Love, Hate

This morning is the once monthly USDA food line, and I am a first timer and uncertain. I'm not so good at flying into a situation blind.

I am nervous. Nervous I will be rejected, nervous I will look foolish, nervous I will say or do the wrong thing. First day of school nervous.

I call ahead and speak to Mildred who tells me will need proof of income, ID, and proof of residency all of which I place in a #10 envelope and fold into the front pocket of my tote. She tells me to go to the Senior Center on Railroad Rd, just pass the train diner, that I will see a flag flying impossible to miss. The first flag I see is a weathered confederate flag looking as tattered as the sorry concept it represents and my heart leadens; not exactly a symbol of hope. But to my left another flag waves, proud, clean, high and a long line of people stream beneath it. Love across the street from hate and that's the hope I need to pull me forward.

There is no parking, anywhere, this being the industrial part of town, but about a block down I am able to pull my little green Civic off into the dirt. I strap Kalaya in her baby Bjorn and off we walk. She is crinkling her nose at the sun and glistening with newly applied sunscreen that mixes with her baby scent, sweet, soft, floral, what pink would smell like.

There are about 50 people in front of me, mainly elderly, disabled, not the families I was expecting. The exception is a morbidly obese woman, her three children, and her parents. They are loving, happy, and prone to sit down in line. The mother, too tired to stand, sits wiping sweat from her eyes and drying her hands on her jeans. Each time the mother and her father sit, a child hugs them and they return the hug and smile with their whole selves.

The woman in front of me works with the elderly, she has a kind face, brown eyes squinting in the sun, and sweat beads on her nose. She looks like a nurse and gather fromwhat she says, that is her normal role but something has happened to interrupt that. A few of the elderly in line talk to her.

"That new neighbor I told you about? Turns out he is a drunk." The speaker has white hair neatly tied back, and she wears a periwinkle blouse over white slacks. She has large Jackie O sunglasses and a lilting accent, maybe Austrian. She laughs softly through pale pink lipstick.
"Well as long as he stays inside." The woman beside me states with a smile.
"Yes, yes, and he sleeps often." She lifts her hand to her head and pats the strands there, assuring they are in place. She is prepared, she has come with a little white cart.
"So he is a better neighbor?"
"Yes yes...Hello baby" She touches Kalaya's foot and the baby scrunches her nose. I smile at her and she nods and looks down.

My line neighbor fills in her story, the periwinkle blouse lady's story. She lives in assisted living. The walls are thin and the shared walls are where the beds are. Her last neighbor used to talk all night on the phone. So the drunk is an improvement. Apparently, she loves Nascar.

I smile, but anything else would feel forced. And that's about it. No one talks much. We move forward listening to the woman at the table who signs us in and gives us cards to get food. She says no a lot and seems worried that people are cheating. "Even though they are married they still only get ONE bag." She double checks her list, she flips through the pink food cards, she nervously looks left and right and asks each person if they have signed her sheet, rinse and repeat.

It is my turn and she asks the number of people living in my house.
My husband, my self, our two daughters, and my husband's little brother and his girl friend. She hands me two pink cards.

"How are you going to carry the bag with the baby."
"I'll be fine, I'll take two trips.'
"No."

She calls over two men and tells them they are carrying my bags to my car. The men are at least 65 if they are a day, and they will be carrying my bag a block down the road. Both have beautiful skin, skin that comes from shaving often and that sweet scent of rosemary and soap.

My nerves have been replaced with pure gratefulness. I feel the urge to hug everyone I see.

They tell me to park in the parking lot and get my onions, potatoes, bread and lettuce. And I do. I get a beautiful head of lettuce and half a dozen potatoes and onions and two little bags of bagels. Blessed, blessed. A woman with rhinestones and a cowboy hat takes the baby from my arms while I sort onions. She jokes that it is hers and shows her off to everyone. Everyone coos over Kalaya who scrunches her nose and squints at the sky.

I haven't even gotten to Lisa with the surf, that is too good to rush so tomorrow, tomorrow. And I have pictures i will post then too. But here is the contents:
I receive sausage patties, oatmeal, raisins, pasta, orange juice, canned peas, canned applesauce, spaghetti sauce, rice and beans. Just lovely.