Foodbank Tales #3

I leave the house at 9:00 am on Fri. for my scheduled pick up time at 9:15.  Loading takes about 15 minutes and we’re off, Veronica and me, to our first stop maybe 15 min. later.  Today we’re in the Roosevelt neighborhood that has a grand mix of low income and middle-class homes.  The stops are pretty routine, and as is often the case only one person so far has answered our knock as we stack food boxes and rap on the next door.  Until the second to the last stop.  Still, it’s a nice day, good to be outside and on the move doing this small worthwhile thing.

The address is a faded-pink apartment complex on Alabama, a major thoroughfare, but the apartment actually faces the intersecting side street.  As we pull up to the building, I recognize the spot and say to Veronica, “This is it.  We’ve been here before.”  The door opens and a man in a wheel chair moves out onto the small landing at the top of his ramp.  I ask, ”Is this #102.  “Yes, are you delivering our food today?  We are!”  I answer.  He is a solid, middle-aged guy with kind of a hip look lent by his Elton John glasses.  Blond hair covers his head in a medium-length brush cut.  He turns to his friend standing close by, a tall, dark-haired man with tats and a hard look.  “Give these ladies a hand with those boxes,”  His friend steps up and helps move the boxes from the truck to Elton’s lap.  “Thank you,” he says.  We rely on this food.  We would be in a world of hurt without it.”  “You’re very welcome.”  I say.  He spins around and deposits the boxes inside the door of his small unit.  The building is down-at-the-heels and needs a paint job, but the exterior space is tidy.  As I return to my truck, our friend comes back out.  “We got this meat we can’t use, just defrosted.  Can you ladies give this to someone else who could use it?”  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I reply.  “We just can’t do that, but please pass it on if you can find another taker.”  “Alright, have a good one.  Oh, and take my phone number off your list, please.  Someone stole my phone, wallet, everything last week so you can’t call me.”  he says and disappears inside his apartment.

Veronica pulls out the route sheet and we move on the next delivery drop.  I feel good.  I like that guy though I’m certainly sorry about his lost belongings.  We had a short but genuine exchange.  We were somehow in touch, and it gave me a real lift.

What is so compelling about this simple act of delivering food?  With ease and no thought I am able to abandon all judgment, fear and negativity to reap the simple satisfaction of bringing free food to people who need it.  It is such an easy job and so gratifying in this time of anger and angst.

The next stop is a big old green, two-story house about the same vintage as mine, built in 1904. These people get two sets of boxes.  As we’re stacking the last 2 on the back porch, a young woman comes out.  “Thanks very much,” she says “Hey, we have all these apples we’ve been giving to everyone who walks by.  Could you maybe use some for the other people you deliver to?”  Next to the driveway, there is an old, short tree that has suffered a brutal pruning job.  Apparently lacking any sense of retribution for its ill use, the little tree has produced an abundant crop.  “Sure, we’ll pass them on.”  we say, as we pick up the box and shove it in the back of the truck.  This is our last stop.  Veronica and I divvy up the apples, agreeing they might not be quite ripe.  We don’t think we can donate them, but maybe I’ll try to make some apple sauce.  If not, we’ll give them on to our good friend Ernie, who volunteers at the pig rescue farm.  In any case, we’ll honor her gift and pass it on.

I turn off Alabama onto a side street to drop Veronica off.  She likes to exercise by walking back to her south-side neighborhood from all over town.  As I pull up to the curb, I spot something interesting on the sidewalk a half block away.  There is obviously a garden as well as a canopy with a decorative border strung across the sidewalk.  I park the truck, pocket my keys and stroll up the street to see what’s up.  It’s a very well-done fruit stand + small art market.  The garden is beautiful.  This is August, harvest time, so both garden and fruit stand are full of cucumbers, peppers, green beans, squash and way more as well as home-canned fruits and veggies.  There is also a selection of cards, fridge magnets and small notebooks all decorated with various brightly-colored, comic dog portraits.  I’m charmed!  As I select a fridge magnet with basset hound and riffle through my wallet looking for $2 to put in the pay box, a woman comes out the gate to speak to us.  Her name is Erin.  We learn she is an artist who used to do summer fairs until the pandemic consigned her to home.  Now she sells from her own front gate.  Cool!

In our short morning run we have made a kind of genuine contact with three people,  We are given license to poke around neighborhoods not our own, drawn out of our bubbles to see how others are getting by during these times of trouble. and how, sometimes, they’re able to offer up their own brand of help or willingness to support others.

 

 

 

The Covid-19 pandemic started in Feb. 2020, with a bang very close to home.  The first cluster of US cases was in Kirkland, Washington, 90 miles down I-5.  The first superspreader event took place in Mt. Vernon, where I used to teach English, 20 miles south of our house.

“Last month, there were 120 residents at Life Care. As of Wednesday, at least 81 have tested positive for the coronavirus and of those, 34 have died, as well as a visitor. About a fourth of the coronavirus fatalities in the U.S. have been linked to the nursing home, according to state and federal data.”  Seattle Times

“A COVID-19 superspreader unknowingly infected 52 people with the new coronavirus at a choir practice in Mount Vernon, Washington, in early March, leading to the deaths of two people, a new Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) report finds.”

Living through the Covid-19 pandemic is earthshaking, scary, difficult but punctuated by lessons and learnings as well as all the dark stuff.  For some time I’ve been thinking about writing mine down, both for my own benefit and even perhaps others.  The narrative jumps around some, between 2020 and 2021 because I didn’t start writing events down in any cohesive fashion until recently, and I am drawing on both past and very recent happenings.  While I’m sticking to my original title, by the time I now begin to post online we are at least 13 months into this pandemic – and counting.  We all have a pandemic story to tell.                                                                                                                                       This is mine.

3-12-20  Email to my son and daughter-in-law who are less than two weeks into a trip to Namibia in Southern Africa. They feel very far away.                        “We are all social distancing like mad In Bellingham/Whatcom county.  Everything has been cancelled over the past few days, events, colleges, etc. Whatcom Co. has declared an emergency.  Talked to Ben yesterday and his team at work is on tenterhooks because there is no real guidance from Peace Health; they don’t have enough supplies or equipment for a local epidemic.

I had my own personal brush with potential infection.  Went to tutoring last night and Felipe had a dry cough which he wasn’t really bothering to cover.  He wasn’t concerned – only had it 5 days etc, but didn’t feel too bad.  I explained the symptoms of Covid-19 and the fact that some people don’t really get very sick but that they can still spread it – if indeed they have if. Then I cancelled the rest of the tutoring session. Now I get to worry about it for a week or two.”

3-18-20, to Andrew and Jenny in Namibia.                                                                    “Viral developments” have been happening over the past 2 days with head spinning rapidity.  In Washington, no more public school, in fact no more public anything:  WWU classes, churches, downtown movie theater, senior center,  library and more, all closed for the foreseeable future.  One diagnosed case in Bellingham but as you move south down I-5, more and more. And since there’s really no systematic testing in place to speak of, we don’t of course know how many people are sick.  I was sort of doing ok until I learned they closed the library. Now I’m gobsmacked!  Feels spooky and ominous.                                             Looking forward to hearing from you guys.”

3-18-20,  Andrew to us:                                                                                                              Hola Team,  After much deliberation (much!) we have come up with a plan.  Time will tell if it’s a good one. We have had to purchase new tickets to get home, and after avoiding the $18,000 and $8,000 dollar ones (no kidding), and wanting a few days to avoid the mayhem back home, we settled on a flight that has us back in California on Wednesday 25th.  This flight is as direct as we can get, routed Windhoek-Jo’burg-Dulles-SFO.  We’re told that our tickets are fully changeable, so theoretically we can move the dates if needed.

Things here in Namibia remain calm, with coronavirus just starting to enter the news.  I’m sure it will spin up fast when it gains traction.  Itinerary as follows:  Windhoek, Upuwo, Epupa falls, Marienfluss, Etanga or Opuwo, Windhoek, fly out on 3-24.

3-20-20, Andrew to us.                                                                                                                Yes, this is a mess.  Total mayhem today and I’m not gonna lie, we’re a little stressed out.  We started very early and made it as far as Kamajab, heading to Windhoek as fast as we can.  Should be there tomorrow.

Our SA airways flights have been cancelled, so we are now on a third (!) set of tickets, now flying Windhoek-Jo’burg-Dubai-LAX, departing early on the 22nd.  Fingers crossed that Emirates doesn’t also cancel service.

South African government wasn’t letting foreigners leave the country unless they were catching a direct flight to their home country, but since there are now no direct flights to the US (Delta also canceled their route), they are allowing layovers in Dubai and some other places.  So that is our plan.  We take off in about 36 hrs our time, which is an eternity these days, so we are hoping this all works out.  It’s going to take weeks to untangle our flight mess when we get back, and it’s getting expensive.

I’ll look at that article you sent, but data/service has been crappy.  Try whatsapp to Jenny’s number, it’s the best way to stay in touch, easier than email.  My phone is dead, so Jenny’s phone is it.   I’ll check in tomorrow when we get to Windhoek.  Andrew

 

Note:  My son, Andrew and wife, Jenny have been traveling throughout southern Africa for several years.  They own a Landcruiser, stored in Windhoek, Namibia, when they are home in Santa Cruz.  If you’re interested in Africa, try his website:  https://stuckinlowgear.com 

Or:  https://andrewmckee.smugmug.com  for superb (my opinion) photos of Africa and elsewhere.

Last summer when Aimovig, the first of the new CGRP medications, hit the market, I was at the head of the line to receive this long-awaited wonder drug.  None too soon as I had either failed to respond to more than 35 medications used to treat migraines or developed a host of intolerable side effects.  My migraines were near daily occurrences, my thyroid TSH levels were abnormal and I was having painful digestive problems.  I was as miserable and desperate as I had ever been in over 25 years with chronic migraine disease.  Aimovig successfully prevented my migraines for a month.  Then it too failed, even at 140 mg double dose, and I was left with months of side effects to endure before the drug washed out of my system.

Sometime during that wounded winter that followed, a friend recommended Michael Pollan’s newest book, “How to Change Your Mind, What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence.”  It was a fascinating read, gave me hope and lead me to begin exploring a whole new direction in the search to alleviate my chronic pain.

There’s a certain irony here.  I am a baby boomer, born at the end of WWII, among the first of my cohort.  I grew up in California during the 6O’s, went to college at UC Berkeley, the epicenter of the “Summer of Love,” sex, drugs and rock and roll, hippies, Vietnam war protests and more.  Intent on escaping the confines of a difficult childhood, I plowed my way through four years in this maelstrom without ingesting any illegal substances, a minor miracle given the place and times.

Now, the more I read, the more I am convinced that these new medicines, appropriately used in a clinical setting, are promising powerful treatments for depression, anxiety, PTSD, substance abuse, terminal illness and chronic pain.    The resurgence of research  in therapeutic use of these drugs is fairly new but coming on strong.  Migraine is not the primary focus of most ongoing research, which is currently focusing on PTSD, depression and terminal illness.  There is, however, a current research study in process at Yale University and another completed at Johns Hopkins University.  Both focus on psilocybin and migraine.    https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3345296/                       https://clinicaltrials.gov/ct2/show/NCT03341689

Looking ahead MAPS, the Multidisciplinary Association for Psychedelic Studies – www.maps.org – is developing research into the use of psilocybin and LSD in the treatment of cluster headaches.  Current research is underway at Yale University.   https://clinicaltrials.gov/ct2/show/NCT02981173

Outside of research settings, psychedelic medicines are illegal, categorized by the FDA as schedule 1 substances since 1970.  This means that the Federal Government thinks there is no medicinal value and a high probability of abuse (just like marijuana).  However, Oregon’s attorney general recently approved language for a ballot measure which would make psilocybin legal if passed, in 2020.  In June, 2019, Oakland, California, became the second U.S. city (after Denver) to decriminalize psilocybin and other psychedelic plant medicines.

After reading Pollan’s book, I buckled down to do my own research aimed at deciding if these medicines made sense for me.  Running out of time, hope, options and money to pay the monthly rental fees for two very expensive neuromodulation devices, I am committed to finding answers for myself.  My early computer searches revealed some limited but promising, credible leads.  (below)  I was excited, but these early studies of course raised more questions than they answered.  I drafted a boilerplate letter requesting information pertinent to my own situation and made a list of anyone I could think of who might have something to offer me.  These included big name researchers in the field to friends of my kids who I thought might know something.  And I began to get some answers which then led me to new questions.

“Psychoactive substances as a last resort – a qualitative study of self-treatment of migraine and cluster headaches” Karlstad University, Sweden https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC5584001/                    “Psilocybin for the Treatment of Migraine Headache”  Yale University  https://clinicaltrials.gov/ct2/show/NCT03341689

 

There’s a hell of a lot I am NOT doing these days.  After a good December, my pain level has started to shoot back up, which is always a complex, episodic tale that I never feel like living much less telling.  This morning is a reprieve, the second time I’ve had the following experience.

 

I arrive at about 9:30 at the Senior Center, feeling rocky, migraine emerging, slightly flustered and disorganized, unsure if I’ll make it through the session.  I pull myself together somewhat as the model arrives and try to settle in as we start with the first 20 minute pose.  I like this particular model a lot, interesting face, porky body, willing and committed to the work.  Halfway through the 2 hour-session my stomach has settled, and my migraine is almost gone.  I’m alert, relaxed.  My individual parts are feeling much more collected into a whole me, and it is all a huge relief after the last few days.  Like a big weight has lifted.  I don’t know why or how this works for me.  It’s certainly the process but also, I suspect, the energy in the room, the quiet, collective attentiveness and clarity of shared – not just activity – maybe purpose, maybe struggle.  Who knows.  Something.

A new person showed up to draw today.  She volunteers at the Pickford as does Patrick, our model, but mentioned she doesn’t know him well.  He’s not a very talkative guy.  Drawing him has allowed her to know him in an entirely different way.  We are not permitted to examine people in this way ordinarily and not just their hands and faces but their bumps and lumps, how that fits into the space around them and more.

Yesterday I used my hands to rake and prune my garden, which felt good, even very good, but the lift didn’t last.  Drawing, especially in this group setting – no matter the outcome – does something for me that is undefinable and profoundly nurturing.  I’ve been thinking off and on about different ways to do figure drawing more often.  Maybe youtube!  Never occurred to me before.  Would be interesting to compare.

I like this drawing although, looking at it on the computer, I see all sorts of odd, out-of-wack stuff, proportions, angles etc., that weren’t so obvious at first or in process.  Nonetheless, it kind of works for me in more ways than one.  It was such a captivating study in angles.  Art is crucial to my well being, learning, engaging with others and supporting my perpetual effort to hold my mind, body and spirit together.

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.

 

 

 

Small Miracles – Foodbank Tales #2

On Wednesdays my husband Jack and I do a run together for Miracle Food Network.  We cram our small pickup truck full of food boxes, milk jugs and take-out pizza and drive to a trailer court north of town.  There are 55 to 60 single-wide mobile homes and trailers.  Busted windows, sagging stair steps and decks are part of the scenery though many residents also have small gardens, potted plants, holiday lights or some other touch that turns a house into a home.  We deliver to 11 trailers, approximately 28 adults and 20 kids, most from Central America or Mexico.

Shortly after we started this gig, I began to clear out my grandchildren’s leftover animal toys and action figures.  Remembering my own childish anticipation of a tiny toy buried like treasure deep inside each new box of breakfast cereal, one day I dropped a plastic animal in every food box, two for trailer # 2 which houses 7 kids and 3 adults.  My dentist donated some outdated tubes of travel toothpaste, which also went into boxes the following weeks.  Ann, a dedicated volunteer for the city library, donated some picture books, and we began to distribute those too.  In what I came to think of as my own income redistribution scheme, I haunted Little Free Libraries in established neighborhoods across town culling a small selection of books from each and eventually returning others.

Slowly we learned the children’s names:  Mariela, Sofia, Flora, Gabbi, Iris, Alan, Karen, Carlos, Diego, Leslie, Juana, Rodrigo, Tristian, Reina.  They would come to the door when we knocked or occasionally follow us around the trailer park on their bicycles.  I learned most – though not all – of the kids spoke English and preferred English language books, but I needed to speak Spanish to the parents.  Some spoke an indigenous Guatemalan dialect, so we communicated either through the children or with smiles and brief greetings.  One fine summer day I showed two little girls the latest books I had on offer and was rewarded with a big smile and a response I still treasure, “Me encantan los libros!”  (I love books!)

I passed that commentary on to Ann, and she rewarded me with more books.  Slowly I began asking which books kids preferred out of my stash, then more generally what kinds of books they liked.  Shy at first, they warmed up and showed up.  One day at trailer #15, Juana asked me if I had any chapter books.  I realized I needed to recalibrate and offer more than picture books.  A retired middle school teacher posted a notice on Nextdoor, and I collected three free grocery bags of chapter books!  Princesses, super heroes and unicorns were poplular.

As we completed our delivery that day to number #42, the last on the loop, Jack glanced up and saw 4 of the little girls reading their new books together, shoulder-to-shoulder, on a swing in the back yard.  The following week Miracle Foods added a new family, and we learned that Diego lives with three uncles and likes sports books.  At some point I got the impression that my book selection was, perhaps, kind of lame.   Maybe I needed to look for graphic novels and include comic books.  Ann suggested coloring books.  My friend Sally dónate 6 boxes of brand new crayons, color coordinated with sharp points.  This seems to be an intuitive sort of process as I record impressions and reactions in English, Spanish and Mam, a Guatamalan Mayan language, which of course I do not speak.

Who knows where this will lead us?  Fantasies of a future summer day find me sitting on that porch swing reading to Juana, Iris and Sofia in person.  Jack thinks about taking Builder Boards –  https://woodshop4kids.com  –  out to the trailer court and setting up a hands-on adventure.  No matter.  For now, families get food, kids get books (and toothpaste) and we get the satisfaction of knowing and serving a previously unknown part of our own back yard, a small miracle all its own.

Mike rescued his unusual looking cat from an empty apartment when he was just a small kitten.  Although abandoned by owners, Gato stayed alive for two weeks on his own by drinking water from the toilet and licking food bits off used paper plates and left-behind pizza boxes.  He was one dehydrated and very, very hungry kitty, but otherwise healthy.  Once Gato settled into Mike’s home and had his belly comfortably full, Mike took him to a local vet who drew blood and told Mike all about his unusual new super-sized kitten, including the fact that he would grow to be very large.

Every Wed. and Fri. we deliver food to families who need it.   In March 2020, when Covid-19 first reared its ugly head, there were many.  Now, sixteen months later, those hungry numbers keep climbing.  Stuck at home way more than I’m used to in the early months of the pandemic, I began to look for a local volunteer opportunity.

I heard they needed delivery drivers, so I called the Foodbank.  After a brief conversation, they told me I was too old – in a polite way.  Next I called Whatcom Unified Command, the top-dog organization coordinating services in case of county-wide emergency.  I filled out their forms and offered to drive my own vehicle to deliver food to those in need.  They had no problem with my advanced age.  “Alright, I thought, I’m good!  I qualify!”

My husband and I both got picture ID’s and shortly after, our weekly sign-up sheets.  Arriving at Civic Field on my first ever run, I pulled up to the loading dock behind a big box truck unloading delivery boxes from the Foodbank, which I then loaded into my truck.  I received a route sheet with addresses, phone numbers and a specified number of boxes for each household.  Everyone gets 2 except those with large families who may get 4 or 6.

Six months later, Whatcom Unified Command handed off to the Volunteer Center, reformatted our weekly-sign-up sheets and pick-up site.  We began picking up Foodbank boxes at the actual Foodbank even though the Volunteer Center continued to organize and oversee the delivery process.  Another six months passed, and the Volunteer Center handed off to …….. wait for it………. the Foodbank, who apparently changed their rules so those of us over 60 could continue to deliver the same food we had been delivering for a year and a half.  My suspicion is that most of the volunteers are, in fact, over 60 (and still capable of making informed decisions), so it is certainly in everyone’s best interests.

My pal Veronica and I deliver food together to people who don’t have cars or can’t drive because they are sick or disabled.  It’s a simple job, really, but in an odd way, quite interesting.  I’m curious by nature, and it gives me endless opportunity to poke my nose in neighborhoods all over town.  I have a friend who writes and publishes a podcast about her long, solo road trips crisscrossing the US. Cat is the first of a series of stories about the worlds shortest of road trips.

As we drive around town, we often stack boxes at front doors or on porches without seeing anyone.  Yesterday was different.  We delivered 2 food boxes and a pound of frozen hamburger to an apartment on Ferry Street.  A guy named Mike and his huge, long-haired, tortoise shell cat, Gato, came out to greet us.  We stopped to chat and pet the critter.  He told us his cat was a cross between a wild ocelot and a

Maine Coon – the largest ever domesticated cat.  It is one of the oldest natural breeds in North America, native to the US state of Maine, where it is the official state cat.

Mike and Gato were our last stop of the morning, so we offered them an extra package of leftover, frozen ground beef.   Joking, I said, “Gato might like this!”  Mike said, “Oh no, he only likes salmon I catch from the bay!”