Operation Granola Bar

The man smiled very warmly at me and he said proudly, "I'd like to introduce you to my wife, Laverne."

Laverne was beaming at me and then she said, "Yep, I'm his wife, Laverne, just like the TV show 'Laverne and Shirley', and my husband's name is Raymond, just like 'Everybody Loves Raymond'!  We're quite the pair!".


Since I am a fan of simple humor (such as knock-knock jokes) that might elicit eye-rolling from those who can only find the funny in more sophisticated comedy, I chuckled at this one and suddenly the three of us were in a grinning contest.  We chatted for a couple minutes and then I walked away, happy to have met them.

I was bewildered by Raymond and Laverne.  They were as friendly as can be,  as seemingly normal as any couple that you might meet.  What I had just given to Raymond, he immediately and graciously gave to his wife.  Unfortunately, what I gave him was a measly granola bar. 


Even more unfortunate is the fact that they are homeless.

I didn't glean any clues from our conversation that could explain the mystery of their situation.  I didn't ask probing questions or tell them to get a job already and they didn't complain to me or ask me for money or make me feel uncomfortable.  Maybe one or both of them are struggling with substance abuse, maybe they lost their jobs, maybe they're not very bright, maybe they're mentally unstable...who knows.  Maybe they were just like us until they couldn't stay above water anymore.  When we see homeless people begging for money, it's easier for us to assume that they are lazy or shake our heads about their assumed addictions and keep on walking rather than entertain the preposterous notion that they could be similar to us in any way.


I do know a couple things about Laverne and Raymond.  When I met them, their eyes were clear.  They were extremely grateful, and they each told me how much they appreciated what I gave them.  I was embarrassed and mumbled something about how I was sorry I only had one and they tried to make me feel better, saying that every little bit helps.  They put me at ease with their polite and easy-going banter.


To give you some background as to how this came to pass, I use the bus for my work commute in the warmer months of the year.  In the colder months, I park on one side of one of the rivers and walk over a bridge or take a shuttle, depending on the weather.  I started to notice that there was a man sleeping on the cement near the bridge, out in the open by the river, with a bunch of blankets around him.  Then I noticed more blankets, more piles of people, and this was how I eventually came into contact with my sitcom couple.  Sometimes as many as five or six piles, but usually just two.  What were they doing there?  Isn't there a shelter they can go to?   Are those shelters filled to capacity and turning people away?  How could they get any rest on the cold concrete?

I'm like most people and I dislike being cold.  Except I hate it so much that I bundle up like I'm going into a blizzard even if I'm just walking very briefly from one heated place to the next.  I'd wear a snuggie over my coat if it was socially acceptable.  I take a shuttle because I can't stand a ten minute walk which could be invigorating and (gasp!) even good for me.  So then I imagine how the homeless must feel in the bitter cold, and I hate thinking about it...so...it's easier to just NOT think.  Thank God that we've had a mild winter.

I was afraid to go up to Laverne and Raymond.  What if they were rude?  What if they got angry?  What if they demanded money?  Was this a safe thing to do?  Don't worry Mom and Dad, I approached them with one hand on the granola bar and one hand ready with the pepper spray in my pocket (which felt very silly after I met them).

On the way home that night, I was relieved and happy and ashamed and sad and encouraged all at the same time.  I stopped at a gas station and I bought a loaf of bread.  The next morning, I made two PB&J sandwiches to bring for them... except it wasn't enough.  With anxiety, I saw that there were five piles of blankets the next morning.  Everyone was covered up.  How would I know which blanket pile housed my two new friends?  Did it matter?  Why didn't I think to make more sandwiches?  What if they have peanut allergies?  I didn't know what to do... so I just took a guess and placed the bag near one of the piles.  The man heard me and flung back his blankets with an angry stare.  I told him I was dropping off food and then I ran off, cowardly for some reason, before he could say anything.  I hope he shared.

I'm not telling you this so I can pat myself on the back for doing two semi-slightly good deeds.  If I was trying to do that, it would have made sense to actually do something that is notable and praise-worthy instead of giving them a lousy half-lunch that most adults don't even typically eat. 

I'm telling you about Operation Granola Bar and his ambitious buddy Operation Peanut Butter and Jelly because I want suggestions on how else to help.  Are there other Operations that I could do?  What if every day someone tried to help someone else out, even if it was through something as small as a granola bar?*  What is a good volunteer organization that I can link up with?  What to do?  I'm also writing this down so I don't forget my experience and this desire to help... because I should help.  I have the ability, the time, and the patience (that last part is debatable at times but I'm certain I could manage).  Aside from trying to learn how to play the piano, I need another really good excuse as to why I'm not writing "my novel" which is about as fictional as it can get. 

As much as I like to complain about my inability to fold sheets properly or the fact that I can't sleep sometimes ... at least I don't have real problems.  We all take pride in our homes... where we pass our time with friends and family, maybe dreaming about plans for a future home someday or thinking back to memories in previous homes... but what if we didn't have one?   How would that feel?

Laverne and Raymond are real people.  And they are really nice.  And I hope and pray that they are not really cold somewhere right now.

 

* The importance of kind words should never be underestimated.

P.S.  I read an article awhile ago that got me thinking.. the embedded link here is from a real writer (my definition of "real writer" = one who writes consistently, esp. one who gets paid to write) with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.  I don't know what the author typically writes and I don't know what his politics are (nor do I care, uggghhhhh politicssss, election year, blech), but this article made sense to me... so therefore you are subjected to it in this post.

P.P.S.  In case you were wondering, I continue to look for Raymond and Laverne and unfortunately I haven't seen them since.  I hope they have been able to get off the streets.  I hope their absence isn't indicative of the fact that I must be an incredibly lousy PB&J assembler.  :(



Anna Begins

You promised me

you'd never leave

you'd make me laugh

you'd hold my hand

you'd be here

You proposed to me

a lifetime of smiles

a lifetime of understanding

a lifetime of together

a lifetime of love

You vowed to me

your heart

your body

your mind

your life

 

Until you suddenly

left

me

alone.

 

My heart aches

not a woman

not a job

not an addiction

but death


in its consuming finality

And now it is only me to remember our plans

And now it is stolen from my future

your hands

your home

your children

your gray hair

 

But wait

Even as I cannot comprehend

why you chose to leave a life, full
and a love, true

I made promises too

I will remember you

I will cherish you

I will love you
I will never stop.

Toodles

My grandmother had many names throughout her 82 years on this earth.  Her given name was Rose Marie, and she was quick to tell you that the name was TWO words, with a space in-between, instead of one big long Rosemarie.  She was called Rose, Rosie, Rosie Posey, Ree, and Ree-Ree.  “Po” was the nickname that finally stood apart from all of the rest, short for Posey.  Her two daughters simply called her Mom, and her son affectionately dubbed her his “large fat Mama” (in all fairness it certainly was an accurate name).  Of course, my brother and I - along with our first cousins - knew her as our Grandma Po.   Out of all of those names, I've managed to convince myself that “grandma” was the name she cherished the most.

Now if you never had the pleasure of meeting her, you may be picturing a gentle, gray-haired, and soft-spoken octogenarian.  Certainly not so!  In her grandmotherly prime (as I knew her to be in her 70’s) she was indeed large, quite forceful, and she would never dream of letting her hair go gray.  She was an Italian grandmother, so what she lacked in height she made up for in voice.  She would stand in front of the bathroom mirror, her brown eyes peering in at her reflection through her big glasses…armed with a comb in hand as it expertly coiffed her light brown, almost reddish, pompadour into a high circle around her head before putting on the finishing touches of hair spray.  “Rouge” and lipstick were always applied before leaving the house with the latter properly blotted on a tissue, and then both would get placed somewhere in her abundant bosom for safe-keeping and later use.  Having lived through the Depression like many others of her generation, the woman was practical to a fault and she couldn’t discard a tissue until it was not only used thrice, but literally, grossly, falling apart.  Tissue manufacturers hated how this one woman diminished their profit margins but rejoiced when her Texan relatives came to visit, and she would bemoan the rapidity with which they would deplete her paper products.  She scoffed at their naive single use idealogies.  She would sprinkle baby powder into her decades old black slip-on shoes, turn off her constant companion TV with the plunger (more on this later), and grab her garage door opener along with her purse.  The last ritual before going out was to kiss her hand and place it on top of her black Bible while whispering a prayer.  So that's how she made it safely down her steep basement stairs all those years!! 

The aforementioned purse was anything but a dainty accessory.  This thing was heavy and it was a workhorse.  What would this looks-like-a-purse-but-functions-like-a-small-piece-of-luggage haul?  Oh, just some things any ole’ gal might need:  more lipstick, pens, her wallet, keys, more tissues just in case, lots of gum for the grandkids (this is how my addiction started), Necco wafers, and Tums.  Except Po wasn’t just any ole’ gal, which was proven by the fact that she also carried: pliers, sandpaper, a hammer, a mason jar full of coins, and clean "bloomers".  The woman loved tools, she used the sandpaper to “clean” her pencil erasers, almost never spent change unless absolutely necessary, and well, you just never knew when a clean pair of bloomers would come in handy.   Do you know anyone who actually cleans the lead off the eraser?  Even though I knew its contents, I would still marvel at the weight of her purse when she asked me to hold it for her; no wonder the woman was so strong.  I should really rethink my gym membership.  There was a brief period of time when she was tempted by the latest wallet-on-a-string fad and traded everything in for the self-described “cute” very long strap that she would wear diagonally across her chest.  Not having to use your hands or half of your body strength to lug around most of your possessions?  Very convenient!  Not having all of your tools when you want them and not being able to make exact change for a purchase?  Luckily the fad fizzled as those things typically do and life went back to normal.  Whew.

She openly made fun of everyone and yet she also loved everyone too.  Stealing one of her favorite phrases, she was “bad but good”.  This was the way she described her late husband, my grandfather, who passed away before I was born.  Together they raised three wonderful people who I love very much.  I could not possibly have a better mom and I thank God for her every day.  Grandma certainly teased and scolded plenty, but then she would also save all of the table scraps “for the animals” and place it outside, realizing that every living creature had the same basic needs.   At times the woman seemed to be such a contradiction and those surprising inconsistencies are part of what made her lovable.  Her jokes were hilarious and oftentimes were bawdy and not politically correct, but you had to laugh despite trying not to do so.  She would lower her voice so as not to get caught by my mom when she told borderline age-inappropriate jokes to her grandkids with a conspiratory smile.  Because of this and her hollering ways, she was… bad but good.

Some memories about her that I don’t want to forget:

I remember – the way she said hello when she answered the phone... she drawled out the word, slow on the first syllable and short on the second, yet still taking much longer to say the word than most people.  We have all tried to imitate it but it has never been successfully done.

I remember – the way her eyes shone as she stood clapping for me, smiling through happy tears as I stood triumphant on a stage.  My parents and my brother were there too, but the memory of her presence is what I remember the most, seeking her face out of the crowd.  I was thirteen at the time.

I remember – her booming voice and how she could yell so much when she frequently got mad, usually until she coughed (and then you’d get in trouble for making her cough).

I remember – her own made-up vocabulary.  The “F” word was NOT permitted and God help you if you said it.  My cousin would say it purposefully to get a reaction out of her and I was always amazed at his unflinching courage beyond his years.  He was younger than me!  I sat stoic, mute with fear.  Jarret:  “It’s not a swear word, it’s just Fart”.  He’d say this casually as if it were any other F word, like saying “food” or “football”.  Grandma Po, wide-eyed: (Gasp!  Thundering fist striking the table!) “How DARE you say such a thing in my house!  I don’t ever want to hear you say that again!  I mean it!”  Her tirade continued.  Her preferred word for the term, which no one could explain or defend, not even her, was “Tommy”.  Seriously, Grammy Po, where did that COME from?? Growing up I never understood why anyone would name their child Thomas until I eventually realized that was a made-up term on her part.  She also called the remote control the “plunger” and she called the plunger the ….?  That remains one of life's many mysteries.

I remember – the way she’d wave goodbye from the living room picture window every single time we drove away.

I remember – her mean streak sense of humor to us kids - how she would talk about her “demise” and suddenly shut her eyes and drop her head on her chest, taunting us to look.  This absolutely horrified us as children and made us laugh as teenagers, protesting her to please stop! because deep down we didn’t want to believe it would ever happen.

I remember – spending the night at her house as a child and how she would tuck me in – so different from the way my parents did it yet still just as comforting.

I remember – how she came to every dance recital of mine and my cousin’s, even in the sweltering summer heat before every single building in America decided to create an artificial season known as the AC-induced-winter-in-summer, with her tiny hand-held fan as she cheered us on, always telling us afterwards that we were “the best ones”, even if we weren't.  (I just added that last part to be nice ... of course we were the best!!  At least we had the best fans.)

I remember – the chinny-chin-chin goodbyes that my brother and I enjoyed and my mother disapproved.

I remember – coming home from Kansas City after her first of many big surgeries, when she was allowed back in her home for a brief period.  I had never lived so far away from home and was fearful that the world was turning in the wrong direction since she became ill.  So many people do not get similar second chances with loved ones and we were all lucky to have many of them with her.  When I saw her that day, we both cried because she knew how scared I was…  I knelt down by her chair as I usually did and buried my face in her arms, taking in her familiar scent while she stroked my hair, and we spent the afternoon together talking out on the front porch.  I was twenty-three at the time.

I remember – a breakfast feast of cinnamon sugar atop buttered toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice upon toast slice.   Yes, 12 slices of cinnamon toast and that was just my breakfast on one Saturday.  My brother probably ate 2 loaves that particular day.  Grandma Po probably rested afterwards.  She was the ultimate chef in the fine cuisine of toasting… with many people denying such a skill even existed, secretly trying to hone their own skills, and making fun of us grandkids for even suggesting this notion.  They changed their opinion when they were fortunate enough for her to graciously make them a slice…this was if she had any bread in her home after her grandchildren left.

I remember – her holding court in her chair, entertaining young and old alike with stories of her “making a man”… using perfect comedic timing and feigning innocence just as we were all gathered to eat one of her delicious meals.

I remember – playing cards with her, and even the cards weren’t exempt from taking orders.  Canasta was our favorite game to play together.  “Nnnyyeah BE THERE!” she’d shout at the deck as she whipped up the top card, fully expecting to see the one she needed most in her hand through sheer will.  This action was also frequently mimicked and usually brought on fits of giggles.

I remember – the only time I ever, and I mean EVER, that I saw her listen to someone else.  It was the weekend and we were visiting my great-grandmother.  My Grandma Helen and my Grandma Po started bickering over something, while my mom and I watched silently.  I had a friend who was with us for the day’s adventures, and she stood silent as well.  She didn’t come from an Italian family so even then I knew this was shocking for her.  Finally my great-grandmother had heard enough, and she shouted “SIT! DOWN! and SHUT! UP!”.  My friend and I were incredulous.  First, back then kids listened to adults and therefore we listened to my mom.  Second, a grandma is even older so naturally we had to listen to her too.  But a great-grandmother who can make my Grandma Po sink silently in slow-motion and tight-lipped into a chair?  That took some power.  I lost touch with that friend, but I am positive that she still remembers it too.  I need to find her on this high-tech thing that is the book of many faces and find out.  I was twelve years old at the time.

I remember – her kind eyes.  I have known many people with lovely eyes, but only hers and one other person that I’ve ever met have had eyes that would make me describe them as “kind”.  It’s like you can see the pure goodness of the soul and the emotion behind them.  I could only see this in her in rare flashes, but when it was there it was unmistakable.  (In case you are wondering, the only other person was one of her very favorite people, her nephew Bobby.)

I remember - the game shows, the stories, sitting on the front porch swing, picking up sticks and buckeyes, the lemon and chocolate bundt cakes, blast-offs, people watching at the mall, the spaghetti (omg, the spaghetti!!), puzzles, green beans, the big hats and strip teases that were a staple of every family reunion (I guarantee it was all PG.  Maybe PG-13.), New Years' Eves, my basketball games, her love of pigs, shopping at Big Lots and WOW, the way she took her coffee with overdoses of cream and sugar, the clean & crisp smell of her linen closet, the high school float flowers even though it was a beautiful waste of tissues, her soulful off-key renditions of Christmas songs and popular Elvis and Vince Gill songs.

I remember – all the things she did for her family – the big sacrifices, the frequent prayers, the little things that usually go unnoticed, and I am very thankful and blessed that I knew such a remarkable woman, my Grandma Po, for 27 years of her 82 on this earth.

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P.S.  If you knew my Grammy Po, please share a memory with me!  Thank you!  :)