oh my God,” I gasped to my wife.  “That was horrible!”

We were only about five minutes from home, which was fortunate, as both of us were dying to get into a rest room.  As we pulled up, my wife ran into the parsonage as I tore off for the men’s room next door at the church.  I barely made it.

So what did we end up with?  Aside from the frozen chicken, we received — what else? — peanut butter and canned beans.  Also canned fruit, a box of pumpkin bread mix, a couple of tiny cartons of chocolate flavored almond milk and a little bag of coffee-flavored almonds.

The bananas they gave us were rotten and they stank.  We put them out with the trash.

 

Eat What You Have

casserole

Early Wednesday morning, we drove two towns up the freeway to visit the local food bank.  It turned out to be a giant warehouse, staffed by a volunteer crew of senior citizen ladies.  One of them seemed to be supervising the woman driving the forklift, moving pallets in, out and all about.  The rest of them appeared to be standing around doing nothing.

Although we had received some food from a local church earlier in the week, clients are only permitted to visit once a month.  However, the grapefruit, bread and two bags of canned goods clearly won’t last the three of us for a whole month.  And, to be honest, what we were really hoping for was a bag of potatoes.

Well, we struck out on the potatoes.  In fact, the food bank did not give us any food at all.  What they did provide us with, however, was even more valuable:  Information on the locations and times of local food distributions.

I had called in advance and was told that I’d need to bring three bills, preferably utility bills, displaying my name and address.  This is required as proof that we maintain a permanent residence in one of the counties that the food bank serves.

As simple as this request seems, it turned out to be a big headache for us.  For one thing, we live in the parsonage of a church and don’t have our own utility bills.  For another, the post office does not deliver mail to our door; the church rents out a post office box.  Thus, any bills we can show the food bank will list our P.O. box number, not our physical address.  We could live anywhere, for all they know.

My very resourceful wife dove into our files and dug out a notice from the State of California informing me that I had exhausted my unemployment benefits and that I am out of luck, Chuck.  We also brought our car insurance bill and a printed pharmacy receipt for one of my prescriptions.  I crossed my fingers.

Driving around to the back of the warehouse and dodging the forklift’s crazy zigzag through the parking lot, I ducked into the office.  The bored clerk at the desk seemed to be examining her fingernails.  I explained about being unemployed for eight months, having zero luck finding a job and running out of unemployment benefits.  She, in turn, explained that, despite having food stacked up to the roof of the warehouse, none of it is distributed onsite to hungry people.  They provide food to charitable organizations only.

She sent me next door to sit in a meeting room and wait for an eligibility interview.  There were two clients ahead of me:  A white woman in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank mounted on the back and a black woman who appeared to be her friend.  Like me, both of them were grossly obese. I find it ironic that, these days, we fat people are the ones who end up begging for food.  Some days I think that God must have a warped sense of humor.

When it was my turn, I stepped into a tiny office, where I introduced myself to the intake worker.  Barbara appeared to be older than my mother, who recently turned eighty.  I told my story again and presented my documents for examination.  In addition to being knowledgeable, Barbara is one of the kindest people you could ever hope to meet.  She explained that a post office box address is not a substitute for a physical address.  When I described our situation, however, she agreed to accept the documents even though doing so constituted bending the rules more than a little.

Barbara made copies of all my documents and of my driver’s license.  Noting the birthdate on my license, she told me that her son was born the day after I was.  “Your mother and I were doing the same thing that day!” she gleefully observed.

She handed me a mimeographed calendar for the month, filling in the date squares by hand with the locations of food distributions in my area.  I then took the page from her and began making notes in the margin as I asked her questions about how to get to these places and what time I needed to show up.  As she was out of eligibility cards, she kindly wrote my eligibility information on a small piece of note paper and initialed it so that I would have something to show on food distribution days.

This morning, we attended our first public sector food distribution in the parking lot of the local welfare/social services office.  We arrived about 40 minutes early, assuming that many people would be lined up to obtain food prior to the weekend.  As needy folks ambled in, they stood around chatting or leaning on their vehicles, waiting for the food boxes to arrive.  Soon enough, a truck pulled up bearing the logo of the very food bank we had visited two days ago.  The line shuffled forward to a sign-in table set up in the parking lot.  When I reached the table, the woman sitting behind it told me to print and sign my name and list my physical address on the sign-in sheet.  That was all.  No documentation needed, no ID, no anything.  I then stepped up to the truck, from whence the delivery guy handed me down a 25 pound box of food.  I thanked him, and he informed me that they would be back with more food boxes in two weeks.

As each person approached the truck, she (or he, although I think there was only one other man in line) was asked how many people were in her family.  If the answer was anywhere from one to four, the guy handed down one food box and reminded the recipient to carry it low, using the handles, to avoid back injuries.  Two women who were there together told the guy that they had ten people in their family.  They received three food boxes.  I heard another customer waiting in line telling her friend that the family of ten included the recipient’s own four children plus four homeless kids who she had taken into her home.  I felt even more humbled that I already was.

Breaking down the food box at home, we found three bags of dry beans, three bags of rice and two boxes of spaghetti, along with cans of soup (chicken noodle and vegetable beef), tomato sauce, vegetables (whole tomatoes, green beans, kernel corn) and applesauce.

I expressed my excitement at having a pot of beans again this week.  My wife doesn’t eat beans, but Pastor Mom does.  An ongoing issue is that there are very few foods that the three of us will all eat.  When Pastor Mom worked her bean magic (onions and garlic appear to be important to this process) this week, I think she only had a single serving herself.  My wife doesn’t like leftovers, but I do, and I made four meals of the pot of beans.  I ate them hot the first day, cold the second day and as bean burritos (with the addition of jalapeños and vegan “cheese”) the third and fourth days.

I am learning to eat what we have.  This is a big change for me, as I am used to engaging in all sorts of wasteful food behavior such as eating what I like best and leaving other things to rot, padding the grocery list with my favorite items even though we have plenty of other stuff in the pantry, and replacing items I enjoy as soon as they run out, before they run out, or even when a thought enters my head that they could possibly run out in the next month or so.  It was not unusual for me to tick off my wife royally by starting a new grocery list the minute we got home from the supermarket.  Those days are gone for us, and, quite frankly, I feel stupid for ever having participated in this type of nonsense.

One thing we are learning is that there are some essentials that are not available through food distribution programs.  Even making efficient use of the supplies of rice, beans, pasta and canned veggies that we receive, we still need to purchase items such as fresh vegetables and fruit, milk and bread.  We are learning to live with less fresh produce and to make better use of the canned stuff that we had formerly eschewed.  We still have to buy two types of milk, almond milk for me and 2% milk for the others.  I must somewhat sheepishly admit that I have figured out that I can do without the almond milk.  I don’t need it for protein, as I get plenty of that from beans and from our periodic purchases of tofu, vegan cheese, Boca burgers, TVP deli slices, etc.  I use almond or soy milk in my hot tea, but honestly, it’s over a hundred degrees almost every day now and I’m mostly drinking iced tea.  If we don’t use the almond milk for cooking (mashed potatoes, for example), the only thing I really need it for is breakfast cereal.  As long as I stay away from cereal, it is an expensive purchase that we can easily avoid.

As for bread, I predicted that the food distribution programs would provide us with white bread (which is what my wife and Pastor Mom like) and that we would still have to buy the much more expensive vegan whole grain bread for myself. The complete opposite turned out to be true. I have an entire loaf of vegan seed bread (from Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard) sitting in our freezer so that it does not rot. I figure that I can take two slices at a time directly from the freezer to the toaster. What we end up having to buy is fresh white bread for everyone else in the house. We actually go through bread rather quickly here, as we are always making sandwiches for my niece, my nephews, their friends and local homeless people. We feel blessed to be able to do this.

The plan I am working on for now involves doing my best to include both protein and starch in each meal, along with vegetables as often as possible.  In this way, it seems quite reasonable to maintain my vegan diet on a very limited budget and a lot of donated canned goods.  And yes, I have it in the back of my mind that I may have to give up my vegan ways if I remain unemployed several months down the road.  As I mentioned, we need to eat what we have.  Nevertheless, I plan to keep my vegan diet going for as long as I am able.

As an example, this is how my meals panned out today:

Breakfast:  Grapefruit, toast with vegan “cream cheese,” ½ peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  The grapefruit was given to us; the vegan cream cheese is a very occasional purchase that I consider a treat.  Plenty of protein from the cheese and peanut butter.

Lunch: “Cantina potato.”  This dish is named for a baked potato dish that I enjoyed at the Grand Sierra Resort’s Mexican restaurant when I played in a regional Scrabble tournament in Reno three years ago.  Although their version included a lot of cheese (I hadn’t yet gone vegan then), my version is “kitchen sink” style, i.e., I throw in whatever we have available.  The basic recipe involves baking two or three small to medium potatoes (seven to nine minutes in the microwave), seasoning them liberally with black pepper and garlic, and then throwing all manner of junk on top of them.  Today, I used garbanzos and two veggie burger patties (my protein) along with a can of carrots and some salsa verde out of a jar.  This is a very filling and satisfying meal.

Dinner:  Casserole (see photo above).  Again, I rummaged through our cupboards for likely looking canned items.  The recipe changes every time, but this is how I prepared it tonight:

1 can tomatoes (keep half the liquid)
1 can red kidney beans (or any kind of beans), drained
1 can kernel corn, drained
¼ of a small onion, chopped
½ cup vegan Monterey jack style “cheese”, diced or shredded
6 slices canned jalapeños (optional)
garlic powder and Italian seasoning to taste

I recommend sautéing the chopped onion with some garlic in olive oil before adding to this recipe, but I am a lazy so-and-so and used it raw.  I liked the crunch it provided.

If you use whole canned tomatoes (as I did), I recommend cutting them into quarters.

The jalapeños are not at all necessary, but I like the robust, spicy flavor they lend to this otherwise rather bland dish.

Of course, if you’re not vegan, you can use any kind of soft cheese in this recipe.  I only used half a cup because the vegan stuff is danged expensive.  Feel free to use more for a cheesier experience.

Place the tomatoes with half the liquid in a microwave-safe dish.  Season with garlic and Italian seasoning.  Add the onion, the beans and the jalapeños, if used.  Add the corn last, then sprinkle the cheese on top and season with more garlic and Italian seasoning.  Bake in microwave for 3 to 4½ minutes, depending on your wattage.  When the cheese melts, the dish is done.

The beans and cheese provide your protein, the corn adds a starch, and the tomatoes contribute a vegetable to your daily total.

When this dish comes out of the microwave, it smells like a pizza in Mexico.  Yep, those jalapeños were plenty hot.

Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard

food bank

The long-term unemployed often find that they must make many adjustments.  For some, this may mean moving to another city or a distant state in the wake of losing the family home to foreclosure or after being unable to make the rent.  Extended family and friends may find themselves stuffing together into small living spaces as an alternative to homelessness.  Young folks may despair at the necessity of returning to the parental nest, while the more mature among us may find ourselves couch surfing, pursuing house sitting arrangements or searching Craigslist for ever more roommates.

Paying for utilities can become problematic.  Americans living in the Northeast and Midwest are grateful that the cold, snowy winter is now gone, for a few more months anyway.  Even here in California, low income families regularly experience difficulty in paying the gas and electric bill.  I remember how, nearly twenty years ago now, as a single guy working for a low hourly wage, I moved into a new apartment only to be warned by my next door neighbor that her electric bill had been exceeding $500 per month due to the need to run the air conditioning constantly in our hot summer.  To avoid such a calamity, I sweated through the summer without turning on the A/C.  When winter arrived, I discovered that the heat had been turned off because the previous tenants had run out without paying the bill.  My landlord refused to assist me and I was unable to soften the hearts of the utility people.  So I piled on the blankets, quilts and coats at night and managed to get through without incurring heating costs.  I couldn’t help but wonder how the poor survive in the below-zero temperatures of Minnesota and the Dakotas.

Living in the parsonage of a church, we get a front row seat to some of the adjustments that the jobless and homeless are forced to make.  Homeless Guy #2’s on-again, off-again relationship with his wife is currently off again.  Although he’s been living in his car, I understand he’s now indoors, sharing living quarters with one of my nephews.  They share similar interests, such as construction, carpentry, barbecuing, playing the guitar and singing, so it seems to be a good match.  Both are unemployed.

Homeless Guy #1 still shows up at our door quite often.  He may ask to use the church rest room or to do some odd jobs for a few bucks.  The other day, he rang our doorbell in the morning and again at night.  The second time, he asked for three dollars in exchange for a small plastic bag containing a few soda cans that we could supposedly redeem.  We told him no because the cans weren’t worth anywhere near three dollars, because we’d have to drive two towns over to take them to the recycling place, and because we were more than a little annoyed that he had woken us up for that.

Homeless Guy #1 still lives in a tent in the far corner of his mother’s back yard.  However, he seems to have acquired a tentmate, his cousin, whom we’ll call Homeless Guy #3.  Number Three showed up at our door on Sunday to beg for ten dollars for food to get by until he gets his disability check.  We told him that none of us are working and that we can’t spare ten dollars.  We offered him a peanut butter sandwich, which he gratefully accepted.  We gave him two PB&Js, two bananas and half a package of cookies, and sent him on his way.

Homeless Guy #2 has been spending a lot of time over here lately, working hard on badly needed repairs to the church building and doing a wonderful job.  The church has been paying him for his labor and we have been keeping him fed.  As for Homeless Guy #1, we heard him yelling and carrying on from the other side of the fence late last night.  We are aware of his anger management problem, which became manifest in banging and kicking the fence, accompanied by a lengthy string of obscenities, not a few of them directed toward the church and the “holy roller” occupants thereof.  I thought about calling law enforcement, but instead we simply locked the doors, knowing that eventually he’d calm down and go to sleep in his tent.

When I stepped out of the shower this morning, I immediately identified the sound of visitors.  My niece, nephew and little grandniece were here, and soon enough my nephew’s girlfriend and her sister showed up.  My niece had overdone it at the gym and needed us to babysit Little One for a while so that she could take a hot shower and assuage her sore muscles.  Pastor Mom headed to the kitchen and started cooking pancakes and eggs.  We never know who will show up here to be fed, whether family, friends or local homeless people.

Now that I’ve been out of work for eight months, we find ourselves having to make an increasing number of lifestyle adjustments.  For the first time in our married lives, my wife and I have only one car between us.  And we finally had the cable TV turned off, keeping only internet service so that I can continue to search for jobs online.

But food is where it has started to get really interesting.  We try to stick to our monthly food budget, but some of that money has a way of going toward other things, and we sometimes go over.  My wife says that my veganism is costing us too much, and she is probably right.  Even limiting purchases of things like veggie dogs, meatless meatballs and vegan margarine, we still have to buy almond milk and tofu for me.  It doesn’t help, my wife points out, that I refuse to eat eggs, one of the cheapest sources of protein around.  Canned beans are also cheap, so I am working on eating more of those instead of placing Boca burgers, TVP “chicken” and tofu on the grocery list again.

Today, however, we crossed a line for the first time:  We visited a local food bank for a handout.  I’m in new and unfamiliar territory now.  I have never had to ask for this kind of help before, and I didn’t quite know what to expect.

The main food bank in this area wasn’t distributing today and, anyway, we aren’t sure whether we have the right documentation that is required to cut through their impressive red tape.  When I called, they suggested that we visit a particular church a couple of towns over.  When we did so, they informed us that they had suspended food distributions because it would be another month or so before they receive another food delivery.  They sent us to another church, the big Presbyterian one that, ironically, is right next door to one of the largest supermarkets in the area.

Walking down the path from the parking lot, I found my way to a door labeled Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard.  Upon opening said door, I was told to wait my turn outside and that someone would come get me shortly.  There was one client ahead of me.  In just a few minutes, an intake worker came out with her clipboard and forms.  We walked over to a bench near the church playground and sat down.  Somewhat sheepishly, I volunteered my story of having been laid off, having run through my unemployment benefits and having been unable to find work despite my best efforts.  She empathized, but none of that information appeared to be necessary.  All she needed was the names and Social Security numbers of everyone in the household, our address and my phone number.  Then she handed me the form she had been working on and sent me inside to collect my food.  This seemed almost too easy.  I mean, aren’t they supposed to make this humiliating or something?  Where was all the red tape from the big area food bank?

grapefruit

In the office, I sat across the desk from another volunteer, who looked at the form, made a quick phone call, and hollered out to the guy behind a movable divider (yet another volunteer) to make up a food package for three.  Meanwhile, near the door were bins of grapefruits, to which I was urged to help myself.  I could hardly believe it.  I am crazy about grapefruit and try to eat one every day!  But how many should I take?  Ah, now the humility was really kicking in.  I explained that we have never had to ask for help of any kind before and that I have no clue as to how many grapefruit would be appropriate for the three of us.  After all, I said, I don’t want to take more than my share and thereby leave others without.  Take as many as you want, I was told, as they’re just going to go bad.

Indeed, some of the grapefruit had seen better days.  Most of them, however, were in perfectly fine condition.  They didn’t look like store-bought grapefruit, either.  They seemed to have been recently plucked from someone’s tree, with pieces of stem and a leaf or two still clinging to some pieces of fruit.  I filled up one plastic bag, was invited to take more, and filled up a second bag.  In all, I took away fifteen grapefruit.  Apparently, they were just glad that I took them off their hands.  One might say that I obliged heartily, as there were only a few grapefruit left in the bins when I got done with them.

The guy behind the divider called out to ask if I would use some powdered milk.  “I guess so,” I said tentatively.  “I’m very grateful to take whatever you have available.”  I hadn’t even seen powdered milk since I was a child and my mother kept some on hand in case of blizzards.  “You can cook with it,” added the clerk behind the desk, helpfully.

The packer pushed a dolly out from behind the divider, loaded with two grocery bags filled to the brim with what appeared to be all kinds of stuff.  The items I could see sitting right on top were a loaf of seed bread and a large package of chicken.

The client who had preceded me returned to say that her car wouldn’t start and to ask if anyone had jumper cables.  I couldn’t remember whether we had any, so I texted my wife, who was waiting in the car.  No, we don’t, she informed me.  Meanwhile, my predecessor helped me wedge the two huge bags of grapefruit in between the grocery bags on the dolly.  I dragged it back down the path, my wife loaded the food into the car, and I dragged the empty dolly back to the office.

I thanked the staff once again, and they informed me that I am eligible for food once per month.  I am welcome to come back in July, they said.  I appreciate it, I told them, but I truly hope that I don’t see you fine folks again next month.

But I know that we probably will.  And I can only thank the Lord that there are such generous people and organizations to help out the poor in our local community.

We were lucky today, one of the workers at Mother Hubbard’s informed me.  Today they had eggs.  Most of the time, they don’t.  And indeed, when we unpacked the bags onto the kitchen table, there among the incredible variety and quantity of food was a half-dozen eggs.  Along with a 2½ pound package of boneless chicken that still had a supermarket’s $8.75 price label stuck to it.  There was a package of four large parmesan hoagie rolls and a baggie of loose muffins and pastries.  There were two cans of tuna, two cans of green beans, a can of kernel corn, a can of fruit cocktail, a large can of spaghetti sauce, a tiny can of tomato paste, a Ziploc baggie full of rice and another of dry beans, a jar of peanut butter, a squeeze bottle of strawberry jam, a bag of pasta, a whole bunch of Ramen noodles and instant soup cups, a can of pork ‘n beans, a small package of roast beef and a box of breakfast cereal (peanut butter and chocolate flavored, of all things).  There were also numerous snack items, such as a little package of pretzel sticks with soft cheese for dipping, a granola bar and, my wife’s favorite, a large box of Cheez-Its.  And that’s just the stuff that I can remember without conducting an inventory.

With my wife and Pastor Mom being meat-eaters who aren’t much for veggies, and with me being a vegan, I feel confident that we will make the most of the food we received.  I was particularly thrilled to discover that the loaf of seed bread is vegan.

I mentioned to my wife that we can expect to have an interesting time planning meals to make the most of the food items we were given.  She agreed, pointing out that whatever we don’t use we will surely pay forward to help feed those who come to the door of the parsonage hungry and hoping for a meal.

Toward the Alleviation of Suffering

When I was heading out the door to a doctor appointment yesterday, I stepped into the living room to find one of our elderly neighbors sitting in a chair and being tended to by Pastor Mom.  The poor woman had gashed her hand on a protruding nail.  Applying peroxide with a cotton ball, Pastor Mom urged her to go get a tetanus shot.

We have a very tiny congregation and I don’t recall ever seeing this woman in attendance.  But that doesn’t matter.  Pastor, doctor, mother, friend — the minister does it all, churchgoer or not, no questions asked.  Not only that, but she’s always on duty.  And I do mean 24/7.

Case in point:  A few nights ago, my wife and I were awakened from a sound sleep by someone walking around the perimeter of the parsonage, banging on the outside of the building as he went along and yelling “Pastor!  Pastor!”  It was just past two o’clock in the morning.

Apparently, the guy didn’t want to ring the doorbell and wake everyone in the house.  Needless to say, that little plan did not work.

Next thing I knew, one of our former neighbors (he recently separated from his wife and moved in with some friends in another neighborhood in town) was sitting in the kitchen.  He is an ex-con whom I first met in November when he completed his most recent stint in jail.  Apparently, he had gotten drunk with a bunch of his cronies and woke up in a ditch, soaked to the skin.  We gave him one of my shirts to wear while my wife and Pastor Mom got dressed and drove him home.

Thus is life in the parsonage:  Never a dull moment.  The reason, of course, is that there is never any shortage of suffering, misfortune, poverty and hurting people desperate for even the tiniest bit of succor derived from any source available.  And the church is a symbol of help, from God as well as from man.

I ended up briefly discussing this subject with my doctor in the examining room yesterday.  He told me that nearly all the doctors in this particular clinic had been there for more than twenty years, and likely would make thirty years before they retired.  Nurses and receptionists come and go, he said, but the doctors remain forever.  The reason for this, he told me, is their dedication, the fact that they take the Hippocratic Oath seriously.  He must have been referring to the portion of the oath that states “in every house where I come, I will enter only for the good of my patients.”  We agreed that the need for affordable health care in our community is enormous and that the doctors of this clinic go along way toward filling that need.

While at the clinic, I took time to thank the nurse for the friendliness and efficiency with which he has treated us during our first two visits to the clinic.  I shouldn’t have been surprised when he immediately credited everything he does to the help of God.

I will say this:  If you ever feel down about your own problems, just sit in a doctor’s office for a couple of hours.  What you will gain is known as “perspective.”  The suffering you are likely to witness will help you to realize how trivial your own troubles are by comparison.  Yesterday, I sat inches from a man younger than myself whose left leg had blown up to four or five times normal size and was wound in bandages from ankle to calf.  Prayers of thanks to God just came pouring out of me.

And then there are the questions that the clinic staff has to ask you.  Embarrassing questions like whether your spouse is beating you up and whether your living situation places you in danger of physical or sexual abuse.  I’m sure there are laws requiring them to do this, but the fact remains that too many of our neighbors are silently suffering from these very things, just outside our vision, day after day.

Stepping on the scale, I was so pleased that I had lost weight for my second consecutive doctor visit.  When I expressed to my doctor how happy I was about this, he asked me whether I was experiencing starvation.  Initially shocked, I quickly realized that he has to ask such follow-up questions because there are too many in the community in desperate poverty who quietly suffer from constant hunger.

Which brings me to our latest project.  In conjunction with our church family, I hope to take a lead role in providing a meal, free of charge, once a week in our church fellowship hall.  Anyone who wishes to eat with us would be welcome.  We see ourselves as preparing hot soup from leftover food items donated to us by merchants.  And we will likely be making a whole lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And who knows?  Perhaps if we are truly fortunate, and have enough volunteers, we might be able to do this more than once each week.  But helping to alleviate suffering in the community requires the participation of the whole community.  Despite our good intentions, we cannot do this alone.

The hardest problem we face is getting businesses to agree to give us any food items that they would otherwise discard.  I refer to goods that are about to expire and fruit and vegetables that are starting to turn brown or that have soft spots or that otherwise are no longer pretty enough to display and sell.  We have already secured commitments from several people to chop vegetables and cook.  But from whence will the food come?

Being unemployed, I have little but my time and labor to contribute.  I pray that, if God is with us, He will soften the hearts of our local grocers sufficiently to allow us to feed the hungry with items that typically feed the dumpster.  There is so much food waste going on in the United States, while at the same time there are millions who go hungry every day.  Please pray with us that we will be able to bring the two ends together and make a difference in the lives of local families suffering from perpetually empty stomachs.

This past Christmas, as we do every Christmas, we prepared food boxes for some of our poorest local households, many of whom share living quarters with extended family, including scores of  children.  These are people would otherwise have no Christmas dinner.  Some of the food was donated by kind volunteers, but much of it was purchased with church funds or money out of our own pockets.  As I was helping to sort the bags of pasta and rice and potatoes and the cans of beans and pumpkin and applesauce and soup, I could not help but wonder how these families would eat on the day after Christmas.  And it was then that I decided that I could not in good conscience leave these desperate neighbors to their own devices the other 364 days of the year.

We realized that, before we could even think of starting anything, some basic infrastructure had to be taken care of.  We needed to get electricity, air conditioning and heat installed in the fellowship hall, for example.  We needed to get our leaky gas line repaired.  By dint of volunteer efforts and timely donations, those expensive operations are nearly at the point of completion.  Then, by chance, while I was in a job interview in downtown Sacramento recently, my wife found a grocery store selling ten-pound bags of potatoes for three dollars.  Slowly, many things seem to be falling into place.

It may be little more than a dream, but, with God’s blessings, we hope to begin ladling soup and passing out sandwiches sometime in July or August.  This would be one small step toward alleviating the needless suffering all around us that we can no longer ignore.  Whether this turns out to be a dream fulfilled or a dream deferred will depend on the support of our local merchants and volunteers.

Please pray for us.