Food Bank Tales #3
I always look forward to Friday mornings. I roll out of the driveway around 10 for a 10:15 food pick up. Arriving at Civic Field I lower my window, and Genevieve of the bright red hair hands me a route sheet. Only 7 addresses instead of the usual 9.
After loading up I pull forward to the curb and glance over my route, dial up Maps on my phone. The first five addresses/households are all on Yew Street Rd; the next two off Samish. “Oh good, a new neighborhood. Man, this is going to be quick!”
From Lakeway I take a right on Yew Street Road, not that far away from Civic Field. At the top of the hill, I begin to look for the first address. This is not necessarily as easy as it sounds. Like this morning – the phone may say you have arrived, but there is no corresponding street address. I make an illegal left hand turn and loop around for another pass. I spot a commercial sign saying Hill Haven. Bingo! Found it, maybe. As I pull into the driveway, I see a house under construction on my left and some trees with a row of mail boxes and apartments on the right, then a mobile home on the left and more residences further into this warren. One of the mailboxes has my first address on it, but none of the apartments seem to. I roll on down the hill. More trailers as I descend via a couple of tight s-curves. The road wanders through an assortment of numbers on the left and right – but not the one I’m looking for. I loop around, come back out on Yew Street and turn right for another swing through. This time I park the truck near the row of mail boxes and get out to look around, finally spotting my target up a short set of steps, set back among some evergreens, no number on the door. This state of confusion is fairly typical for at least a quarter of the residences on any given list. When I first began delivering for the Foodbank, I found this inconsistent, nonexistent, out-of-order numbering frustrating. Now it has become part of the game, more like a challenge than an obstacle.
I meet Sheila hobbling out of her apartment, using a walker. “Good morning, I’m from the Food Bank. How are you?” “Not so good. I need my medication, and I have to go get it.” She grumbles and complains, hobbling slowly down the sidewalk, her daughter following behind. I leave the food on her door step and return to the pickup.
The next one is an easy descent down those s-curves again and then a short, steep drive uphill. I’m going slow, searching the numbers. Most are single or double-wide mobile homes. My delivery goes to K-2, a medium-size travel trailer, run-down with little likelihood of ever traveling again. Outside of this humble home is a new GMC pickup. I plunk the food boxes on the front porch. Knocking on the window, I glance down to see a pile of beautiful, tiny, back and gray kittens squirming around in a pet bed. A lanky, teenage Latino youth opens the door. “Foodbank,” I say. Then, “How many kitties? Six,” he replies with a smile. “They’re beautiful!
Number 8547 is a Samish Way hideaway. Supposedly the driveway is next to the church, but I cruise by without spotting it. Another mile confirms I have missed my mark. I reverse direction and spot a way in, almost overgrown with weeds, very close to the church fence. Pulling off the main road, I drop down a hill following the winding track past old appliances, tires, cars and junk of all sorts. I check my phone to see if I’m on target but find no cell service. At the end of the road among tall fir and cedar trees, there is a battered, single-wide mobile home with an unfinished, floor-joists-only porch on one end and a set of rickety steps up to a door on the side. No building codes here, no right angles, nothing your eye can really make sense of. No turn around, no people, no dogs. It is quiet except for the distant roar of freeway traffic which, in spite of the seemingly remote location, is not far away. I’m just a little spooked, buried in the trees with acres of junk all around and an ax for chopping firewood leaning against the door jam. I unload 2 food boxes and knock. No answer. It takes me 3 tries to back up, uphill on steep gravel. I keep spinning out but finally step on it and gain enough momentum to overcome my lack of traction, getting me up the hill to an open spot in the blackberries where I can finally turn around. My old blue Toyota pick-up is great for delivery work except with little weight over the rear wheels, they just don’t grab. I can’t imagine what it will be like getting in here and out again once the winter rains start!
Plugging the next address into my phone, I realize it is at the southern end of Lake Samish at least 8 miles down the road. Wow! I’m already on Samish Dr., so I avoid the freeway, stick to surface roads and cruise down the east side of the lake. Homes around the lake are in a labyrinth, streets curving through shady, dark green trees, no right-angle grid. Following phone directions, I turn left onto a dead-end street with no address from my list. According to the map, it should be right here. Instead there is a well-kept, low-slung blue home with lapped siding and signs, Semper Fi, USMC and a thin-blue-line flag, a driveway chained off at the end. I pull over, set aside my discomfort and walk down the drive. Stepping over the chain, I take a few more short steps. As my view opens up, I realize I’m on the backside of a mobile home park. Ah! This feels right. I spot M-52. Culp for Governor and Trump for President signs are here and there. This is a rural neighborhood. An older dark sedan pulls up, and a couple get out. “Hi, I’m here to deliver food.” “Oh, that would be my mom’s,” he says. I tell them where I’m parked, and they give me directions to drive around to the front of the mobile home park. I thank them, sigh in relief and retrace my steps. The main entrance reveals a tidy, attractive park full of well-kept, double-wide manufactured homes. The woman in number 52 greets me at the door. She’s friendly, older and is on oxygen. I stack her boxes up on the porch, hop in my truck and head for home.
This foodbank run occurred a week or two before the Nov., 2020 election, so political signage was abundant. It was a tense time. There were convoys of big pick-up trucks with huge flags flown from their beds, frequent coal-rolling episodes and anger in the air. We were also living through the first months of the world-wide pandemic. Geographically, I covered a swath of the southeastern end of our small city as well as a couple of neighborhoods beyond the city limits. Politically our state is divided, the west side more liberal, the east more conservative. Our county is likewise divvied up, city of Bellingham vs. county. As my wandering route crisscrossed that line, I observed my reactions, both political and emotional. I was on the edge of my comfort zone and way outside my own neighborhood.
I began delivering food motivated by a desire to provide a needed service and relieve the boredom and claustrophobia of too much time at home. I have since come to actually relish the act of abandoning judgments to become a tourist in my own back yard. These days I often drive with a friend, and we provide each other with a sort of interrupted running commentary, which is fun. Curiosity is now a major motivator. I ended that Fall 2020 morning ultimately satisfied by having provided food for whoever needed it and, of course, getting the hell out of the house.