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.