Sitting in the Cold

I volunteer at the Berkeley Food Pantry every Monday from 1-4 pm. A Quaker church donates space in its basement, which we share with a Montessori preschool.

The first hour at the pantry we prep: Bag bread ( often Acme bread, the likes of which are served at Chez Panisse), stuff handfuls of loose lettuce into plastic bags, whack watermelons in halves or quarters, carve egg cartons in half with a serrated knife and fill each half with eggs, if they're available. We're all volunteers, except Bill, the part-time director. Grace fills produce bags with silky smooth onions, knobby carrots, potatoes, sometimes yams, whatever's in season. Judy or I fill paperbags with USDA food: cans of pears or applesauce, spinach, green beans, paper bags of grits, plastic bags of pinto beans. Bill hauls shallow boxes of bullet-hard chickens out of the freezer. We old-timers suggest simple tasks to whatever new volunteer has materialized and hope they'll show up the next week. Many defect. The work is repetitive, and many of our clients are too preoccupied or demoralized to thank us. And the volunteers who stay in the in the back room loading bags, cutting down empty boxes, restocking shelves, never see the clients.

But I do. The second and third hours at the pantry I sit at a long table in the front room. The door is open at all times. It is cold. One at a time, clients hand me their driver's license --if they haven't lost it, if they remembered to bring it--to show they live in Berkeley or Albany. I look up their card in one of four boxes of file cards. I see that they are eligible for their monthly bag of groceries. I note the date. I"m cold. I sit on an icy metal chair that I pad with a blanket from my car. I'm cold. Last week I wore a turtleneck sweater, a flannel shirt, a fleece vest, jeans, a rain jacket, and a blanket over my legs. The clients are cold, too, and some have waited in line for an hour before we open for business.

Lately, there are so many clients that it's all I can do to keep up. I fill out a form for each eligible client,my friend Judy collects it, and hands over bags to each client. Some are "99-ers" who've exhausted their unemployment benefits. Some come straight from hospitals. Some are victims of domestic violence. Many live in single-room occupancy hotels on University Avenue where their only cooking facilities are a microwave and maybe a hot plate. Some cry.

After the pantry closes at 4 pm, we clean up, fill out paperwork, sweep, and go home. Sometimes while I'm sitting at the table, freezing and checking in clients, I think about how I can go to Berkeley Bowl supermarket and buy anything I want, how I can go to a warm house and have a glass of sherry. I'm very lucky, but I'm still freezing cold on Mondays, and I don't really know what to do about it.

The Pope and Christmas: Who Knew?

Well, maybe everyone but me knew. The pope, centuries ago, decided on December 25 as Jesus's birthday quite arbitrarily. He didn't KNOW when Jesus was born, but he assigned the celebration of His birth to December 25 because it was already the pagan holiday of the Winter Solstice. Christianity was a new religion, and he thought this would make it more appealing to pagans, or at least not piss them off. ( "His" capitalized out of concern for pronoun referenc, not reverence. I am a way lapsed Episcopalian. )

In other words, we suffer through a wintry Christmas, with flight delays, blizzards, and all the extra hassle of cold because the Catholic Church decided it! This has completely revolutionized, and in a good way, my attitude about Christmas. To hell with Christmas carols, which are all about Jesus's birthday, and which, in me at least, stir up feelings of loss and lack, never had a perfect Christmas, never will. To begin with, it's a myth! The date's as big a myth as Santa Claus. Giving presents is a big fat retail overlay to what started as something dreamt up by a pope!

This is so liberating.

The thing to do is to go to Target and buy a bunch of votive candles and twinkle lights and make the whole thing a celebration of light in the dead of winter. I don't know the origin of votive lights--devotion?--and don't want to know. They can be adapted to any old thing I want. Have some pals over, drink some prosecco, be glad you love the person sitting next to you. The end.

Scarf Mentor

A long and nearly unforgivable hiatus in posting. In the meantime, I have been to Memphis and Mississippi and then to Inverness, California. I've sewn one and a half quilts. Days scoot by, favorite parts and not so favorite (going to bed and getting up, respectively). Intermittently, I've been obsessed with our upcoming trip to New York, London, and Paris. I have switched hotel reservations to rental apartments in London and Paris. I've consulted with a travel agent about Eurostar reservations through the Chunnel. I've bought a new carry-on bag, two pairs of jeans, and an expensive scarf in a museum shop. Not to mention internet-ordered sweaters, panties, and tickets to Buckingham Palace. I step back and realize that much of this obsession with detail is anxiety about going so far for so long. Then I obsess some more.

On Thursday, I went to the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco with Annika, my 19 year-old next-door neighbor, who's home from Vassar for the summer. I first took her to a museum when she was nine years old, to SFMOMA, where she soaked up the art so thoroughly she was exhausted, really drained, a dark-haired, pale-skinned little girl with big eyes and round-lensed spectacles. I've spent years explaining history and nuance in art, little bubbles of information I whisper as we make our rounds of galleries and museums. Not that I know that much, but I took art history classes in college. Now, she whispers to me. As usual, she sees things I don't, details of paintings or sculptures, but now she KNOWS things I don't. She's majoring in art, taking art history classes. At the moment, she's particularly taken with how artists depict hands and feet, studies them closely.

How did this happen? And did I have anything to do with getting her from there to here? She credits me with being a mentor, but I'm not so sure as I listen to this petite young woman who knows so much, who had chic small rectangular glasses now, who knows what to do with scarves. Which is probably why I bought at beautiful and totally budget-blowing shibori scarf in the museum shop. Annika approved.