Submitted By John Coster
I live in a small New England Town that is home to the state university and close to several prominent colleges. Many residents think of themselves as “progressive”, but the term belies a deeper tradition of anti-authoritarianism. This is an area where even before the shots were fired at Lexington, local farmers were forcibly driving out British administrators and tax collectors. Then, in the immediate aftermath of the Revolutionary War, it was here that former patriot soldiers took up arms again to halt the harsh treatment of debtors by the courts and stop an epidemic of foreclosures. Those actions comprised the conflict known as Shay’s Rebellion. Later, in the 19th century, this and neighboring towns in Massachusetts became part of the underground railway, slavery opponents having been active in the region for a long time. Indeed, when Washington came to Massachusetts to command the siege of Boston, he was surprised to find free blacks among the veterans of Bunker Hill. So, in our better moments, I think we in this region benefit from a cultural open mindedness that is not seduced by the dogmas of left and right. It was a fine thing to see local Yankee grandmothers standing shoulder to shoulder with some of the more radical students occupying the main branch of the Bank of America the year before last.
Very early every Wednesday morning, I drive or catch the first bus to town, and meet my friend Mr. K at the local senior center. Our job is to drive a community van to Whole Foods and pick up groceries that would otherwise be wasted and bring it to the center for distribution. The food is perfectly good, at or near its expiration date or simply being disposed of because newer items have arrived and the store is overstocked. Whatever is too far gone we send to local farms to feed chickens and pigs. Mr K came to America from Iran 40 years ago. His children were born and raised here and are successful professionals. He is horrified by the way American media portray his homeland and hopes to return once more to see his aging father. Though in his early seventies, he is strong and quick, and we pack the van with heavy crates in just a few minutes. Some of his family comes from a mountainous region which must be very beautiful and seems to breed hardy souls. His grandfather died at 114, sitting in his favorite chair, so peacefully that no one knew exactly when he had passed away.
Back at the center, we set up the different categories of food, working with other volunteers, some of whom have come in with products from other stores or local farms, wherever there is a surplus that would otherwise go to waste. Based on how many people we expect, we assign numbers to the different items, designating how much of each a person may take. In each category there is usually a wide variety of choices and always a surplus of high quality bread because there are several excellent local bakeries in the area. The majority of the food is organic and in a place like New York City would be extremely expensive. Each volunteer can take a share, and it’s a big help to our personal budgets. I am able to share my take with a few friends and one very elderly man, a WW 2 vet whose savings were devastated by the recent collapse of some over-leveraged municipal bonds. Extra food that remains after the distribution goes to local churches that offer free meals on designated days.
The volunteers are mostly middle aged, though from a wide variety of backgrounds, more women than men which doesn’t surprise me. We have a program director, a no nonsense woman, who keeps the workflow going and a number of lively characters whose jocularity laces the hard work with a fair amount of laughter, most like the kind of fellowship I’ve only found before on a football team or when working with a carpentry crew. There’s a certain Ms. D who always abandons the walker I see her using around town to man the door as Mr K and I bring in the heavy crates of produce. She’s a fine one for wise cracks and I can easily imagine her having had a career as a stand up comic. Another more boisterous of the ladies once ran a successful business and is particularly welcoming to the folks passing through the line, almost as if she were a waitress at some restaurant, pointing out the different choices on today’s menu. She lives somewhere out of town in a house she owns, and I once heard her mention something about her “parole officer”. I wonder what the hell she could have done to offend the state.
The people coming through the line are a mix as well, mainly middle aged or older, but some in their 40s or even 30s. Some still have jobs and mortgages but are just not making ends meet. There are two or three with serious disabilities and a few very elderly people who have an assistant helping them pick up the groceries. There are older married couples as well. From their manners and way of speaking, you can tell that most are decently educated and were until recently members of the “middle class”. One woman I find particularly striking. She is very fair with brilliant white hair and that suggestion of translucence in her skin that only comes with old age. She is soft spoken and moves with quiet grace. Before the harsh winter weather set in, I often saw her arrive on an old fashioned looking bike with a big wire basket in front of the handle bars. She reminds me of an old girlfriend with whom I was deeply smitten, if imagine my former lover fast forwarded to her later years. Whoever she is, I think she is still a beautiful woman.
Not long ago I visited a close friend in southern Connecticut, an urbane man who has made a good living dealing in antiques and estates but has little interest himself in acquiring the kinds of possessions he has bought and sold for many years. As usual, the traffic was bad, and I had the uncomfortable feeling I always get when, in my old but faithful Ford Escort, I’m approaching the Connecticut “Gold Coast”, the land of the mega rich, a nexus of investment banking and financial “services”. The drab malls and hillside condos that border the highway make it easy to forget that many of the brightest graduates of the Ponzi School of Economics have ensconced their families in 10,000 square foot houses on the nearby Connecticut shore. My friend and I talk frequently over the phone, and he knew about my work with the free food network. As we caught up over a cup of coffee, he told me about an acquaintance who was managing a local branch of one of the same chains that provides food for our network. The man had told him they were so troubled by people raiding their dumpsters at night that they had to install padlocks on them and keep the dumpsters sequestered behind a chain link fence. Driving back the next day, I was very glad to see the red basalt ridges of the Holyoke Range, the southern boundary of a landscape I have come to love.
