Hunger Is Not a Disease

Reality in the Food Pantry

 

“How did we all fit?”  What is the reality in the food pantry?

New shoppers always had funny looks on their faces the first time they shopped at the pantry.  They expected to fill out forms.  They expected to prove through documents they existed, had an address, and deserved the food.

They brought social security cards, utility bills, pay stubs, birth certificates.  They came prepared to surrender their innermost private lives in exchange for recycled food originally rejected by a farmer, food manufacturer, grocer, wholesaler.  It was all  bound for a landfill.

The pantry didn’t have much in the way of screening procedures.  For intake, shoppers signed their names and wrote the number of seniors, adults, and children in the household.

Nobody showed documents, especially not their social security cards.  Our forms didn’t ask for addresses because the first inspector to visit the pantry after I became the coordinator assured me they weren’t necessary.

On pantry day, hungry people lined up and went through the pantry as fast as we could process them.  In the two-to-three minutes they had in the room, they took their share of everything on the shelves, regardless of what it was.  I never saw a person turn up a nose at canned peas, fresh spaghetti squash, or beets.

Pantry food is a shock to hungry people on their first visit.  They see unrecognizable items. They sometimes sought a realitycheck. They don’t know what they’re called, how to prepare and eat them, how to store them.  They have no idea what the nutritional content is.

Often, ethnic shoppers have no money and are separated from anything and everything they know or experienced.  Undocumented citizens have no money, know few or no people, probably can’t speak the language, and they are forced by circumstances to shop in a pantry offering nothing familiar to eat.  This must be a lonely feeling.  They questioned the reality of their circumstance.

Worse, finding ethnic food, kosher food, Asian food, is simply not going to happen in a pantry.  This is not necessarily by design.  Food pantries only have food available to them that the food bank has to share.  And, of course, the food bank shares what is donated.

At the end of the shift on pantry day, in the quiet of the closed pantry room, I counted totals.  I carefully added the children, adults, seniors, and households in the pantry line that day.  Often I was surprised at the end of a shift that such large numbers of hungry people shopped in the pantry in one afternoon.

The State of New York sent down clear guidelines, rules, conditions about what, how, and when pantries distributed food donated to hungry people.

Produce came from area farms.  The Hepworth Farm, the Patroon Farm (owned by the Food Bank of Northeastern New York), and Migliorelli Farm as well as from other area farms throughout the Hudson River Valley, throughout the nation, and from foreign countries even.  Farms grew and gave beautiful, fresh, clean, colorful, aromatic produce.

Produce made its way from a farm to a wholesaler, food manufacturer, and finally, a bakery or grocery chain in New York State.  Food manufacturers, wholesalers, farmers, supermarkets salvaged food and donated it to the food bank.  And that’s where the food banks came in.  Food pantries received rejected food anywhere along the food chain.  Volunteers put it on the shelves, and distributed it to hungry people lacking money to buy food.

Most fresh produce came directly to the food bank and what received was often organic but not labeled.  It costs money to label produce as organic.  The stickers alone cost money.  Paying someone to apply them is another cost.  The reason against labeling the produce is practical.  Labeled or not, this beautiful food kept shoppers from feeling they were getting rations.  That’s how the State of New York wanted it.

Not all Hudson Valley farms used organic methods.  Migliorelli Farms, for example, didn’t label produce as organic because this family-owned farm used European agricultural standards to reduce health risks and exposure to pesticides by incorporating crop rotation, fertilization, irrigation, and planting systems.

Never ours, the food was in our safekeeping to give to hungry people, homeless people, the mentally ill, physically ill, poor, to anyone in need.  Leastways, that was what I thought we were supposed to do with it.

New York State tax dollars worked in the pantry.  When volunteers worked at the pantry, we did so willingly and for free.

Sometimes I thought I was the only one in town to see it this way.  Many felt I fed the unworthy hungry, that I embraced the wrong people.  None of the food boxes came to the pantry stamped Worthy Hungry Only.  I never understood what unworthy hungry meant, who the unworthy were, where they came from.  I didn’t understand unworthy hungry the same way I didn’t understand rocket science.  I just didn’t get it.  Because I didn’t get it, no one could sway my beliefs.

Instead, I understood hunger, giving, receiving, sharing, and abundance.  When people signed their names and accepted food, miracles rippled out beyond the building, beyond walls and boundaries – to a divine experience.

While shoppers got food, they sought the resources to live meaningful lives and to trust there was something to believe in, cling to.  They sought the focus to rebuild  lives.

At the pantry day’s end, I was thankful people got groceries.

I searched and searched and got beyond hunger and abundance.  My search was about the meaning of life.  In my youth, (in my thirties), I asked two questions:  What is the meaning of life?  Whatever happened to the Anasazi?

In the pantry (in my seventies), I still searched for the meaning of life.  My questions were different:  How did I end up in a food pantry at my age?  Who are the unworthy hungry.  My questions were wrong.  What I should have asked was “why”, now “how” or “who”.

All my life I felt when I got to be a woman of a certain age I would sit in the rocking chair I inherited from my grandmother and learn to knit or crochet.   Maybe I would occasionally venture beyond home in my yellow Volkswagen convertible with a black top to paint a picture or two in a class nearby.  I fantasize the top would be down at every outing to free my cotton top curls.

Instead, I worked in a small town food pantry in the midst of the biggest economic downturn for decades.

I managed a food pantry in a community where some weren’t interested in recognizing poverty and hunger existing under their very noses.

It came down to reality.  I never found discovered the unworthy hungry because I never saw anyone in the pantry who didn’t need food.  Those preoccupied with feeding with the unworthy hungry saw freeloaders who didn’t need the food, or didn’t belong in the line.

I saw grandmothers and mothers with children standing in the line without uttering a sound.  Not in my wildest dreams did I figure out how they got the children to be so quiet and stand so still.  Grandparents, aunts, uncles, siblings, and close friends stood in the line for as much as an hour on Wednesday or Thursday afternoon with children, mostly preschoolers.

Caregivers stood in the hallway weekly in cold, wet, dry, rain, snow, broiling heat inching their way down the long hall until their turn came in the pantry room.  No one, either child or adult, complained about the freezing cold hallway in the winter where the only warmth came from the body heat of fellow shoppers.  The nearest I ever got to a complaint was volunteers and shoppers wearing two hats in the winter.  No one, neither adult nor child, complained about the oppressive summer hallway heat.  The children never made a peep.

Many lived on fixed incomes unprepared for the financial costs and emotional roller coaster ride involved in raising someone else’s children.  Ready or not, they cared for children when the biological parents couldn’t.  For some, the situation was overwhelming.  For others, it was just another day.

THREE SHOPPERS

I saw a cancer patient with finances reduced to a large box filled with bills and no money in the bank.  He shopped weekly until his death.

I saw the woman whose brother had Alzheimer’s.  She was his caregiver and he couldn’t be left alone.  Sometimes she arrived at the pantry so disheveled it was difficult for her to stand in the line and shop.  One afternoon she crashed her car into the bridge outside the pantry entrance.

I saw the widow with more month than money who refused to go to her children for help. She visited the pantry regularly.  One shopping trip included the first anniversary of her husband’s death.  She kept her pantry trips a secret from her children because she was embarrassed to let them know.  This was a small community, so they eventually figured things out.

THE MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER

She brings her young granddaughter to the pantry weekly.  Sue is maybe four.  She is shy.  Dark brown ringlets frame her little cherubic face.  Her expressions and posture tell me she’s still unaware of her situation.  Her mother works two plus jobs.  There’s not enough food to eat in this household.  Her little dresses are threadbare.

This lovely child takes pleasure in the smallest gifts.  Today, her treat is a can of juice a volunteer found in the storeroom that’s not dented.  Her grandmother teaches her to stand in line quietly, smile, and say “thank you.”

When I see them, I see the universal mother and grandmother next door.  I see a mother and grandmother working hard so that adorable little child has access to a good school, health care, safe streets.

They are our neighbors.

They are our family.

They are us.

I’m reminded we do not live in a we/they world.

Poverty hits children especially hard, with long-term consequences for behavior, learning, and mental health.  They suffer the effects of going to bed hungry.  Ketchup sandwiches and bowls of dry cereal don’t offer the nutritional strength a child needs to grow up into a healthy adult.

However this shakes out, the hungry are us.

Thank you for reading this post.  Please refer it to your preferred social media network.

Thurman Greco

 

 

My Search – The Food Pantry Needs a Refrigerator – “The Ketchup Sandwich Chronicles”

The pantry had a refrigerator and I needed a place to put it. But, to begin at the beginning, the food pantry had hungry people wanting and needing the hundreds of dozens of eggs we got from the food bank and Aldi’s.

Pantry volunteers needed a place to store the eggs before we distributed them. Where, oh where, could I put the refrigerator?

Early on pantry day, when I packed eggs in my car, nothing much else fit. Reusable shopping bags filled with eggs were in the rear hatch, on the seats, and on the floor. I felt like I was driving an egg mobile instead of a Prius. The only negative was refrigeration.

Each new food group added to the pantry shelves changed the dynamic, the pace of shopping in the room. Eggs were a huge addition. They were cheap. They didn’t take up much space but packed a nutritional punch. They were easy to cook. They were in big demand every time they were available in the pantry.

At the Food Bank of Northeastern New York in Latham I bought thirteen cases of loose eggs at a time whenever I could get them. When food bank stock was depleted, I bought over a hundred dozen eggs at a time at Aldi, a food store located at 767 East Chester Street in Kingston, across the road from Prestige Toyota. Aldi was the only local store willing to sell eggs to the pantry.

I tried to buy eggs at local farms and at Adams Fairacre, ShopRite, and Hannaford’s in Kingston. Nobody would sell eggs to the pantry because over a hundred dozen eggs were just too many and the pantry need wasn’t steady enough.

Aldi didn’t mind though. The store manager kept hundreds of dozens of eggs behind the glass door of a refrigerator case on the back wall of the store. All I had to do was open the door, wheel out the egg trolley, and load all the eggs I needed in large, reusable shopping bags which I brought with me. It took four shopping carts to get the loaded eggs to the checkout clerk.

I spent several months quietly searching for the refrigerator space I needed. I had a refrigerator and I just needed a place to put it. Then I got serious. I began with the church.

“Pastor, the pantry needs a refrigerator for eggs.”

“The pantry room is too small and the building committee won’t allow it.”

Next, I called around Woodstock from a list I’d made of people who might be willing to help me out. After the pastor, the Town Supervisor was top of the list. I was on his election committee when he successfully ran for office.

“Hi. I’m looking for refrigerator space for the pantry. Can I put one in the Community Center kitchen? I’ll donate it to the town. I just want to use it one day each week for eggs.”

“No.”

“Thanks.” Well, I thought, it’s a good thing I made a list!

I knew Woodstock Democratic Committee members. One was even on the Woodstock Town Board.

“I’m looking for refrigerator space for the pantry. I’ve got the refrigerator, I just want to use it one day a week for eggs. Do you know someplace in town where we can put one?”

“I’ll ask around and see what I can find.”

“How about Town Hall? There’s a large empty room there.”

“That won’t work. We’re going to renovate that building.”

My list is getting me nowhere fast, I thought.

At the end of the church parking lot stood a long, dirt floored, unpainted, rattlety trap building, a storage space for the popular Woodstock Village Green Bed and Breakfast. If I could get a corner in that old barn, I could put a refrigerator on a pallet. Dare I hope? I didn’t know the owners personally, but there didn’t seem to be any other options. So, I picked up the phone and called.

“I’m wondering if the pantry can rent a little corner of your barn for a refrigerator. I’m desperate for a place to store eggs. I’ve asked everyone and you are my absolute last hope.”

I might be able to pull this one off, I thought. When the pantry inspectors come, I just won’t mention the barn. I had to rely on food bank inspectors looking the other way and not asking about the food bank eggs.

One of the owners called back. “We can do this and there won’t be any charge.”

“Thanks. You’re going to heaven for this.”

“The refrigerator in the barn worked fine. Volunteers distributed eggs to shoppers on pantry day. Over time, local residents donated refrigerators and freezers.

Shopper census rose until we outgrew our small storage closet in the hallway.

“I need space Pastor. If you can’t spare a room for the pantry, I’ll just have to ask volunteers to bring the next shipment to my home where I’ll put it in my healing space. This is our biggest shipment yet, 3,000 pounds. The food is coming in.”

Each monthly shipment from the food bank up to this point had totaled less than 2,000 pounds. Pastor appealed to his consistory and the building committee. Word on the street was that many meetings followed and the pantry finally got, somehow, permission, maybe, to use the room at the end of the hall.

Food delivery day arrived and volunteers put food in the room. As they brought boxes into the room, I looked around. Nobody was there at the moment. The universe is on my side, I thought.

I hurried upstairs to the church office where I found the secretary. “We’re so happy to be able to store food in the room. Do you think it’ll be okay to bring a refrigerator in? This would mean we can keep eggs in the storeroom.”

Slowly, she smiled. “Sure, bring it in.”

Within minutes after I spoke with her, two men carried a refrigerator to the store room. “Put it against this wall,” I said, pointing to the one place where it would be least obvious.

At the end of the morning, building committee members inspecting the new storeroom saw a room full of food and a refrigerator filled with eggs. They were not happy.

I thought the pastor’s secretary was the number two person in the church so I went with her okay. The expressions on their faces taught me that the only people with any authority in that church were the building committee members.

From that morning on, pantry volunteers filled the stockroom to capacity with the food we got from the food bank. The refrigerator hummed along as we stacked eggs on every shelf in it weekly.

I don’t think I got permission to use the room permanently. It was a squatter’s rights kind of thing. Once I got the food in there, they couldn’t get me out. Before it was all over, the pantry received shipments every month exceeding 12,000 pounds.

The storeroom was a wonderful addition to the pantry. We routinely ordered food for advance needs during lean months and the refrigerator stored eggs.

The storeroom made all the difference.

Same with the barn. The dirt (mud when it rained) floor was permanently covered with flattened cardboard boxes and the refrigerators and freezers were stacked on pallets.

Was I wrong to have been so pushy?

Well, I don’t think so. I did make one mistake, though. I should have moved all the refrigerators and freezers into the storeroom that morning.

There were enough outlets.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for reading this article. Please share it with your favorite social media network.

Thurman Greco

Woodstock, New York

P.S. Please stay tuned for future chapters from my upcoming book “The Ketchup Sandwich Chronicles”.