S. called me up Saturday night; this is the S. of "Free Veggies" fame. "My neighbor is selling haggis," she said.
So yesterday afternoon I wandered down a few blocks, purse in hand, and knocked on her neighbor's door. "Word on the street is that you are selling haggis," I said. No, I didn't. I gave her a bit more context for my actions than that; I told her I knew S.
I bought $5 worth, which means I may have to conduct some haggis-tastings, because $5 buys you an awful lot of haggis. S.'s neighbor told me stories of the Cincinnati Caledonian Pipes and Drums Band and their Tartan Day Ceilidh, which had been the night before. The festivities included a haggis-eating contest. (I had to ask--just how much haggis would one have to eat to win a haggis-eating contest? Answer--one cup haggis, half-cup of neeps, half-cup of tatties. [Neeps and tatties are turnips--or in this case rutabagas--and potatoes.] The premium was speed, not quantity.)
I'm planning on letting the boys in the house try the haggis. I'll just tell 'em it's a type of sausage.
Showing posts with label generosity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label generosity. Show all posts
Monday, April 11, 2011
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Free Veggies
M. parked the box truck on the sidewalk next to St. E's at one o'clock in the afternoon. S. drove up in her car moments later. I could see it all from my window--the produce boxes stacked five high or more in the back of the truck, S. chatting with curious local folk.
S. works for an outreach at a church in the Cincinnati suburbs. They'd gotten a huge donation of veggies, way more than they could distribute, so she'd offered to take it here to Norwood where she knew the need was also great. Plus, she knew she could recruit people to do drive-by veggie drop-offs to friends and strangers.
All told, she'd brought half a pallet of potatoes, cucumbers and yellow squash--enough to justify the use of a moving van.
I came down from my apartment in time to see most of the potatoes go. There had only been a few sacks of those--nothing like the boxes upon boxes of squash and cucumbers. Local Vineyard folk showed up on bike, in cars, on foot, to take what they could carry and share it round. S. called or texted others she knew who hadn't shown up just so they wouldn't miss out.
When cars would pass, she'd shout like a carnival barker: "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" Many cars slowed and parked in response, and many a box disappeared from the truck via this method. Other cars' windows were rolled up, the drivers protected by a/c from the scorcher of a Saturday. I amused myself wondering what they made of the scene--a woman yelling something unheard, surrounded on all sides by produce. S. got me to put a notice on the chalkboard outside of church: "FREE VEGGIES." That ought to have cleared up some confusion.
I brought out some grocery bags I had stockpiled so people wouldn't have to take a whole box if they couldn't use veggies in bulk. After a few folk had made use of this option, S. said to me, "We're running out of bags." I played Elijah and assured her, "The bags aren't going to run out." Sure enough, M., another Vineyard bud from down the street, soon offered to bring bags from her house's stockpile.
S. works with a Hispanic ministry; she was occasionally switching off yelling "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" to its Spanish equivalent. Doing this caught the attention of a fella who was headed to a church in Northern Kentucky, a Hispanic outreach one hundred members strong. We sent him on his way with eight boxes or so. "God provides!" S. told him cheerfully in Spanish.
We were never overwhelmed with a horde of people all at once, but folks came in a steady stream. We heard the word was spreading through the neighborhood--squash-and-cucumber recipients passing the news on to people on their front stoops. My friend D. and I went knocking on doors to see if a delivery might be welcome.
By three o'clock the box truck was empty, and S. was beaming.
At Mass the next day, when the priest came to Jesus' words, "Take this, all of you, and eat it," I heard S.'s voice ringing loud and clear, "FREE...!"
S. works for an outreach at a church in the Cincinnati suburbs. They'd gotten a huge donation of veggies, way more than they could distribute, so she'd offered to take it here to Norwood where she knew the need was also great. Plus, she knew she could recruit people to do drive-by veggie drop-offs to friends and strangers.
All told, she'd brought half a pallet of potatoes, cucumbers and yellow squash--enough to justify the use of a moving van.
I came down from my apartment in time to see most of the potatoes go. There had only been a few sacks of those--nothing like the boxes upon boxes of squash and cucumbers. Local Vineyard folk showed up on bike, in cars, on foot, to take what they could carry and share it round. S. called or texted others she knew who hadn't shown up just so they wouldn't miss out.
When cars would pass, she'd shout like a carnival barker: "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" Many cars slowed and parked in response, and many a box disappeared from the truck via this method. Other cars' windows were rolled up, the drivers protected by a/c from the scorcher of a Saturday. I amused myself wondering what they made of the scene--a woman yelling something unheard, surrounded on all sides by produce. S. got me to put a notice on the chalkboard outside of church: "FREE VEGGIES." That ought to have cleared up some confusion.
I brought out some grocery bags I had stockpiled so people wouldn't have to take a whole box if they couldn't use veggies in bulk. After a few folk had made use of this option, S. said to me, "We're running out of bags." I played Elijah and assured her, "The bags aren't going to run out." Sure enough, M., another Vineyard bud from down the street, soon offered to bring bags from her house's stockpile.
S. works with a Hispanic ministry; she was occasionally switching off yelling "FREE SQUASH AND CUCUMBERS!" to its Spanish equivalent. Doing this caught the attention of a fella who was headed to a church in Northern Kentucky, a Hispanic outreach one hundred members strong. We sent him on his way with eight boxes or so. "God provides!" S. told him cheerfully in Spanish.
We were never overwhelmed with a horde of people all at once, but folks came in a steady stream. We heard the word was spreading through the neighborhood--squash-and-cucumber recipients passing the news on to people on their front stoops. My friend D. and I went knocking on doors to see if a delivery might be welcome.
By three o'clock the box truck was empty, and S. was beaming.
At Mass the next day, when the priest came to Jesus' words, "Take this, all of you, and eat it," I heard S.'s voice ringing loud and clear, "FREE...!"
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Giant's Causeway
I am visiting my friends Cat (whom I know from high school) and Christy (her husband) at their home not far from Belfast. Generally I'm an easygoing traveller, happy to go along with other people's plans, but there was one sight I insisted on seeing on this trip: the Giant's Causeway on the Antrim Coast. I'd been to Northern Ireland once before--ten years ago this year!--on a backpacking trip, and had planned to visit this peculiar rock formation then, but I'd gotten ill and scotched the idea. There'd be none of that this time!
Cat, Christy and I set out on a whole-day expedition--not just to the Causeway but to Dunluce Castle (a majestic ruin on the cliffs which my friend Desiree had recommended I see) and the beach at Ballycastle (where Christy had gone many a summer whilst growing up). I was completely dumbstruck by Dunluce, it was just so gorgeous and wild. Mighty waves crashing against rocks below sheer cliffs, a roofless manor house and loggia and battlements, a sign describing an outer wall that had slid into the sea.
Fortified with salt and vinegar crisps, we headed next to the Giant's Causeway. Christy asked if I'd heard the legend of its formation. I had, but I'd forgotten key details.
"There's this Irish giant and this Scottish giant who decide to get together to fight," he began. Apparently they'd never met before--perhaps they'd just shouted insults back and forth, as Scotland and this bit of Northern Ireland are only, what, 37 km removed at this point. "So they start building a causeway so they can meet in the middle to battle it out." But then the Irish giant catches a glimpse of the Scottish giant--Christy used a colorful colloquialism to describe the terror the Irish giant felt at this point-and he hurriedly retreats. "Back home, the Irish giant dresses up in baby clothes and gets in a baby carriage sized to fit him. The Scottish giant meanwhile is angry he didn't get to scrap, and he comes looking for the Irish giant--" and finds instead what he takes to be the Irish giant's not-so-wee bairn. "He thinks, 'if that's his baby...!' and he runs back home, destroying the causeway as he goes."
All this Cat and Christy and I talked about on the long slanting road down to the Causeway. Christy also said that, though he himself thought the legend was a sufficient explanation for the stones, "naysayers" had formed a theory about a volcanic eruption some 60 million years back when basalt had rapidly cooled in the water. The expansion and contraction of rock made it take hexagonal shapes for reasons I've read about on the Wiki page but don't quite understand. "But the evidence in favor of the legend is that there are similar formations on the Scottish side," Christy pointed out.
Once we actually reached the Led Zeppelin album cover, I again felt overcome by how extraordinary it was. It's always fun to go stepping from stone to stone on a shoreline--multiply that by the surreality of the stones being hexagonal, and at all different heights, and some of them loose. "D'you have good health insurance?" Christy wanted to know. I laughed but started stepping more carefully, though I still found myself drawn to go as far out toward the sea as I could. Most people were scrambling up a ledge flanked by long columns of these rocks, but this was closer to the shore. There was a wide shelf of black rock (the inner rocks were brown) that was lonelier. I headed that way. My path would be blocked by small pools of water or boulders, but I found ways through. I didn't see where Cat and Christy went.
I found what seemed to be a good outpost--not too close to the crashing waves, not too close to the shoreline--and sat on a rock. I wasn't content there long, though. I soon noticed that, since the hexagons were all different heights, a natural high-backed chair was right beside me. I slid into it gratefully. It was even tilted back a little--a natural Barcalounger. Perfect. Mysterious stones and great green cliffs and wheeling seagulls and the roar of the sea. Happiness.
I watched the waves as they smashed into the rocks and broke into spouts of spray. I felt like I could have watched this for hours and hours. Just a few minutes in, though, I heard a deeper roar and saw a bigger wave approach. Wow, I thought. I wonder how far in it will get?
...as it flung itself in and drenched my corduroys and socks and shoes.
I stood up, squealed "AAA!" or something like that and looked around. I started squelching back to the brown rocks. (I was beginning to vaguely grasp what the difference in color might have meant.) I wanted to find Cat and Christy, but I was also hoping they hadn't seen this.
As I looked around I heard a whistle. "Don't worry," Christy said from the ledge where he and Cat were sitting. "Nobody saw that. Not many people, anyway."
For the rest of the day, when Cat broke into giggles, I knew the mental picture that prompted them. But I didn't mind. They were gracious enough to provide me a place to stay on this trip--the least I could do for Cat and Christy was to provide them some entertainment.
Cat, Christy and I set out on a whole-day expedition--not just to the Causeway but to Dunluce Castle (a majestic ruin on the cliffs which my friend Desiree had recommended I see) and the beach at Ballycastle (where Christy had gone many a summer whilst growing up). I was completely dumbstruck by Dunluce, it was just so gorgeous and wild. Mighty waves crashing against rocks below sheer cliffs, a roofless manor house and loggia and battlements, a sign describing an outer wall that had slid into the sea.
Fortified with salt and vinegar crisps, we headed next to the Giant's Causeway. Christy asked if I'd heard the legend of its formation. I had, but I'd forgotten key details.
"There's this Irish giant and this Scottish giant who decide to get together to fight," he began. Apparently they'd never met before--perhaps they'd just shouted insults back and forth, as Scotland and this bit of Northern Ireland are only, what, 37 km removed at this point. "So they start building a causeway so they can meet in the middle to battle it out." But then the Irish giant catches a glimpse of the Scottish giant--Christy used a colorful colloquialism to describe the terror the Irish giant felt at this point-and he hurriedly retreats. "Back home, the Irish giant dresses up in baby clothes and gets in a baby carriage sized to fit him. The Scottish giant meanwhile is angry he didn't get to scrap, and he comes looking for the Irish giant--" and finds instead what he takes to be the Irish giant's not-so-wee bairn. "He thinks, 'if that's his baby...!' and he runs back home, destroying the causeway as he goes."
All this Cat and Christy and I talked about on the long slanting road down to the Causeway. Christy also said that, though he himself thought the legend was a sufficient explanation for the stones, "naysayers" had formed a theory about a volcanic eruption some 60 million years back when basalt had rapidly cooled in the water. The expansion and contraction of rock made it take hexagonal shapes for reasons I've read about on the Wiki page but don't quite understand. "But the evidence in favor of the legend is that there are similar formations on the Scottish side," Christy pointed out.
Once we actually reached the Led Zeppelin album cover, I again felt overcome by how extraordinary it was. It's always fun to go stepping from stone to stone on a shoreline--multiply that by the surreality of the stones being hexagonal, and at all different heights, and some of them loose. "D'you have good health insurance?" Christy wanted to know. I laughed but started stepping more carefully, though I still found myself drawn to go as far out toward the sea as I could. Most people were scrambling up a ledge flanked by long columns of these rocks, but this was closer to the shore. There was a wide shelf of black rock (the inner rocks were brown) that was lonelier. I headed that way. My path would be blocked by small pools of water or boulders, but I found ways through. I didn't see where Cat and Christy went.
I found what seemed to be a good outpost--not too close to the crashing waves, not too close to the shoreline--and sat on a rock. I wasn't content there long, though. I soon noticed that, since the hexagons were all different heights, a natural high-backed chair was right beside me. I slid into it gratefully. It was even tilted back a little--a natural Barcalounger. Perfect. Mysterious stones and great green cliffs and wheeling seagulls and the roar of the sea. Happiness.
I watched the waves as they smashed into the rocks and broke into spouts of spray. I felt like I could have watched this for hours and hours. Just a few minutes in, though, I heard a deeper roar and saw a bigger wave approach. Wow, I thought. I wonder how far in it will get?
...as it flung itself in and drenched my corduroys and socks and shoes.
I stood up, squealed "AAA!" or something like that and looked around. I started squelching back to the brown rocks. (I was beginning to vaguely grasp what the difference in color might have meant.) I wanted to find Cat and Christy, but I was also hoping they hadn't seen this.
As I looked around I heard a whistle. "Don't worry," Christy said from the ledge where he and Cat were sitting. "Nobody saw that. Not many people, anyway."
For the rest of the day, when Cat broke into giggles, I knew the mental picture that prompted them. But I didn't mind. They were gracious enough to provide me a place to stay on this trip--the least I could do for Cat and Christy was to provide them some entertainment.
Monday, February 19, 2007
What Soup Kitchens Wish For (And What They Don't)
All last week a local sports club took up a collection for Our Daily Bread of canned goods and personal items to coincide with the celebration of their Open House on Saturday. I brought three boxes (big-screen-TV-size) full of testimony to the club guests' generosity to work today. What was particularly gratifying was that the largest percentage of it was usable stuff--travel-size shampoo, cookies, cups, lotion, razors, combs. Sometimes with drives like this you just get people casting off the unappetizing items that have been sitting in the back of the pantry for goodness knows how long--those that perhaps even came with the house. But out of those three big boxes we only found two things that were unsuitable for giving away--a big glass bottle of cod liver oil, and Classico Vodka Sauce. Yeah, there's no actual alcohol content in the latter, of course, but it's still bad form for a soup kitchen to give away anything with the word "vodka" on the label.
But other than those two things, as I said, it was a wonderful collection, particularly since with the recent ice a lot of donations haven't been coming in.
Another Very Good Thing--that mailing that I wrote about earlier? It was an appeal letter; it got sent out late last week. The first replies came in today (we picked up Saturday's mail--no mail on Presidents' Day). It's lovely to see people being so generous. I hope our donors feel a sense of ownership of the place, that they are the reason why we can do what we do.
A very good friend is coming to visit from St. Louis; I'm gonna put her to work volunteering for a day. I'm curious about how the place will look through her eyes.
But other than those two things, as I said, it was a wonderful collection, particularly since with the recent ice a lot of donations haven't been coming in.
Another Very Good Thing--that mailing that I wrote about earlier? It was an appeal letter; it got sent out late last week. The first replies came in today (we picked up Saturday's mail--no mail on Presidents' Day). It's lovely to see people being so generous. I hope our donors feel a sense of ownership of the place, that they are the reason why we can do what we do.
A very good friend is coming to visit from St. Louis; I'm gonna put her to work volunteering for a day. I'm curious about how the place will look through her eyes.
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