JOURNALISM

I have a friend who takes writing and language very seriously. After college, with a degree in journalism she took a job with a small news paper in Wisconsin. She went through several papers, all the progressions, reporter, marketing, advertising and ultimately an editor. She met deadline after deadline, over and agin for a career of meeting deadlines. Now, like me, she listens mostly over coffee with friends while people with jobs are pushing their rock up the hill. We share an appreciation for the other’s experience and writing style even though their likeness is the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to a chorus of crows; guess which is which. She is disciplined to the Associated Press Style with its do’s & don’ts, rules for every occasion. You don’t give the reader any credit, just (KISS) keep it simple stupid. On the other hand, I’m a free range chicken with few rules and no boundaries. In my case, creative license supercedes rules. My first writing class back in the 1960’s, it featured a professor who professed, “If in doubt, leave it out.” 

Kay wants words to be universal constants, for ever. Metaphors are devious at best and she hates it when someone uses words like “anxious” when they mean something else, like “excited”. With a long list of pet peeve-commonly misapplied words she mumbles a lot. But we get along, even share some inside - jokes would be the wrong word - ‘Story’ would satisfy my need for clarity but probably not hers. 

I remind her that English is a dynamic system where vocabulary evolves with the culture. After all, the word ‘gay’ used to mean happy and ‘bad’ can now mean either bad or good. She hates it but concurs, elevating her displeasure with grumbling and thinly veiled insults, either changing the subject or digging deeper into that corrupted hole. I think that’s what happens to good people who concede to deadlines and advertisers. I write because the voice inside my head, the one I don’t control, it tells me to write down whatever it says and I do. 

I expand the subject, wanting to keep the conversation going. Maybe the news is a brain-wracking business and one has to be naive or a masochist to go there. She laughs at that, “What! You locked yourself in a room with teenagers for 30 years and you think I’m the naive masochist?” When she does that I fake a stupid spasm and make cuckoo sounds. Her sense of humor is a machete while mine is a water balloon. But in the end we stay friends and it’s me who remembers, “I’m not the one complaining.” 

STORYVILLE

The way we, humans, use imagination and language to create stories is probably the most important of all human attributes. Without it we would still be clever monkeys but monkeys none the less, hooting from treetops and throwing poop. So where do they come from, how do they come together; stories?  
There are several chain franchise grocery brands in the Kansas City area but two dominate the business. Price Chopper and Hy Vee sell all the same foods, have great delis, offer discounts on gasoline purchases and have great service. Only their decor sets them apart. Price chopper paints with earth tones and colorful murals on every wall, giant bell peppers and huge still-in-the-husk ears of corn, farm-scapes with cabbage fields, tractors and red barns. Hy Vee on the other hand is sterile white, all the walls, displays, coolers, cases and checkout kiosks. My preference of course is to go with all the colors, not so much for color’s sake but at Hy Vee I have an unresolved fear that checkout will follow hospital protocols featuring checkout nurses with blood pressure cuffs, where my Medicare card is more important than my credit card. So I shop Price Chopper. 

Last week I stopped at the Price Chopper on 103rd street, at State Line. I only had a couple of needs but restocking my refrigerator with fresh strawberries is both time sensitive and a high priority.  I don’t know how they do it but regardless of when you shop or how much you buy, when you get to the checkout there are three carts waiting at every register. No matter, I don’t mind, you can count on the customers ahead of you to entertain. There will be a story in every transaction. This time it was the cashier.

She was a wiry little old lady with big tattoos on both arms, above and  below the elbows, short cropped gray hair and heavy frame glasses right out of the 80’s. Using the word ‘wiry’ is correct but inadequate. When those wiry people age, flesh between skin and bone melts away, in its place sinew stretched tight like rubber bands and age wrinkles bear witness to strong, tough experience. She was literally skin & bone but absolutely up to her task. What made her special was the way she moved, like a string puppet, Howdy Doody only three times the speed. Every action required motion at every joint in her body. Every move was quick and necessary to the need but she was extremely animated with fast, short, jerky, articulations. Turning from the register to look at the customer required she move both feet, shift her weight, bend both elbows, tilt her head and lean into the exchange. She was efficient, not missing a detail from double bagging meat to getting wine bottles into brown bags, from checking for mfg. coupons and asking preference on cash-back bills. Every move was spring loaded, separate from the one before as if she had to reset the mechanism. Somewhere inside that bony little body there was a main spring that was wound tight. She was something.

She took my canvas shopping bag, scanned my shoppers card, took my strawberries and checked them for spoilage all without looking at me. When we did make eye contact she stopped cold and said, “I bet you get the Charles Bronson thing all the time?” It stopped me cold, I was bewildered. “You know!” she said, “Charles Bronson, the movie actor.” After a moment I replied, “Yes, I remember Charles Bronson.” She went on as she slid my berries into the canvas bag, “I love him in all those westerns; you look just like him.” I conceded, yes, I liked him too. She pumped her elbows with a big toothy smile, “I bet people are always telling you how much you look like him.” She thanked me for shopping at Price Chopper, handed me my receipt and turned to the next shopper. 

Yesterday I stopped at the same Price Chopper, again for more strawberries. The little, tattooed lady was working the same register. Before I could show her my shopper’s card she said to me, “I know your name is Frank but may I call you Charles? It’s a great compliment you know!” Incredible as it sounds, it seemed we were life-long friends. She scanned my berries, checked the bottom for mold, bagged them and added, “I can’t get over how much you look like him.” She wished me a good, ‘rest of my day’ and I walked away. She made me think of the Italian traffic cop who directed traffic like a symphony conductor, guiding his orchestra through a complicated overture. I may never get the rest of her story but I can fill in the holes from my own imagination. I remember Charles Bronson for his “Death Wish” movies more than his westerns and I was sort of a fan. But nobody every told me I looked like him, not until I pushed my strawberries up the conveyer at Price Chopper and came face to face with what’s-her-name. I need to think of a famous, or infamous person that she resembles, even remotely, so I can return the compliment. But I really need to check her name tag the next time I buy strawberries. Probably the best compliment you can give someone just met is to remember their name. 

ANOTHER DAY OLDER

Once upon a time in Central City (there must be a story here) a little old man woke up Wednesday still tired from a busy Tuesday, barely aware of rain in the night but wet grass just outside his open window stirred a nerve and he knew. On Tuesday, the day before, just an hour or so before normal dinner time he was busy moving a stack of concrete bricks from his driveway to a more permanent spot. His son, unable to let anything of possible use go to waste had put them in the back of his pickup after work rather than see them buried or disposed of otherwise. He asked if the old dude could use some cement bricks and the old man fired straight back that he could, he would take them all as they were small, maybe 3”X3”X2” and a couple of pounds each. They were left over from a construction site, used to hold steel reinforcement rods up off the ground while wet cement was poured into the forms, maybe a couple of hundred, maybe more but time was short so they stacked the heavy little buggers on the edge of the driveway. That was two weeks earlier and it was time to put them in a more permanent place, no telling how long they could remain stacked against the foundation at the back corner of the garage. Before that he had taken pruning shears to limbs that had grown too long and droopy so close to the ground. They too had spent several days lying where they fell and soon the lawn would need mowing so they were dispatched but like the cement, only reduced to bits and pieces. Some would ultimately decompose in the compost heap, some would escape the premises in foot-long sections under a bag of trash in the barrel; the trash company doesn’t pick up yard waste so he hides it under legitimate rubbish. The larger pieces would soon go up in smoke at his summer solstice celebration. Before that came a necessary nap, maybe half an hour after lunch; 3 pieces of falafel, humus, half an apple and some V8, high fiber drink. But it was 4:00 p.m. and he needed to be in the city by 5:00 to help a friend feed the ragged people. Tradition has it Jesus did as much with just 2 fishes but it would take them 6 gallons of lentil/sausage soup, a small wash tub of summer salad and a couple of super-size, church kitchen pans of lasagna. He had become a regular volunteer at the Central City Downtown, Tuesday feeding. His buddy Mark had already prepared food, all they needed to do was heat things up and chop salad. Most of the organization was in place when they arrived at the park but several rowdy fist fighters had started some hostility near the serving line. A very large volunteer, retired State Police officer had intimidation down to a science and the scene was settled down except for his detailed warning to anybody with violence or disruption on their mind. His message in short was, any more disruption and all of the food would just go away in a heartbeat and all the hungry souls believed him, glared their disapproval at the potential evil doers. Dipping out soup into donated 12 oz coffee cups and fishing plastic spoons out of a Walmart bag was his specialty. The weather was perfect and the turnout for food was large. Some faces were familiar from the week before and the week before that and every face belied a story that would certainly take your breath away. But they weren’t talking much except for food related issues and thank yous. After 45 minutes of nonstop serving, the 2nd time arounders had made their last pass and that evening’s offering had been consumed. Shuffling empty pans, containers and folding table back into Mark’s car had become routine and the drive back to church was pleasant. They agreed that it was difficult to find consensus on how best to deal with damaged, indigent and otherwise wretched people but sharing food seemed above condescending rhetoric. Mark and the old dude had both noticed the sanitary disparity, how some souls were unapologetically dirty; clothes, hair, hands & face, belongings and others had clearly made an effort to be well kept. Judgement wasn’t the issue, just what one sees and it is what it is. Pulling back into his driveway the old man noticed the clear space where the concrete bricks had been stacked and remembered picking up the last few, exposing a colony of tiny ants, scurrying in the unexpected flood of daylight, chaos unleashed, reminded him of the homeless, moving their nest to a new, hopefully safe place, at least for the night, disappearing into the grass at the edge of the drive like transients melting into alleyways and side streets. He didn’t feel sorry for the ants, just understood that you don’t deserve what you get or get what you deserve. You get what you get, it’s that simple and that’s true for people as well as for ants. What we do with what we get is more complicated but unlike ants, we make excuses for the chaos and take credit for good fortune. His day had been full, beginning with a 15 mile bike ride, a shower, breakfast and good coffee with a dollop of honey waiting at the bottom of the mug. Before he knows it, it’s Wednesday morning and the grass is still wet from a shower that came through in the wee hours. At noon he will meet with a bunch of old men and if they are lucky, a good woman or two; they’re all good just some are better, to pick on Nietzsche and Freud or juggle preference between ouija boards and economics, whichever makes them feel better. Some think they deserve the good life they lead and others dare not take it for granted. Thursday will be a new day; that’s how they come, one after another. More than that would require too many excited electrons, not recommended. 

CORN CHOWDER

There I was behind a folding table with a cardboard box full of plastic containers, like the ones pasta salad comes in at the deli. They were filled with corn chowder or chicken & rice soup. Like everybody else on my side of the table, I wore rubber gloves. They seemed appropriate, handling food and all. Backed up in the grass of a down-town public park, a long line of volunteers doled out food to ragged street people on the sidewalk. They got a recycled plastic bag and fork & spoon, then they came to me. My job was to hand them a bowl of soup, whichever kind they wanted but only one to a customer. You don’t let them reach in to help them selves. They asked what it was, I tell them, they decide or shake their head no and look away. I put the bowl of soup in their hand and they put it in the bag. The box held 70 bowls of soup. 

At church a few days earlier our pastor’s husband let it be known he could use some help. I volunteered. He told me to meet him at 9th & Oak at 6:15 p.m. on Tuesday. In Kansas City 9th Street is where the down town ends, all that is left is to cross over the freeway and head down to the Missouri River. ‘KC Heroes’ is an all volunteer program that feeds the homeless, twice a week. By 6:30 the lawyers and accountants who work in the tall buildings have gone home and the streets are clear. The street people are always there but during the day, by choice or by chance, we don’t see them. Mark had prepared his contribution in the church kitchen, soup and mac & cheese. He was down stream in the serving line from me. 

At exactly 6:30, with no fanfare, not even a “Come & get it”, the lady beside me gave the woman at the front of the line her plastic bag and utensils. The woman turned to me with a gaunt look, I waited a split second, realized she wasn’t going to ask so I handed her a bowl of corn chowder and she moved on. They came all ages, all colors and all conditions. Some were courteous either by nature or on good behavior, others, not that they were rude but preoccupied. I realized two things quickly. The reason nearly 100 ragged people had organized into one gathering was for food and nothing else. Men were alone or in pairs while women stuck together or kept close to their male counterpart. It was clear they didn’t really want anything to do with each other. They all knew any misbehavior would bring trouble as a police car was just down the street with two officers watching every detail. Secondly, with a flash of insight, I realized the rubber gloves were to protect me. You don’t want any direct contact with any of them. A small fraction seemed clean enough but others were filthy-dirty. Rather than dwell on their dreadful plight it goes without saying, they were sadly, desperately in need. 

It should be no surprise but still, one’s place in the pecking order is just as important to the lowest ranking vagrant as to high rollers. Big, strong men who beg for food still have to posture and preen before their peers. Ironically, those big men typically passed on soup while women and lower order men were happy with whichever came up. 

The weather forecast was for storms in the evening. The sky had been threatening since before we arrived and a sense of urgency kept things moving. After the last person was fed and the line shut down, the wind shifted and I could smell rain. Everyone scurried to get supplies and tables back onto the bus, personal items back into cars and big, cold raindrops started to splatter on the street. Little did we know that an F4 tornado was on the ground some 10-12 miles to the SW, headed our way. Listening to the weather bulletin as I drove home I knew I was making distance between the storm and myself. A small town east of Lawrence, Kansas took a beating but the funnel lifted and the big city was spared.

I know it’s easy to judge people who end up so isolated and deprived. What must they have done to be in such dire straits? Paying it forward, the opposite of paying someone back for their generosity. You pay forward to someone who is in need. It’s about the kind of person you want to be. My Tuesday evenings are open so I will help Mark again, maybe I can put some food together too. It is so much better than throwing a few dollars at street corner beggars. You know that your little contribution goes and does what you intended it to do. I like Joseph Campbell’s quote, “Participate joyfully in the sorrows of the world. We cannot cure the world of sorrows but we can choose to live with joy.” I can’t fix their situation but I can share something of what I have. Seldom does a day go by that I don’t think of my mother and her frequently shared observation; “There but for the Grace of God go I.” We are lucky it isn’t us who need a free meal. We’re all just one mistake and bad timing away from desperation.