A Work in Progress

I've been working on a memoir of my childhood for the last few months, and I thought it might be fun to post a chapter and see how you like it. It's long—it is, after all, a chapter—but I hope you'll read it when you have time and let me know if you enjoyed it. So for your reading leisure, The Old House.

During a recent Christmastime visit to Tennessee, my family gathered at my parents’ home for a Saturday morning breakfast. I hadn’t seen my family in at least two years, and sitting with them unleashed a flood of memories from my early years. As we ate, we recounted stories from our early years, mine being the most recent, more than 30 years ago.

It was like pulling the sheets off of furniture in an abandoned house, years of dust billowing into bright shafts of sunlight. Remembering some pieces of our childhoods brought us lots of laughter; others, sheepish, embarrassed grins. Like all the times my older brothers Steve and John launched me down our long wooden hallway on a toy tractor. Or the time John ran maniacally around our back yard covered with a sheet, shouting, “I’m a ghost! I’m a ghost!”; then plowed face-first into a fencepost. Or when Steve raced his bicycle down a steep hill and crashed like Evel Knievel at Caesar’s Palace. Or my insistent belief that I was, in fact, bionic.

Several hours of laughter and catching up later, we parted ways with hugs and promises to stay in touch. Mary and I, feeling a little nostalgic, decided to visit some of the places that had been such prominent fixtures in our youth.

I don’t even remember the last time we drove through Frayser to see the old house by the monastery. Mom and Dad had moved to the country years ago, where they retired from the business of caring for nuns and began caring for Mom’s aging mother, who had moved in with them.

As we passed familiar sights, I took note of landmarks—not in a cultural or historical sense, but in the sense that they had been, for 25 years or so, significant places in my life—and how they had changed over the years. The house of my best friend growing up still looked the same as it did 30 years ago, only now there were different cars in the driveway. The building that had once been Mary’s uncle’s auto repair shop still stood in the same place, but was now a used car lot. The Frayser Community Center, where I learned—with no great amount of surprise—just how badly I played tennis, still looked much like it did the last time I saw it.

We passed Frayser Elementary School, Frayser High School, and the corner convenience store where I used to ride my bike to get a cold Mountain Dew on a hot day.

Finally the red brick wall surrounding the monastery came into view. As I turned into the driveway, we passed under the familiar archway reading MONASTERY OF ST. CLARE, still standing, in brick and iron.

But the house was gone. Our old brick house, with the chipping white paint and the green shingle roof, was gone. Not even a brick remained; the only thing still standing was the detached garage that was now most likely used for storage. A gravel lot scattered with leaves now sat where my entire childhood took place. Gigantic oak and pecan trees that shaded us in the summer now stood sadly like mourners over the grave of a friend who has passed on before her time.

I started to speak, but the thoughts racing in my mind couldn’t slow down long enough to find their way to my mouth. Tears took me by surprise and I tried my best—unsuccessfully— to fight them back.

Why was I crying? I mean, it was just a house, right? No. It wasn’t just a house. It was my house, and it was so much more than bricks and plaster walls and hardwood floors. It was the house where I learned to tie my shoes, ride a bike, throw a football. The house where I careened at breakneck speeds down a long hardwood hallway on a toy tractor; played with Muffin, my first dog; and survived 11 days without power during Memphis’s worst-ever ice storm.

Mom and Dad had discovered the house in the late ‘60s. Like many other young couples in those days, they were having trouble making ends meet. Supporting a family on one salary from my father’s job as a firefighter was difficult, and they always seemed to have “month left over at the end of the money,” as they said. With three kids in school and the recent addition of a fourth—me—they were no longer able to make rent. Knowing their situation, a friend of Dad’s at the fire department, Frank Bradford, told him about the house he and his wife were living in.

Situated across a small parking lot from a secluded order of Franciscan nuns, the house was owned by the Catholic Diocese, and the Bradfords lived there rent-free in exchange for running errands and being general caretakers for the monastery. They lived in one side of the house, and an elderly woman rented the other side. Frank’s wife had been a schoolteacher and, after a few years off, was ready to start teaching again. They would be moving to a new home in a month or two, and Frank offered to let Mom and Dad take over their responsibilities.

Dad came home one afternoon and asked Mom if she wanted to move. For months, Mom had been praying for a new start. She never told Dad, but she had pleaded with God for something inexpensive so they could begin to work their way out of a mountain of debt. Her only request was that it have indoor running water and at least one toilet. She sighed a prayer of relief and gratitude when Dad told her it had two indoor bathrooms.

Indoor plumbing notwithstanding, the house was a wreck. It was infested with fleas, and the chiggers in the unkempt yard nearly carried Steve away, according to Mom. The windows were so loose that they were falling out of the sashes, and paint chips littered the windowsills and the floor at the baseboards. The elderly woman, after learning of the Bradfords’ plans to move, left and moved to Ohio to live with her two sons. But she left her mark on the place. She had cooked on a hotplate in her bedroom so often that gelatinous layers of brown grease had built up on the plaster walls and ceiling, and her toilet was caked with petrified feces that had to be scraped out with a putty knife.

My mother’s mother cried when she saw the house for the first time because she didn’t want her grandchildren to have to live in those conditions. My parents spent years fixing, cleaning, patching, and repairing that house to make it a home. They lived there 30 years, but still never got it quite the way they wanted it.

Sitting there facing a blank slate of land, I closed my eyes, and I could still see it standing there. My mind’s eye carried me through each room the way a robotic camera slowly takes viewers through the murky wreckage of a sunken ship.

We had two garages; one attached, one detached, that we referred to as “the little garage” and “the big garage,” respectively. The big garage was home to a collection of lawn mowers that we used commercially, and it always smelled of oil and gasoline. Garden tools, business end up in a blue fiberglass barrel, resembled a huge vase of particularly ugly flowers, old cans of motor oil and transmission fluid lined the shelves of a dusty bookcase, and scraps of plywood, old windows and doors, and lengths of trim molding loomed overhead in the cobwebs of the rafters.

The little garage held our washer and dryer, along with a chest freezer and baskets of laundry patiently waiting their turn. A counter ran along one side with cabinets above and a chest of drawers below, both full of treasures. My grandfather’s old hand tools, a five-pound coffee can full of assorted bolts and nuts, paintbrushes and rollers, cans and jars of stains and paints, their contents dribbling down their sides, crusty pairs of White Mule work gloves, and a collection of carpenter’s folding rulers.

I remember watching Dad sharpen lawn mower blades with the bench grinder, passing the long blades carefully over the wheels, a storm of orange sparks raining down on his boots and disappearing into the floor. When he had finished, the edges of the blades would gleam like polished chrome.

Exiting the garage and going up the stairs to the back door, I could see down the long hallway that stretched all the way to the front door. I stepped left into the kitchen, with its cornflower blue walls, linoleum floor, and Formica table, where scores of family dinners and conversations about grades, behavior, girls, and attitudes took place. Across the table and above the counter, a black rotary phone hung underneath shelves between two sets of ivory-colored metal cabinets on the wall opposite the refrigerator and stove. The fireplace on the far wall sat next to the cabinets where Mom kept flour and sugar in plastic one-gallon ice cream tubs.

Crossing the hall, I moved into the den that had once been my brother Steve’s bedroom. A couch and chair sat where his bed used to, and the black ornamental iron eagle he had secured to the fireplace years ago still spread its wings majestically. Stepping into the bathroom that joined my room to Steve’s, an old cast-iron claw foot tub sat under the window. The bathroom floor was made up of one-inch tiles, each a different color.

I remember bathing in that tub as a kid, pretending to be at the top of a huge mountain and staring down at those tiles as if each one were a parcel of land. On other occasions the tub was the captain’s chair of my spaceship and the tiles were buttons on a massive computer that controlled my flight through space. When bath time was over, I’d slip into my pajamas and crawl into bed, the coolness of air on wet skin sending a little shiver through me.

Stepping into my room, a row of storage cubbies sat above the bathroom door. They were where Christmas decorations, and on occasion, gifts, were stored during the year. My bed sat against the opposite wall, flanked on either side by my dresser and chest of drawers. A closet sat on either side of the bathroom door; one for my clothes, shoes, and toys, the other for my parents’ clothes. My room was the only one in the house without a fireplace. That was probably best, as I would most certainly burned the house down had I had one.

Across the hall was my parents’ room, which had a bathroom of its own that we all shared because it was the only one with a shower. I remember watching my dad and uncle Jim remodel that bathroom; covering the old walls with a new melamine material, caulking it, and even installing new fixtures in the sink and shower.

My parents’ closet was tiny—only deep enough for shoes—necessitating their acquisition of one of mine. There were many nights my little feet padded into their room and crawled into bed to sleep with my mother when my father was at the fire station. I would go to her side of the bed, the furthest from the door, and pat her on the shoulder until she woke up. She always said, “Climb in.”

I also used to sneak into their room when they were outside or busy somewhere else in the house and quietly slide open the top drawer of my father’s chest of drawers. At the very back left corner, behind his boxers, was a small tattered black box lined with red felt and divided into a half-dozen sections. Each section held something different and wonderful; mysterious coins and stamps collected from other countries during his years in the Navy, silver and brass pins worn on his firefighter’s uniform, tie pins he wore to church on Sundays.

I would place each item in the palm of my hand and run a finger over the surface to feel its texture, every curve and raised edge, and then place it back in its little section of the box. Once I had satisfied my curiosity, I carefully wedged the box back into its spot and slid the drawer closed. I did the same with items in my mother’s dresser. She kept a collection of silver dollars in a coin purse in the top right drawer and I loved to crawl onto their bed with it, spill the clinking coins onto the white heirloom chenille bedspread, and then push them over each other to listen to the smooth friction between them.

The living room was the last room at the end of the hall, and it spanned the depth of the house from front to back. The house was so old that the light switches in the living room were the push-button kind. At one end of the room was the fireplace, and on either side were shelves filled with Bible reference books, countless Reader’s Digest condensed books, various knick-knacks, and a set of Book of Knowledge encyclopedias. Occasionally I would sit in the floor with one volume open in my lap and peel through the thick, glossy pages to look at the colorful pictures of exotic animals in places I would probably never go. Sadly, the encyclopedias were used more often as weights to hold sheets and blankets in the construction of forts than they ever were for the purpose of education. Our living room was for that sole purpose: living.

The entire family was doing just that one night when I was five. The circus was on our rickety 20” TV, and as the high-wire performers on the screen inched carefully across a thin cable, I pretended to do the same around the edge of our large braided rug. At that age, I was seriously deficient in both motor skills and balance, and I promptly fell face-first into the coffee table, leaving two tooth-sized grooves in the edge where my front teeth gouged their way through the wood. I don’t really remember much after that, which is probably for the best.

Other, brighter memories in this room included countless Christmases, with family members spread around the room laughing and reminiscing, just as we had earlier that day at Mom’s and Dad’s.

The images of my childhood in this crumbling old house are still so vivid, it’s hard to believe that it’s gone. The stories each board and brick held we also hold in our hearts and minds. The memories leave a permanent imprint like, say, teeth in a coffee table. I can’t help but feel a little silly for naively believing that it would always be there. That I would always be able to drive by and see it. The house’s absence still leaves me a little sad. It was both a monument to and an icon of my formative years, but realizing it’s gone has brought about an overwhelming desire to reconstruct both on the page. It’s brought me a reason to keep in touch with my family a little more often. To revisit the places I remember so fondly and wake the ghosts of my childhood.

And by remembering the good times we had and keeping the memories alive, that old house will stand forever in our minds, chipping white paint, spaceship bathtubs and all.

~Alan

The Fly By

“I did a fly by today,” Mary says while we’re washing dishes after dinner.

“You did a what?” I ask.

“A fly by. Is that right? Fly by?”

“Ummm, not familiar with the term. At least not outside the realm of aeronautics.”

Gesturing with her hands, she says, “You know, when you fart and then walk by someone. I did a fly by on them.”

“I think you mean you crop dusted them.”

“Crop dusted! That’s it!” she exclaims, smacking the counter with the dishtowel.

“Who did you crop dust?” I ask, laughing and scrubbing the inside of a skillet.

“A school visitor in the office. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,” she says sheepishly.

“Then it wasn’t an intentional crop dusting?” I ask.

“Well, I knew it was coming and I didn’t do anything to stop it,” she says.

“Then it was intentional.”

“Oh. I really didn’t mean for it to be.”

A moment of silence passed, and then she said, “I think she heard it.”

“What? Why? Did she look at you or say something?”

“I don’t know, I was too embarrassed to look back. But it was loud enough that I’m pretty sure she heard it. I heard it.”

“Yeah, but you knew to listen for it. You can’t assume she heard it,” I say, hanging the skillet on the rack.

“I was leaving the office when it happened. Maybe she thought it was the door opening?” she says hopefully.

“Hey, whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Another moment of silence, then: “You’re going to put this on the blog, aren’t you?”


~Alan

On Thin Ice

Nothing comes closer to turning me into a gay man than watching figure skating. When Chinese pair Shen and Zhao performed their short program on Valentine’s night, I wished for a gold medal for them. And they got it, by the way. I found myself sitting there enraptured by their talent, their grace and power. And I was nearly on the edge of my seat with every move, finally breathing when they finished.

Other couples were less memorable, and I found myself being a little catty with them, saying things like, “That is the most horrible triple toeloop I have ever witnessed,” “What’s up with that straight line step sequence? I’ve seen better footwork in 'Planet of the Apes on Ice,'” and “It’s a pair combination spin, honey! You’re supposed to be in synch with each other, hence the word ‘pair!'”

I don’t understand. I didn’t behave like that when we watched snowboarding or downhill skiing. What is it about figure skating that makes me go all Carson Kressley? Don’t get me wrong; I love Carson more than my luggage, but why am I not that way with all of the competitions? Maybe it’s the intrinsic femininity of the sport itself.

I don’t mean the competitors are gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but let’s face it—it does require one to move with quite a bit more flourish than other sports. Plus, if you compare the petite frames of the female skaters to those of, say, the female curlers, the difference is obvious. I’m probably thinking about this too much. I should just enjoy it. And I will. As soon as I make myself another Cosmopolitan.


~Alan

Just One of the Girls

Super Bowl weekend is over. Apparently the Saints won, although I didn’t watch the game—I was obsessed with Hoarders and couldn't stop watching, a fact I find ironic. My weekend didn’t include anything even remotely Super Bowl-ish. In fact, Saturday night Mary and I went to a Miss America Pageant party. Yes, I know the pageant was last week. But the weather here was such that the party was postponed a week. The pageant was recorded, and all those invited had to swear to not watch it.
At a Miss America pageant party, you might expect the atmosphere to be one of dignity and grace, where champagne is served in crystal goblets, petite finger foods are artfully arranged on beautiful platters, and conversation is intellectually stimulating. This? Was not that kind of party. This gathering was for the express purpose of making fun of the pageant and its contestants. As a born cynic, that’s the kind of party I can really sink my teeth into.
Instead of champagne in goblets, there was wine and rum in plastic cups. Instead of crudités, pâté de foie gras, and petit fours, there were pigs in a blanket, cheese dip, and red velvet cupcakes. Instead of dignity and grace, there were cackles and screams of laughter, especially when a contestant nearly bought it coming down the steps in her evening gown, hit a bad note during a performance, or had a ridiculously bad hairdo. And instead of intellectual conversation, there was talk and laughter about another friend—who wasn’t present—blow-drying her naked crotch in a hotel room while her roommates looked on in shocked disbelief. It was a fantastic party.
The invitation came by way of Tracy, a friend of mine whom I worked with at BP. Her friend and former neighbor, Darlene, hosts the party every year for a group of about ten women. This year, for the first time ever they broke tradition and invited a man. Me. And I had a blast. Mary even made pageant sashes for the two of us. She was “Misdemeanor” and I was “Misguided.”
Several of the other women have obviously known each other for a long time. They enjoyed a familiarity with each other, one that quickly rubbed off on Mary and me. The chatter was nonstop throughout the pageant, but when a contestant appeared in a particularly garish evening gown, ill-fitting swim suit, or displayed a decidedly lame talent, catty laughter and applause swelled and filled the room.
Comments were made about contestants’ awful spray tans, having too much junk in their trunk—which was true, as more than one could have used their butt as a bookshelf—or bearing a striking resemblance to everyone from Mary Lou Retton to Princess Fiona from Shrek. Even the winner, Caressa Cameron (Miss Virginia) was not exempt from this, as she was compared to “the Avatar chick.” If you’ve not seen either, trust me—she looks just like her.
One of the great points of the night was during Miss Hawaii’s talent portion—not surprisingly, the Hula—when the graphic at the bottom of the screen flashing snippets of information about her revealed that her favorite accessory is a smile, placing her in direct contention with the overly perky Miss Kentucky for Pageant Pollyanna. The noise that came from those women was one of frustrated dismay—the same noise that men make when their team fumbles the ball.
The night ended too soon. Mary and I had a fabulous time, and feel like we made some new friends. I selfishly hope we’re invited back next year. I can’t wait.

~Alan

The Drawing Board

There’s nothing I hate worse than staring at a blank screen. I’m sitting here attempting to craft a series of words that will explain, with brevity and clarity, why I haven’t written anything about my diabetes and weight loss in so long. That’s what I intended this blog to be about—along with the occasional funny experience or observation.
The simple truth is this: I haven’t been doing as well as I would have liked, and I’ve had so much support from so many of you, I really didn’t want to broadcast my failure. I shouldn’t say failure; my friend Chuck always reminds me that it’s only failure if you stop trying. I initially expected that the accountability of sharing my results on this blog would propel me to action and certain success. Yeah, not so much. So instead of admit my struggle, I’ve just chosen not to share at all, which is not what I promised myself I would do. So here’s a very brief recap of what I’ve omitted:
During the holidays, I ate more than I intended to—peanut brittle and fudge were particularly hard to resist—but still managed to maintain some semblance of control. But then I put weight back on that I had lost, slumped into a bit of a depression, and spiraled into a short season of bingeing. I’m doing better now, although I still have the occasional setback, though not nearly as often. I still need to get into a regular exercise schedule, something that will help as much or more than eating right. I’ve also been in the process of writing a memoir, for which the research and writing takes up a good bit of time, but were I to manage my time more efficiently I would have time for it all.
So I seem to be back at the drawing board, in a sense, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, the drawing board is where plans are created, edited, and (hopefully) improved.


~Alan

Dredging up the Past

I haven’t posted here in a month or so, and I have to come clean: I’ve been writing on the side. For the past several months I’ve been working on a memoir of my childhood growing up next door to a Catholic monastery, and the past few weeks have kept me at my computer, putting the finishing touches on chapters that will serve as a partial manuscript (after an initial query) for a literary agent should he or she require them. But I still plan on blogging as often as I can, if for no other reason than the fact that I enjoy it. And those of you who knew me in my childhood, feel free to toss your memories my way. I’d love to hear them. Thanks.

 

~Alan

A Safe Place

It's two o'clock in the afternoon. My wife, two friends, and I park at the unmarked entrance of a nondescript building. A phone call is made. The door opens and we step out of the bright sun into a dim, fluorescent-lit corridor. We are escorted though a maze of hallways, each under the scrutiny of monitored surveillance cameras. We are being watched closely. Each door we pass through requires a key or badge. Security is at its highest. This place is not a government bunker or a maximum-security prison. It's the Northwest Arkansas Women's Shelter, a safe haven for women and children who are survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault. They've experienced firsthand the kind of violence that most of us only encounter in nightmares that leave us with racing hearts and sweaty skin. But these women have made the decision to leave, and, perhaps in the dead of night, they've fled their homes, leaving behind their old lives—along with many of their possessions—in order to start a new one. We're here to cook Christmas dinner for them. It seem like such a trivial thing to do when compared with the list of other needs they each must surely have.

The kitchen is in the middle of the residence, and "clients," as they're referred to, peek from their rooms and around corners as we make our way through the hall. Though small, the kitchen has sufficient room to work. We begin to unpack the rolling cart, suitcase, and cooler with the food and tools we will need to cook. On my team today are Margo, a friend and coworker (who I am convinced is my sister, Evelyn, incarnate), her friend Kristy, and my wife, Mary. They have graciously volunteered their time to help prepare the large meal. As we begin, I'm a little flustered. I'm not in my own kitchen, which throws me a bit. Fortunately, Mary steps in and makes the logistics flow. She is the Tom Cruise to my Dustin Hoffman.

Margo and Kristy chop apples, peppers, and onions while I retrieve from the cooler one of the two turkeys we'll be cooking. I smear butter and herbs in the pocket created by separating the skin from the meat with my fingers. Chopped apples, onions, and herbs go into the cavity of the turkey to act as aromatics and add flavor. The children's laughter bouncing through the halls surprises me. I don't know what I expected. Of the four or five years that we've cooked for the shelter, this is the first time we've cooked on site; the first time we've been in close proximity to the clients and them to us. A little girl suddenly appears at the kitchen door.

"Boo!" she says loudly. "Did I scare you?" We all feign surprise and shock, assuring her that we were, indeed, scared. She giggles and runs off. Moments later she is back to scare us again. And we are just as scared the second time around. And the third. And the fourth. Eventually the other children come into the kitchen to check things out, watch us work, and stand on tiptoes to peer into bowls being filled with chopped apples, peppers, and onions. A woman with a positively cherubic baby on her hip slips into the kitchen quietly and opens a cabinet door.

"I'm sorry, I just want to get a coffee cup and I'll be out of your way," she says. Out of our way? Is this another symptom of having been abused? The assumption that no matter where you are or where you go you're in someone's way?

"I think we're the ones in the way," I say with a smile and a slight laugh. A smile forms on her lips, hesitantly at first, then spreads across her face, crinkling her skin.

"No, we appreciate y'all coming in here and cooking for us," she says. The baby grabs a handful of Mom's hair and gently pulls her fingers through it. This child is beyond adorable. With chubby pink cheeks and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, she is the kind of child who turns rational adults into babbling idiots. We all fawn over her, which delights her and her mother to no end. As they leave the kitchen, we all return the little one's bye-bye waves—not so much waves as fat little fingers repeatedly scrunched as if grabbing at invisible butterflies.

Both turkeys are now in the oven. Margo, Kristy, and Mary are a blur, cutting focaccia bread into cubes and sautéing onions and peppers as I chop celery for the rustic bread dressing. Mary has had the presence of mind to bring the iPod and a portable speaker. As we cook we're serenaded with Christmas tunes by Harry Connick, Jr., Chicago, Bebe and Cece Winans, and others. The pots on the stove release wisps of steam into the air, which is warm and thick with the smells of holiday food. Another woman steps into the kitchen, hands Margo an envelope, and quickly walks away. Margo opens it and begins to read the enclosed card to us. As she reads, her voice becomes strained and tears well up in her eyes. By the time she finishes, we are all overcome and unable to do anything remotely resembling work.

"Me and my children would like to thank you all for making Christmas dinner for us. It touches my heart that you all take time out of your own lives to touch someone else's. Thank you and God bless you."

She includes her first name and those of her three children—something not usually done in these circumstances. We compose ourselves and soldier on. It's time to toast the bread cubes and start the cranberry compote. Margo and Kristy have buzzed through chopping vegetables and bread. There's not much left to do except wait for the turkeys to finish cooking, so I tell them that if they want they can leave. I do have two other dishes to make, smashed sweet potatoes with cinnamon and nutmeg, and green beans with a balsamic shallot butter, but these will be easy. After Margo and Kristy leave to be escorted back out, a little boy comes into the kitchen, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, and asks, "What're you doing?"
"We're cooking dinner," Mary responds.
"Wif what?"
"Well, there's turkey. Do you like turkey?"
A head shake no.
"How about dressing. Do you like dressing?"
Another no.
"What about sweet potatoes. Do you like those?"
Yet another no.
"I bet you like hot dogs and macaroni and cheese," Mary says triumphantly.
Finally, a nod yes.
"Well, we're going to have some for you here in just a little bit. Would you like a cookie for now?"
A vigorous nod yes.
He clutches his cookie close to his chest like an otter holding a clam and skips out of the kitchen, only to return a few moments later. I can see him eyeing the suitcase full of utensils and dry goods. Picking up a masher, he asks, "What's dis?"
"That's a potato masher," Mary says. "You use it to mash up potatoes."
"I wanna do it."
"Um...OK." Then to me, "Are the sweet potatoes ready to be mashed?"
"Yes they are," I answer.
Mary sets the foil roasting pan on the lid of the cooler and together they mash the sweet potatoes. Several more utensils get pulled from the suitcase, each with the requisite "What's dis?" and "I wanna do it." After helping bring other dishes to completion, he darts off to play with the other children.

As the afternoon goes on, we begin the process of cleaning up and packing our things back into the cart and suitcase. The women are now milling around outside the kitchen, peeking in occasionally to smile, say hi, and tell us how good it smells. Their gratitude for such a small thing is overwhelming. I can only imagine the ways in which their worlds have been turned upside down. Perhaps something as simple as a meal can lend a sense of normalcy to their lives.

As we head down the hall, a stampede of children rushes us from behind and surrounds us, reaching and hugging, giggling and thanking us. After every hug has been dispensed, we are escorted back through the maze of hallways to the exit. We are thanked one last time by the advocate on duty and the door closes behind us. It is now dark and cold outside, but I know that the women and children inside are enjoying a warm Christmas dinner in a safe place.

~Alan