'Tis the Season

A man I knew—from back when I had a "real" job—came to me for help one day. He ran an impromptu soup kitchen on the front lawn of a mostly-unused, downtown Amoury. He had a court date that night but it was his turn to bring the soup. "Denguy, you cook, can you make a couple of vats of soup tonight for me and drop them off at the Amoury?"
    I was more than happy to oblige. He requested vegetarian dishes made with organic produce where possible. I made a pea soup as well as my super-special chicken chili. (I replaced the chicken with potatoes—mmm-mm yummo!) It didn't take very long to make the two pots of goodness—under two hours and the ingredients didn't cost me more than $25.
    Once stewed-up, I drove the vats down to the make-shift soup kitchen along with as many margarine and yogurt tubs as I could get. I parked in the Amoury's ramp to their underground parking lot to unload and then go back to my warm house. The volunteers who arrived early had set up tables and set out a blanket that had various items of clothing arranged (mostly) by size and gender. They brought loaves of bread and plastic spoons and plenty of enthusiasm. Whoa, I was overwhelmed by the organization. "Are you Denguy?" One of them asked.
    I brought the cauldrons over one at a time and set them on the table, then turned to leave. "Would you like to serve soup or bread or help people with the clothes?" Man, I fully intended on escaping once I unloaded the soup. "We could use an extra hand tonight." A ladle was thrust upon me and I spun around to dish out supper—knees knocking. How many half-drunk/high old bums would I have to serve?
    The answer came directly. The first people who lined up in front of me gave me a scare. They scared me to the quick. I was stunned; I was mortified. My eyes welled up. It was a woman with her three kids—none older than 10. I ladled two margarine tubs of pea soup and two filled with chili. She thanked me too much and I dropped the ladle and headed for my car. I leaned forward on the hood with both hands to catch my breath. This can't be right. There has to be a mistake. What are these people doing out here? Kirstin—a seasoned veteran—came over and calmed me down. "It only gets worse from here," she said. We laughed a bit and, after that, I assisted at the clothing area. Socks. It seems to be all about socks.
    My soups went over well and some folk were even asking to meet the cook. My shyness was evaporating and I spoke, humbled and gratified. We had served food to over a hundred people. I helped ladies try on jackets and picked out shirts for teens. One actually enquired about the price. Free, I said. Everything here is free. Knowing this, people still only took what they needed—some even traded their jackets for another one, leaving theirs for "some one else who might need it." What!? Where was I? The caring was remarkable.
    At closing time, I collected my empty pots and packed my car. There were great big, long hugs all around and my eyes burned again. "See you next week, Denguy."
Absolutely. Absolutely.