Feeding The Homeless

Some time ago I was visiting my daughter, Jennifer, in Houston, Texas. Jennifer has two daughters herself; Jane, 18 and Meredith, 15. Jane is always home as she goes to High School on line. School for her is only a couple of hours a day. She has lots of free time for dance, running errands for her working parents and school-age sister and to do volunteer work. One of the volunteer jobs she has is helping out every Wednesday morning on a soup kitchen at a local church.

I was planning on staying ten days. I would be with Jane a lot since she was home. In an effort to keep me amused while everyone else was out of the house, Jane asked me if I would like to volunteer with her on the day she fed the homeless.
“Sure”, I said.

Wednesday morning came. I don’t like to rush, but Jane overslept. We had to be at the church by 7:00AM. Were we going or not? She said yes, we were, and I had ten minutes to get ready. I managed to wash my face, take my pills, brush my hair and get in the car. I was only breathing a little heavily!

I remarked to Jane that the weather felt humid. Did this humidity presage a storm or really hot weather? She said “No, it just means you are in Houston”.

Jane drove us to the Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church. We parked and walked in. Jane led me to the kitchen. There were already volunteers working away. Jane introduced me to everyone and then gave me a black hair net to wear, plastic gloves and an apron. I looked a real sight. (Show picture). I think I’ve finally found my style.

A pleasant English woman named June, about my age, showed me how to cut day-old bread into smaller pieces and throw them into a large metal bowl. That kept me busy for awhile. Someone asked me if I knew how to make grits. Don’t forget we are in the South. I said I was sorry I didn’t, that I lived in New York. I felt like saying, “Make them, I don’t even eat them” but thought that might be impolite. Jane volunteered to make them. She brought two big pots of water to a boil, threw in a measured amount of grits, let them cook to a thin consistency, took the pots off the stove where the grits thickened and then she added in a large glob of margarine. Her grits were fine. I don’t know how many pans she filled with them but they all went.

I could see men lining up waiting for 8 o’clock when the kitchen opened. Outside the kitchen I could see that there was a Spanish-style courtyard with a walkway or cloister built around it. The patio in the center was tiled and open to the elements. Birds would flutter in and peck around for food. Trees grew inside this courtyard, some in the ground, others in big pots. The whole look reminded me of a monastery. Chairs and tables were set up outside. If it rained, there was plenty of room in the walkway for shelter.

We all began to put the food out on long tables under the walkway. Glass dishes piled high with peanut butter and jelly were placed near the bowl of cut up bread. A large metal grille door was opened and the people were let in, but before anyone could pick up a tray and start walking down the line, the minister said a prayer and then we all bowed our heads and said “The Lord’s Prayer”. When people came in, they would pick up a tray, cutlery, and napkins. The first dish they could have was a beef and bean stew. The men passed Jane next who was offering two dishes, a choice of spaghetti and meat balls or a pasta pesto. Then came the girl serving dollops of grits; dessert next which consisted of day-old pies, cakes and cookies donated by local bakeries. I was last on line – the juice lady. I had big boxes of juice with a little spigot and would fill up a foam container half way – no seconds until 9:15. At times I had a young man named Arnold helping me. He would open the sleeves of cups for me and put up another heavy box of juice when I ran out.

I had no idea how many people were waiting. Turned out we fed 400 that morning in an hour and a half. The person in charge would let 50 in at a time, and then another fifty, etc. This way we did get a two-minute break to organize ourselves.

Most of the time I was too busy to pay much attention to whom we were serving. I barely had a chance to look up. I do know 90% were black men. I did see a few women and a few white men and women, even a couple of young people, young enough to be runaways, but I never knew if that is what they were. Everyone seemed to be in clean clothes and were all polite. I got lots of “Thank you, ma’am”, “Appreciate it”. Some of the men were young enough to ogle buxom 18-year old Jane in a T-shirt that said “Panama Life Guard”. They told her she could rescue them anytime. A few men I thought were probably a little mentally challenged. Two were in wheelchairs and some on crutches. It’s a sad thought that Palmer Episcopal has this food line five days a week, 52 weeks a year and many other churches in Houston do the same. I rather got the feeling that not everyone was homeless as we think of that kind of situation, but more that this food helped them stretch out what few dollars they had. The food was nutritious and filling and hot. If they ate this big breakfast and then took some bread with peanut butter and jelly for lunch, they might not have to worry too much about dinner.

I asked Jane about security. I did see one young man in a uniform. Jane said there were two undercover men also. We had no problems. Jane did tell me that the other day a young guy came in, demanded two helpings of everything which they would not give him, so he put the tray down and stormed out.

Our line was finally over. I could take off my attractive black net hair covering, my plastic gloves and my apron and call it a day. The person in charge thanked me for coming. Volunteers come when they can. Some days there are not enough people, some days more appear than are needed.

It was an interesting experience. You don’t realize how many people need help until you see it for yourself. How difficult it must be for someone who is poor and black and perhaps a little mentally challenged and not well educated. Their lives are stunted in so many ways. If a good food kitchen like the one at Palmer can help get them through another day, more power to them. Their lives are not easy.