Summer Lunch Program

“Here’s a thing we should do,” David says as he sits behind his computer, gazing at the screen, reading glasses perched.

“What?” It’s feigned interest. The last thing I want to do is something I should do.

“Hand out lunches to kids during the summer.”

It has its appeal. This sounds like a thing we can do together. David has become so busy volunteering in the community that he has little time to do things with me or even to keep up with his responsibilities here at home. On the other hand, I’m protective of my time.

“Are you competing to see who can do the most good works?” I ask with a dubious squint. 

“No.” But he sounds defensive. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

So he signs us up to attend the mandated orientation meeting. Because this is a federally funded program there are hoops to be jumped through before we can come in contact with food or kids. We expect to hear about these hoops at the meeting. But in actuality what we’re subjected to is the muddlement of two women who take up positions between the flags at the front of a large room and wonder aloud why they’re there and what it is they’re supposed to be communicating. 

To the bewilderment of the potential volunteers, the women mainly talk to each other about what they should be talking about. At one point they discuss different hand-out locations throughout the county and which ones will offer chocolate milk. One of them gives a power point presentation that tells how many children are fed by the program each year and how important it is for kids living below poverty level to have lunch. The pair spends a lot of time apologizing about how we were required to attend this meeting. 

As I said, I value my time and this has been an hour wasted. We exit the building with only the knowledge that we’re required to take and pass two exams—one concerned with food handling and the other in civil rights. We are not told the names of these courses, where to find them, what’ll they cost, or how much time they will consume. 

“I want nothing to do with such a disorganized program,” I say to David. 

The lack of forethought that went into this meeting is appalling. Standing unprepared in front of a group is the stuff of nightmares. Apparently not for these two women. 

“I’ll figure it out,” he says. 

When we get home he emails everybody he knows who might be able to point us to the courses. Eventually he hears back from someone and he sends me two links. 

The food-handling course is geared toward restaurant workers. It teaches the different types of food contaminants, the temperature at which bacteria stops proliferating, how to properly put on rubber gloves, how to wash a dish, how to empty a trash, what to look for when you suspect an insect or rodent infestation. I reiterate: we will be handing out prepackaged sack lunches to children. The food exam takes three hours from my life, hours I could have spent playing spider solitaire or checking out the deals on Zulily. 

The civil rights course and exam isn’t quite as long. It consists of six simple chapters that give rules about being sensitive and treating all people uniformly; except, of course, those with special needs, and them we must treat better while maintaining the illusion that they’re being treated equally. 

Believe it or not, there’s a fine line between treating someone in a wheelchair equally and giving a person in a wheelchair special treatment. As a class, handicapped people seem to want both. 

Civil rights, to sum up: be kind to all, but not overly kind to anyone. I already know this and feel the course to be a waste of my time. An hour and a half. 

I’m to begin my lunch duties tomorrow and have just received a reminder that I must clear a background check before I can take my position behind the sack lunches. This is the first I’ve heard about it, though I suppose it’s best to make sure I’m not a pervert. Will there be time to get this done before tomorrow? I can’t be bothered to care. 

Oh, and the way this project is laid out, David and I will not be doing any of it together. I anticipate a chaotic farce. I agreed to this misadventure during a few fuzzy seconds when I forgot who I am and what I was taught by my father: 

Jennifer, do never volunteer. 

David, scheming to get me involved in good deed doing.

The apartment complex where I’ll be handing out lunches. Though people whisper about it as though it’s a shameful slum, it’s quite pleasant and well-maintained. I don’t get the attitude.

Here’s the other venue for lunches in Marble Falls. Apparently the Boys and Girls Club came close to going broke last year and all the businesses in town rallied around and donated food and funds.

Cambridge Graduation

I swore during that last flight out of Singapore that I’d never get on another airplane, which casts me in a nonconforming role as more than half the people I know are constantly catching flights to cruises in the Mediterranean or cooking tours in Italy. Well, they didn’t live their middle years the way we did and it’s understandable that they want to see what’s out there. But six years ago, as far as I was concerned, I was done. 

But my reasonable expectation that David would want to slow down was apparently unfounded. Since we returned to the states we’ve taken at least two holidays a year that required getting on a plane. Some have been trouble-free and some have been irritating. None have been comfortable. I’ve chronicled every one of them so my friends and family have suffered right along with me. 

Today our destination is Boston, where tomorrow we’ll cheer for Sam’s girlfriend, Julia, as she graduates from the Harvard Kennedy School of International Studies. Talk about a couple of overachievers. As it looks like Julia will be a permanent part of Sam’s life, it’ll be an opportunity to meet her parents, who’ve come from London. 

Yes, she’s British and the two of them have plans to eventually settle in the UK, which is far away from Texas. Honestly, the only way they’re getting me there for a visit is if a baby enters the picture. Other than that, see you on Facetime, Young Sam. Or hey, you can come see us. 

Because we’re traveling on United we must switch in Houston to get to Boston. It’s one-thirty when we alight in Houston. Though I hate flying, I love airports, which are gold when it comes to people watching. I like to stroll slowly, observing body types, quirks, clothing choices, family dynamics. 

But there’s no going slow for David. He rushes, frantic to move forward. When he gets hungry he becomes fidgety and tense, which is only a step away from becoming snappish. My new priority is to find him food. 

“Hungry?” I ask. 

“Starving.”

But typically before he can relax for a meal, he wants to get to the vicinity of our gate. Oh, but look at the information screen. Our two-thirty departure has been pushed back to five-thirty. I point it out to him and he visibly deflates, then rises up, even more determined to push onward toward the gate in order to make sure that no mistake has been made. Nope. It is what it is. Originally planning to arrive at our hotel between seven-thirty and eight, now it looks like we won’t get there until nearly midnight. 

This happens to people all the time. It’s happened to us again and again. But still, each time it hits like a slap. Dehumanizing. No apology for the inconvenience. No explanation as to why. 

Back to basics. While I could easily live off my fat for a year, David isn’t fortunate enough to possess my famine backup plan. 

We passed several nice eating establishments on the way to the gate, but because we’re here and we’re hungry, we go to the nearest restaurant. It looks okay. 

An apathetic woman mumbles that we can sit anywhere; then she turns and shuffles away. iPads are set on stands in the center of the table, which precludes cross communication. A waiter appears and explains how to use the iPads to place our order and pay. Okay, we comprehend. The waiter fades away.

“If we order our food and pay here at the table,” I ask, “what does this waiter do?”

“Brings it to us, I guess.”

But it’s delivered by someone we haven’t seen before, a woman who asks who ordered what. She sets our corresponding meals before us and then she, too, disappears. 

Behind David six or seven people hang out. They’re dressed alike, all in black, so I assume they’re staff. They laugh and tell stories and when one of them pushes a tray off the counter where he’s leaning, making a huge noise, the volume of the laughter rises to a disturbing level. I wonder who’s in charge. No one, it seems. 

I look at the table, befuddled. David, also, looks confounded.

“Were we supposed to order silverware on this thing, too?” I ask, clicking the food icon on the iPad to see if silverware must be ordered separately, as though not actually wanting to eat the food is a normal option. 

David’s a fixer. He hops up and goes in search. Seeing a woman in black who seems to be guarding a drawer, he asks for silverware and napkins. Apparently she tells him no, because he drags himself back to the table. 

“Well?” 

“She said she doesn’t have any.”

It’s a mystery. He ordered a Korean chicken sandwich, sixteen dollars. I ordered chicken shwarma, fourteen. These are things you can eat without silverware, but not without a napkin. 

“Look at all this dry lettuce, fresh from the bag,” I say. “Shouldn’t there be dressing of some sort? And how am I supposed to eat it?” 

The guy who initially introduced us to the process shows up with silverware and napkins. 

“May I have salad dressing?”

“Ranch or lemon vinaigrette?” he asks.

I tell him ranch and after a “right away,” he takes off to join the joking and laughing group. The ranch dressing is forgotten, never to be seen. The dry green and purple leafy stuff remains untouched. 

As we’re leaving I comment that the guy doesn’t deserve a tip. 

“They charged the tip at the front of the meal,” David says. 

The chicken was so dry that it took me half an hour and lots of water to choke it down. David’s sandwich was too salty and the French fries were cold. 

 I realize that airport food is notoriously crappy, but walk the extra hundred yards to a better place. Hell, Wendy’s or Potbelly would have been better. 

The place is called Ember. Avoid it. Turn away. 

Houston should be embarrassed by this place’s presence in their otherwise lovely airport!

This was my meal after I was finished digging the three tiny chicken chunks out of way too much bread.

After lunch David hung out beneath the dome that amplifies your ordinary voice to a super loud one. He pretended to discuss weighty matters. He’s a good time when he’s been fed.

The Sad Option

David has been doing a Bible study up at the church. It’s a four-year study and it’s involved a lot of reading. This year, his first, covered the Old Testament. Mostly he’s been disturbed by and has commented on the way women were treated and viewed over four thousand years ago. 

“They were treated like livestock,” he says.

“They had no say in anything,” he says. 

“They were no more than slaves,” he says.

It speaks highly of David that he’s appalled that a man with a perfectly intelligent wife wouldn’t make use of her advice or opinions. I am his sounding board, as he is mine. 

“Isn’t it wonderful how we’ve evolved?” This is my merry chorus to his bemoaning, the refrain in major after the verse in minor. 

And we have evolved, haven’t we? Look at all the progress that we, as a civilization, have made. There was a time when equal rights and democracy were unheard of. There was a time when those of an alternate sexual orientation were forced by law to live lives contrary to their truth. There was a time when bullies were respected instead of loathed. 

There was a time that, when a young single woman became pregnant, she dishonored her family and might even be kicked out of her home, in addition to losing her dreams; and in her desperation she sought dangerous methods to make the problem go away. Abortion is as inevitable as pregnancy and as a society shouldn’t we make certain that it’s safe? Legislating against it shows a lack of sense that’s embarrassing. 

 I can honestly say that among the women of my generation that I know well, more have had abortions than not. Each woman I’ve discussed it with says that, all these years later, she still believes that the abortion was the right decision; and she also believes it was a tragedy. 

If that’s not screwed up I don’t know what is. 

Is it possible for a person to hold two opposing opinions at the same time? Obviously, it is. I’ve always viewed abortion as an abhorrent necessity. Also, I don’t believe that returning to unenlightened times is a smart plan. 

There’s practicality to consider as well. Take Kuwait, for example. David interrupts. 

“What does Kuwait have to do with it?” he asks. 

“I’m telling about how the Kuwaitis imported workers from the Philippines and Bangladesh, then refused to pay them so they were forced to take to the streets and beg.”

“I don’t get how that’s relevant.”

“They imported people and then didn’t take care of them. If abortion is made illegal we as a society will get stuck taking care of all the unplanned babies.”

“It’s a stretch.”

That it is. 

“You’re right. I’ll delete that bit.” (But I don’t.)

Much has been made of the fact that the lawmakers who are pushing the anti-abortion agenda are white men. The pictures and names of these men have been released and I believe some of my friends have printed those pictures and pinned them on their dartboards. Truth: unless you’re a woman who’s lived through it, you have no idea how frightening and devastating an unwanted pregnancy can be, or how heartrending the decision to have an abortion is. Having said that, these men were elected. I assume it’s because their policies are supported by the majority of the voters.

Because the topic has recently been brought front and center, a debate has commenced in my head; which is too bad because I’ve determinedly avoided thinking about it for years. It’s a touchy issue that brings about extreme emotions and I prefer to keep things light. 

So. What are my beliefs on the subject? 

I believe that life starts as soon as sperm penetrates egg. I believe that abortion is a reasonable option, though a sad one. I believe that it’s not my place to judge another’s path. I believe in the separation of church and state. I believe every individual has a right to choose. 

And I believe that Roe v. Wade should stand.

Because I didn’t want to post a picture of an aborted fetus, I am posting a picture of the wild flowers across the street. There has been a lot of rain this year, which contributed to a long and prolific flower season. These are Indian blankets and they’re getting leggy, but they’re hanging in there. .

Dilly and Me

It’s grooming day for Dilly. I drop her off on my way to yoga and I will pick her up after. The place I take her is in a strip mall on 1431; difficult to get into and so I go the longer back way in order to avoid getting stressed. 

Gossip has it that the guy who greets us from behind the counter was once a female, an unexpected alteration for someone in simple Marble Falls. He’s friendly and always happy to see Dilly. The bothersome thing about him, though, is that when he takes Dilly into his arms and she starts licking at his face, he licks her back. Tongue to tongue. 

I like dogs and I’d be the first to tell you that my dog is the most wonderful of all the dogs in the world, but a dog’s tongue goes to places I want nothing to do with. I draw the line at a saliva exchange and I think other people should too. 

After yoga I stop by the post office to submit three copies of Why Stuff Matters to the TCU Texas Book Awards. Every time I send my books off it’s with hope in my heart. Winning any kind of recognition is unlikely, but I’m satisfied that three new people will soon enjoy my work. Though it’s immodest to say, it’s difficult to dislike my style, though one critic was quite traumatized by the notion of geriatric crooks and murderers; but I could tell from her tone that she idealizes old folks, which is her problem, not mine. Also, only a person with no sense of humor doesn’t recognize comedy when it’s right there on the page.  

Speaking of traumatized. The groomer also operates a doggy day care and Dilly, freshly trimmed and shampooed, is in the middle of six dogs that are way bigger than she is. When the guy plucks her from the pack and flies her to my arms she goes limp with relief. Then she tries to lick my face. 

“We don’t do that,” I tell her. 

Fearing that she’s picking up bad habits from the guy and from all the uncontrolled dogs, I pay and get her out of there. Into the back seat she goes.

“Did you have a good morning?” I ask, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “You look great.”

In response she wiggles all over, joyous at once again being with me. See, this is why it’s good to have a dog. Not only does she love me unconditionally, but with her it’s all about me. While people expect me to show an interest in their lives, all Dilly’s interested in is where I am and what I’m doing. There’s not a self-absorbed bone in her body. 

When we get home she goes straight to her bed and sleeps for three hours. Poor thing. Getting groomed and then playing with many exuberant dogs has exhausted her. 

After her nap she comes to find me. In front of my computer is the first place she always looks. I pick her up and set her in my lap. She leans into me and gazes adoringly up my nose. She’s a cuddler. They say that the way a dog communicates its love for its owner is by locking eyes, which under ordinary circumstances isn’t comfortable for a dog. Dilly meets my eyes all the time. She meets everybody’s eyes. She loves everyone. She’d give her heart away a hundred times a day if she could find enough people to take it. This little girl needs someone to protect her from herself and that’s why she has me. 

“You’re so spoiled,” I tell her. 

She sighs and I take her off to the kitchen for a treat.

Dilly’s a rescue dog, a total mutt. We got her in October and it’s estimated that she’s about four years old.