Road Ahead Closed

Started out as an ordinary day, that is until the bus driver, as we do, you know it, refused to believe the 'Road Ahead Closed' sign and had to resort to a problematic three-point-turn in a busy but narrow high street. People on the bus immediately became best buddies, and began talking to each other, offering words of consolation and advice to the bus driver who was rapidly  coming to terms with what had all the makings of a very bad day.

I use the bus on principle. The first principle being that it's free because I was lucky enough to be born in 1950, the second, it's good for me and the environment because I get to walk a bit and the atmosphere is spared 20 minutes of toxic emissions. We are both chuffed. 

The walk through Gloucester from Worcester Street, past  the Cross, up Eastgate St to the Salvation Army Citadel was troubling. I counted five rough sleepers. I can't remember a time when the problem was so visible. 

I stayed at the SA long enough to make sandwiches, get the tea table set up and prepare the helpers' lunch. I'm easing back in slowly, after a granny break. Usually I stay to serve the tea and reconnect with the people who need a meal they don't need to pay for, or haven't the facilities to cook themselves. Next week, perhaps. 

I read the New Scientist on the bus home.  I don't read newspapers any more, because I am too old to find other people's opinions and celebrity gossip other than tiresome. It would help if I followed football, but I don't, so it's New Scientist for me. Excellent article on why Americans don't listen to one another any more, and a study of small scale projects here and there working to pull people back together. (It IS possible) This is more interesting to me than bad stats and worse commentary on why the President-Elect managed a win on a platform of, "I know nothing about how to run the country, and I'm gonna get rid of those that do ... " I am awash with anticipation as to how THAT'S going to work. 

Rest assured American readers, I am not picking on your country.  I am at least as cynical about politics here in the UK, only more so, because I have to live here. 

The walk up the hill from the bus stop took me last an amazing burning bush. I stopped to drink in the beauty of the Autumn colours, I picked some leaves to play with when I got home. There will be pictures. 

Now the day draws to a close. I have gazed at the Supermoon, watched Planet Earth ll on my iPad, and, in the bath, listened to Garrison Keiller's 'Writer's Almanac'. It's a treasure, people: a daily reminder of everything I love about the USA.  It's here:

Check out this cool episode: https://itunes.apple.com/gb/podcast/writers-almanac-garrison-keillorthe/id136642066?mt=2&i=377815749

Be well, do good work, and keep in touch. 

Goodnight. 

I made a collage under glass for my dressing table:

Love People And Feed Them

Sometime in the mid-eighties (I think ...) I trained as an evangelist for what may have been the last of the great 'crusades' in the UK, led by Luis Palau. I remember hundreds of people spilling out onto the pitch at Queen's Park Rangers football club in response to the call to give themselves to Jesus. It was pretty impressive, and I have nothing but admiration for the organisation and the good intentions and I hope, sincerely, that those who were saved stayed that way.

 

So I am peeling potatoes this morning at the Salvation Army and I am in fine form. We, pensioners all, (that is, over-sixty) are laughing out loud at the report in the press of a Cabinet meeting of the last government where Owen Patterson, keen to limit immigration and yet keep cheap labour for fruit farmers, suggested that we, the pensioners, be put out in the fields to pick the fruit instead. Oh! Because we shouldn't Idly collect state benefits and be a burden, and furthermore, we should be exempt from minimum wage legislation.

 

Apparently, one official present forgot protocol, and laughed out loud. Be that as it may, this crazy idea hasn't taken off - yet.

 

Turns out we ALL worked in the fields in our youth. Hoeing peas, planting potatoes, picking blackcurrants ... We speculated on ways that the various jobs we did could be adapted to our current afflictions: orchards adapted for mobility scooters being favourite.

 

Seems a long way from Queen's Park Rangers, this mission. Laughter, companionship and service brought together to prepare a meal for people like us who have fallen on hard times. In my thirties I thought it was necessary to fervently entreat others to go to Jesus for salvation. In my sixties I have finally grasped that 'Jesus' is already there. There is no 'them' and 'us' we are all life itself coming into incarnation.

 

To be an God-bearer is to love people and feed them. That's about it.

Meryl and Lee:

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MicroblogMondays:All Real Living Is Meeting

I am taking a break from serving tea, and am sitting relaxing with three of our guys.: Alan, Phil and Sam.

 

I wonder how I would have reacted to them four years ago before taking on this job. I expect I would have hurried past the line of weary-looking men and women, poorly dressed, down at heel, waiting for the doors of the Salvation Arly Citadel to open for a free lunch. (There IS such a thing, no matter what they say, and it's good. )

 

"How are you?" I ask Sam, really wanting ro know.

 

"Alright," he replies with a grin. Sam has Huntington's disease, and he won't be alright for long, but we don't speak of it.

 

"How are you Mary?"

 

I'm aright too.

 

"How about you, Phil?"

 

"Oh! I'm alright as well."

 

I feel a game coming on.

 

"What about you, Alan?" You don't look alright to me. Can you rise to an 'OK'?"

 

Alan laughs. He has severe arthritis, and and is in pain.

 

"Oh, I think I can manage an OK."

 

"Three alrights and an OK! I need to go round the other tables and collect statistics. "

 

Checklists, flipcharts, spreadsheets. We explore the possibilities.

 

Alan moves us on with, "I dreamed I failed my degree exams last night. Took them forty years ago. And passed. Funny things dreams ..."

 

The conversation drifts on. Famous dogs and their antiquity ( Sam's speciality) tattoos ... Sam has a tattoo of Pluto. Did Pluto, friend of Mickey Mouse, have a wife? I think he did, and that she was killed off. Why kill off a cartoon dog, and can a cartoon dog actually be said to be dead?

 

No conclusion is reached.

 

12:50 and I have to run. I explain that I almost missed the bus last week. The driver saw me, and turned round to pick me up. Everybody marvels at this.

 

I leave.

 

"All real living is meeting." A quote from Jewish philosopher Martin Buper. I've commented on it before, because it is profoundly true.

 

I guess there's a choice: stick with our prejudices about faceless street people, or sit with a mug of tea and three friends trying to remember if Pluto had a wife.

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#MicroblogMondays: Today

Before dawn, I walked to the top of Southend Lane to catch the 0715 number 678 Gloucester bus (via Tibberton) : the waning moon hung about, to the evident annoyance of the Phillips's cockerel impatient for the sun.

A bit early, so I sat in Starbucks, in Eastgate Street, wrote some Christmas Cards, read a portion of Cynthia Bourgeaut's "The Wisdom Jesus," downed a bucket of coffee and broke fast with a dry pastry.

The whole of the morning I spent helping the Salvation Army serve a Christmas lunch to the people who need to eat where they can: rough sleepers, those in poverty - I make the tea, pour the coffee and greet our guests. There's a wonderful atmosphere in the room. Major Adrian comments that three years ago we fed fifty, today it's one hundred.

Home, exhausted by the early start and hard work! Had a very long rest. Ordered a new duvet cover from John Lewis as Ray's failure to sort the washing has left the second best bedding an unattractive murky pink.

Made a mushroom risotto, which was not too bad ... Probably needed the wine, an essential ingredient I absent-mindedly drank yesterday.

Early to bed. Watched two documenteries on tv, one about darts, the other about the Dukes of Devonshire. I do not approve of having televisions in bedrooms, but a considerable rearrangement of furnishings has taken place, necessitated by the overhaul of the dining room, which needed to be emptied.

Drafted a poem:

Today

I have lived many lives.

You know, I wonder at it. How, the

Grammar School boys on the bus,

The couple in a B and B who have no stove to cook on,

No money for McDonald's,

And Jeanette - over eighty, sprightlier than me,

Serving the gravy and the roast

With a smile a mile wide -

Can be here. Peering over my shoulder

Watching me write, reminding me:

Today, we lived each other's lives

In a nod, a laugh,

A serious moment

And a cup of tea.

 

#MicroblogMondays: The Meaning of Vulnerable

I found this idea on my daughter's blog, and thought it a great one: to blog up to eight sentences on a Monday, just to keep going. Well that's one (and two) sorted.

I had a long chat with Gordon today at the Salvation Army Lunch for the homeless and vulnerable people on the streets of Gloucester. We talked about God and Brian - not that either of us have a very conventional view of the deity, just a feeling - Brian is our friend, who has been bullied out of the B&B he and Gordon shared, and I can't get hold of him to find out if he's OK. The word, 'vulnerable' suddenly takes on a whole new meaning. I hope by next Monday to have tracked him down. I'm about ready to bring him home.

Action And Contemplation

It's difficult to say which of the two is harder sometimes. The double strand of the rope of faith, or in the words of the song my mother used to sing, in respect of marriage ( And what an outdated old-fashioned notion THIS is.... .) "You can't have one without the other!"

Love and marriage 

Love and marriage

They go together like a horse and carriage

And you can't have one

No you can't have one 

Without 

The other

Frank Sinatra or Perry Como: so very long ago, and just a snatch. Have I ever told you how incredibly happy my childhood was? Mum, singing all sorts of schmaltzy  songs. Dad playing 'In a Persian Market' or 'Panis Angelicus' on his newly-acquired record player. Or the  Inkspots, now I come to think of it. Funny thing about reminiscence, one fragment of memory trawls up another ... 

Digression. A useful ploy when you don't want to get to where you're going because you think if you don't write it, it may not have happened, and this is nonsense. 

I wonder, often, if I do what I do on the streets of Gloucester, for no other reason than to feel good about myself, and the best thing to do with that thought is to agree with it, and get on with the doing of it, because it gets me out of the house and puts me in the way of some stories that may become a poem or a blog, or, one day, the Great Work, that right here and now, and for sure, I know I'll never get round to writing. 

Eliza's in a bad way. Years of injecting herself with heroin, with fewer and fewer places left to pump in the stuff , have landed her twice in hospital, with embolisms, and have left her with an infection in her  pelvis that is resistant to antibiotics, and this is bad news. She's forty-two, and at the end of the line. I hold on to Eliza in something that I would once have called prayer, but right now I'm going through a disillisioned patch, so don't.  

Billy Jones. The old tramp who sat for a year after it closed,  despairing , outside what used to be the Night Shelter, in noisy and drunken protest. I would feed him sympathy and pie and chocolate and he would bellow out his disgust at the 'powers that be' that had stopped funding the place that was as much of a home as Billy, 'I'm the last real tramp in Gloucester!' wanted.  He used to make me laugh.

He no longer tramped, as far as I know, he just sat in the sun and drank himself into oblivion. A few weeks ago, he amused me, and  everyone to whom I've told the story,  by eyeing me up and down and saying,"You're not bad-looking for your age!" 

I'm writing as if  he's dead, aren't I? He's not. He's out on the streets somewhere on police bail  having thrown a punch in a drunken brawl that left a man dead. Suddenly Billy's story, always a dark farce, has turned to tragedy.

Terry and Sheila are being evicted because they are up to their eyeballs in debt, and which, for some reason Terry's not to sure about, Sheila won't pay back. Terry takes no responsibility for this, but I know him: he's not very intelligent and can't. He's anxious and sad and I remember how bright and smiley he can be, and I'm sad too. 

Maxine's  broke because she told The Council she had two homeless people staying with her in her flat, and The Council said they were a fire risk and had to get out, and, 'Oh, by the way you owe us £300 in rent for the period they stayed with you.'   "Never do anyone a good turn, " Maxine says. "What we need is a Revolution," I say, and just at that moment, I probably meant it. "In the meantime, don't tell The Council when you have someone staying with you. Let them find out - the outcome is the same." 

Maxine's friend, Jesus, (Yes, really, 'Jesus-Mary' in fact.) leers in her direction. You can tell I've taken a dislike to him, can't you? He's a trim little man with piercing blue eyes, eager to impart his particular take on parenting:

"I have seventy-five children in thirty-five countries." He smiles, proudly, having given more thought and energy to the "Go forth and multiply" bit of the book of Genesis than I think wise. My face  freezes in a rictus of disbelief. I'm not here to condemn the world, but to save it, and anyway, I'm speechless. 

Eddy, whom I like enormously, and is here becaus he's too sick to work, had a hypo. A chocolate bar magically restores him, and I am reminded of my father, who was also a diabetic, and whose eighty-fifth birthday it would have been yesterday. My father was bright and kind just like Eddy, who's  being robbed blind by his stepsons, and doesn't care, and whose life revolves around his wife, who's living with Huntingdon's disease in a specialist care home in Ledbury. Eddy's easy to like, and suddenly I realise how grateful I am to him for this. 

Well, today, I don't feel so good about myself. I am sad and disillusioned and wondering if it wouldn't be better to just stick to gardening. 

Thing is, I know it will pass. Next Monday I'll put on the Salvation Army tabard and set to peeling spuds and serving tea, not because I make any difference to the lives of the men and women I meet there, but because, somewhere deep, where I can still pray, I know they make a difference to me. 

Confessions Of A Tea-Lady

Is everything in place? I survey the Tea Table with a critical eye:

Urn:  full and switched on.    Check.

Tea, coffee, juice: All present and correct.

Mugs, milk, sugar, juice cups: OK

We're ready for the off. Some Mondays a vital element is missed, and chaos ensues when our people roll in. The importance of getting everything just so, cannot be understated. The Tea Table is the first port of call. The 'meet and greet' of the Salvation Army Monday Lunch. Volunteer Meryl offers to help. She's good, but unfocussed; regarding the Tea Table as a stepping stone to the job she's really on fire for, chatting to the clients. Me, I'm in my element. Smiling and saying hello is a particular strength of mine and I play up to it. I am glad of Meryl's help with the initial rush: she wields the teapot whilst I serve the coffe and oversee juice distribution. 

We are going to serve sixty or more lunches today. I see that we have three new faces, I make a mental note to follow up on the hello when things quieten down a bit. 

Johan takes two coffees for himself and Cordelia. I slip him a lawyers business card. Cordelia has an injury acquired at the chicken processing  factory and can no longer work. They sleep in a car. 

Andrew takes his tea black. He's a retired librarian and a polyglot. He once taught me to say hello in Serbo-Croat, but I have long forgotten how. He's Jewish, and very accommodating to we Christians. He knows the Law and The Prophets far better than we do, and loves an argument.

Dave's in today. Haven't seen him for weeks.  He's lost four and a half stone. He looks brighter, having just had his benefits reinstated. An official at the Job Centre sanctioned him( ie stopped his money) for non- attendance at a scheduled appointment that he hadn't attended because she's omitted to notify him about it Her superior eventually overrulled her. "You were lucky this time," the unrepentant official told Dave. 

Dave lost weight because he couldn't  afford to eat. "I'll come with you next time." I promise. 

Alex appears and offers to serve drinks whilst I move round the tables and chat.

Chris is looking rough. He's South African, a Catholic: former seminarian. I don't ask why he never became a priest. I discover he is a member of Opus Dei  "Do you know about it?" He asks. "Only from Dan Brown!" I laugh. Andy hears him say that he has no money, and having been in that situation himself, he butts in on the conversation and tells him where to get vouchers for the Food Bank.  

Welfare Officer at the Council Offices. I'm grateful to Andy. I'm often asked and usually refer people to , "Help The Aged", because that's where my brother got his vouchers when he needed them. Chris isn't old enough. 

I have a stack of books for Brian who now has his driver's license and  is looking SO much better now that he's receiving treament for PTSD. He opens the bag and rummages with genuine delight. 'Just what I wanted!" He exclaims at Darwin's 'Origin of Species'. I knew that, and having never more than glanced at it, was happy to hand it over. I hope, with all my heart, the more fundamentalist of the helpers didn't spot it! We Catholics have no problem with Darwin, or any human attempt to fathom the miracle of Creation. I gave him "99 Things To Do Between Here and Heaven" too,  having reasoned that I've done all the ones I want to (including starting this blog) and there's a spiritual reflection on each, that will lead Brian a little deeper, if he so wishes. 

I'm called over by Karen and Anthony to sort out a problem. My very favourite occupation, truth be told. "What's the difference between a Catholic and a Christian?" They want to know. Anthony's RC, Karen's C of E, and they are planning to marry in Church. Somewhere.

I throw myself eagerly into the fray. It's a useful discussion that involves everyone on the table. I was expecting hostility, but discover none. "Marry in the RC Church, and the Anglicans will bless it. That's how my daughter and son-in-law managed it. And you, young man," I wave my finger in mock-menace at Anthony, "Had  better get yourself off to Mass and book the Church!" Everyone laughs. 

"Look," I finish, "We volunteers are from many Christain denominations. We're here to do the job  Christ left us to do. What's important is this coming together, all of us, and sharing the love of God." 

Brian asks where I go to church, "Newent."I reply, "But if youre looking for somewhere, you couldn't do better than here." 

God Bless the Salvation Army. 

PS: All that I know of Opus Dei may be found here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Opus_Dei

Quotidian

Quotidian: Adjective
Of or occurring every day; daily.
Ordinary or everyday, esp. when mundane.

I LOVE words: especially, it would appear, words beginning with 'Q'. They are, as you can see, especially helpful when the urge to pudd-pudd across the iPad overtakes me when I have nothing remarkable to say.

M U N D A N E What a lovely word, almost onomatopoeic, it rolls off the tongue, it threatens to put you to sleep it sounds so beautifully, ecstatically O R D I N A R Y.

Yesterday was mundane. I tweeted on Sunday that it is more exciting to decide who you are going to be, than to decide what you're going to do. I like that thought. Let's ALL have a 'to be' list! On Monday I decided to be charitable, smiling and gracious. If you think I AM these things, you need to live with me for a while, then you would discover I AM indeed, but only sometimes... .

0800

A tiny alarm beeps on my iPhone reminding me to take my tablets. I am already awake, listening to KUOW Seattle. I do this to help my blood pressure. Twenty years of arguing with the 'Today ' programme on Radio 4, did not do my blood pressure any good. You never have to yell at KUOW Seattle. Justine Willis-Tomms with her gentle, honeyed voice is interviewing a woman on being a woman and forgiving everyone. What's to yell at? See? Try it.

I have already decided which emails to read, (None.)what to Tweet, (Nothing. I may have overdone it on Sunday. Sorry, Followers.) and what to wear.(Kate's left-over aubergine jeans, a toning check shirt bought in a charity shop in Stroud for £2, over a white long-sleeved T-shirt on account of the weather.)

Bath. Search for Bus Pass, Spectacles, Keys, ( now missing for four days), Shoes. Pack smart Salvation Army tabard. Ready, unusually, to leave the house at time agreed. Driven to Gloucester. Check in at the Salvation Army.

1015

Today is a good day to decide to be charitable, smiling and gracious because I am helping the Salvation Army serve lunches to the street community. Pie, mash and peas.

I tell you, I LOVE this work. I have been helping out for two years now, and the women I work with are beautiful, kindly, earthy, fantastic, saints. I play at being what they are, and they don't see it. That's part of the joy of being with them, they are giants upon the earth, and they don't know it.

So, Kathy. Jeanette, Sandra, Lynn and Major Iris, I take my hat off to you. You give without stinting, and I'm not talking about food. You make me laugh, and cry, you wrap me up in the warmth of your love, and I leave you feeling blessed.

1200

Doors open and our people come in. I serve the tea, which is where the smiling comes in particularly handy.

My earlier optimism on Bob's bed proves to be unfounded. He hasn't got one.

'Bob, I CAN'T send the forms in unless you make your outgoings a LOT more than your benefits.'

Bob needs his benefits. He has Huntington's disease, he is going to die slowly and horribly and he needs a bed. His outgoings are inflated by the painkillers he buys to cope. We both know we can NOT put this on the form.

I HAVE to sort this out before I go on holiday next Sunday, for six weeks. I'm thinking of making a home visit.

Andrew gives me the thumbs-up. The weather has been warmer so his arthritis is improved. He is a retired librarian and an accomplished linguist. I hope he hasn't remembered that he taught me how to say , 'Hello, how are you? ' In ... Can't even remember which of the Slav languages ... .

Patricia's looking poorly.

Pauline won't catch my eye. She hasn't spoken to me since I asked her if she had anywhere where she could take a shower before going for an interview... . Months ago. I have been advised this tack, whilst well-meaning, was a mistake. I see it was. I was only Trying To Help.

John is helping me with the teas. We have a new urn, which presents some problems. The drip tray falls off, we run out of hot water, we discuss his future. Yes, I think he should train to be a minister. Baptist is as good as any denomination, as far as I know, practically the only one I haven't joined and left. Neither of us believe in hell. Would this pose a problem for Baptists? I have a horrible feeling it will.

Another John, an addict, looks better than the last time I saw him, but that's not saying much. Nobody speaks about Flash any more. He's been dead a month. Memories are mercifully short on the streets.

Many of our people are Eastern Europeans. They are so grateful, so polite. We notice four new people today, and make them especially welcome.

So do the regulars. New people are told where food can be found, most days, where vouchers for the food bank can be had, advised to go and ask the Major for a clothing voucher, when the doctor holds a clinic at the Day Centre...

13:00

Clear up. Off then to catch the 1327 bus to Newent and home.

I feel like the queen. Not because of my regal bearing, but because I'm not carrying any money. No paper money, anyway, and I need to buy onions. I have decided to make French Onion With Oxtail Soup. The oxtail is defrosting, and I know I have no onions.

There's Gail, coming out of the chemist's shop. She crosses the High Street to meet me, and we discuss the War Over The Flowers. I'm not going to write about this in detail, it's one of those 'I did, then she did, and he did, and we're all at loggerheads,' things, that is now, thankfully, resolved. I hug Gail and pop into the green grocer's shop for onions.

98p a kilo. Good grief. What does a kilo look like? I reckon an onion weighs about four ounces. Already my brain is shutting down. 'Maths! Maths!' It shouts at me, 'Run!' But I persevere... Four ounces is about one hundred grammes, so that would be ten onions to a kilo... I look down at the handful of change I have and calculate... Four onions. Biggish ones...

Yes!!! Four biggish onions come in at 78p. I have 96p, so I'm well in.

1430

The afternoon and evening are spent propped up in front of the TV, and making soup, and cyber-loafing. A word I heard for the first time yesterday, and determined to use at least once! CYBER LOAFING. I said, 'At least... !'

The soup recipe I snitched from a pub called The Lazy Trout, Meerbrook, in Staffordshire. It's SO delicious that the chef who invented it deserves a plug. It's worth going to Staffordshire just for that soup. Or come here - I'll make it for you!

That's ALL I did.

Which is just as well, because this blog entry is already way too long. I will spare you the recipe for the soup. Sometimes I just can't help myself, and recipes pop up in the unlikeliest places, but not today.

21:30

Bed.