I’m the fourth-to-last person in line at the local food bank; it’s my first trip here. A friend told me about it months ago when I mentioned that I was having trouble fitting food into my budget.
“Go to the food bank, dude! Swallow your pride and go down there and get some food!”
I have in a sense put my hand to the plow and found work as a farm and ranch hand. Apparently, there’s plenty of work in agriculture and the military. Beyond that, however, you almost have to be an entrepreneur, create your own job, to stabilize in this economy.
“You look really good,” a friend told me recently, “really good.” It must be the ranch work, being out doors, getting plenty of fresh air and exercise and a fairly good diet of local foods, I told her. As much as I like working in the fields, I added, it’s kicking my butt. I’m getting too old for this.
There have been others as equally kind and generous but a person can only go so far drawing from charitable accounts. I'd rather be on the giving end of things.
I feel awkward and hope that no one close to me sees me on the way out. But it’s too late for that; I know so many people here already who are close. I’m surprised at how many I do know.
I opened it, felt that touch of paradise everyone here likes to talk about, and sat down to a meal fit for anyone with a good appetite.