On the long flight to California, my husband, Julian,shares with me a Business Week article on the dismaleconomy. Our discussion drifts to its effect on the

middle-class and specifically on our children. When we arrive at our daughter’s modest home, the

boxes lining her front walkway are an eyesore. I expect myhusband to comment on the flies buzzing about, on howtacky the yard appears. Instead, as if continuing our earlierconversation, he says, “This is quite a statement about theeconomy’s impact on Miriam’s community.”

Stifling my involuntary shudder at the ugliness, I peer inthe first carton: bruised fruit. In the next I see skinny, multi-colored peppers. As we move toward the house, I pokearound in crates that hold canned vegetables, packages ofcookies, and bags of chips past their expiration dates. Plasticsacks labeled Continental Kosher Bakery or Sam’s KosherBakery contain hotdog and hamburger buns, bagels, and as-sorted loaves and rolls.

This informal food pantry began more than a year agowhen my son-in-law was out of work. To supplement my

daughter’s earnings and his unemployment check, he signedup to receive groceries from area food banks. Each week hereturned the non-kosher items—canned pork and beans, forexample—from the previous week’s bag. Because he couldnever accept the bread, he asked the nearby kosher bakerymanagers to donate their day-old products. He and Miriamkept a little for themselves and their four children, thenshared the rest with needy families. Last time I visited, Iheard Miriam phoning struggling Orthodox neighbors to in-vite them to check out the free baked goods.

Now, six months later, the informal food program hasgrown beyond the bakery items and moved outside, underthe Los Angeles sun, making it more flexible and anony-mous. Miriam has taken charge of the project. She has re-cruited a crop of volunteers to collect expired goods andyesterday’s produce from the all-kosher supermarket at thecorner and deliver them to her yard. Each night my 5-foot-1-inch daughter drags the heavy bags of baked goods into thehouse; each morning she schleps them back to the porch.Twice weekly, she loads whatever is left into her stationwagon and delivers it to an official food pantry.

During my visit, I accompany her to the food bank. Themingled aroma of bread and overripe fruit fills the car. “Tell

44 I JEWISH ACTION Winter 5772/2011

B.J. Yudelson is a retired writer for not-for-profit agencies. Her cre-ative nonfiction has appeared in numerous publications. She volun-teers extensively in Rochester’s Jewish community.

By B.J. YudelsonShortStory

Winter 5772/2011 JEWISH ACTION I 45

me about this setup,” I ask her. “Whoruns it? Who uses it?”

“It’s an interfaith effort supportedby nine churches and two synagogues,”she replies. “One of the churches pro-vides free space.”

“Any chance I can talk to someonethere?”

“I’ll introduce you to Jerry, themanager. He’s a member of a co-spon-soring Reform congregation. He cantell you more.”

At the church parking lot, mengreet Miriam with warm smiles andmuscular arms ready to unload the car.I’m pleased with her relaxed relation-ship with these men, who, at least onthe surface, seem so different from her.“They’re all volunteers,” Miriam says,leading me inside.

White-haired Jerry, whose livelyvoice belies his eighty-five years, stops

working to answer my questions.When he tells me he’s been doing thisfor twenty-five years, I ask why.

“I grew up in Brooklyn. My dad hada candy store, and he worked from sixin the morning till midnight, sevendays a week. We lived in the back. Dadalways stopped for family dinner at six,and night after night, he’d call ahead tomy mother to set an extra place.”

He pauses to answer a volunteer’squestion, then turns back to me with amodest shrug. “My parents were con-stantly feeding homeless people, sothis seems like the natural thing to do.”

“Your parents would be so proud toknow how you are following their ex-ample,” I comment. “How many ofyour clients are actually homeless?”

“About 20 percent of the eightthousand people we feed a month. Onehomeless man comes by every morning

at seven. For six hours, he lifts, sorts,hauls, whatever we need. Then hetakes a bag of food for himself, withgreat dignity, because he’s earned it.”

I don’t know why this man ishomeless, but, judging from his actionshere, he doesn’t belong in the box inwhich society has placed him: unsta-ble, undignified, unreliable.

Now Jerry nods toward a teen, whois stacking cases of canned goods.“That boy is an actor. He’s only four-teen, and already he has a trust fundworth three quarters of a million dol-lars from doing commercials.”

The youngster is tall, blond, hand-some, and intent on what he’s doing.

“So why’s he here?” I ask, scrib-bling frantically to keep up withJerry’s pace.

“His acting schedule is irregular, sohe’s being home-schooled. Whenever

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46 I JEWISH ACTION Winter 5772/2011

he has a free Friday, his father brings him here to do com-munity service. They work side by side.”

I look at the pair and see another stereotype crumble.This is no pampered Hollywood kid whose parents willallow him to get by on only good looks and talent.

I motion toward rows of brown paper sacks. “What’sin those?”

“Canned fruits and vegetables, rice and beans, pasta andcereals. People have to meet federal income standards andare limited to a bag a week.” Jerry smiles at Miriam as hecontinues. “That’s the beauty of the food Miriam brings. It’sall extra, above and beyond what the government subsidizes.There are no limits and people love the fresh produce andsnack foods.”

My daughter’s blue eyes sparkle. “And I appreciate thechance to help feed hungry people. This is so much moremeaningful to me than PTA bake sales.”

Jerry nods in agreement. I beam with maternal pride.Back outside, I look for peppers that hadn’t interested

Miriam’s Jewish “clients.” In this Hispanic neighborhood,all but a handful have disappeared.

Saturday evening, not long after the end of Shabbat, thedoorbell rings. In marches a volunteer’s family bearing left-overs from their synagogue’s Seudah Shelishit: assorted sal-ads, hummus, rolls, pita, half-full containers of soda, andbottled water. They deposit the bonanza and Miriamstarts phoning.

Soon a woman who cobbles together part-time jobswalks in, followed by a mother who home-schools her chil-

dren because even with significant financial aid, Jewish dayschool tuition is out of reach. Later an unemployed father ofsix arrives. These folks are boxed in by their commitment tochoices that are expensive and, to them, non-negotiable:large families, proximity to synagogues, Jewish day schools,and kosher food. Smiling at the laden table, they carefullyspoon salads into containers they brought or bags thatMiriam provides.

“Am I taking too much?”“That water’s available? My sons will be thrilled to have

water bottles in their lunch bags this week.”“How many more people are you expecting tonight? I

don’t want to take more than my share.”“Thank you for calling me. This is such a mechayah

[pleasure].”Sunday morning, we haul the remaining bakery items

outside. In the evening, volunteers deliver bakery and gro-cery items from the neighborhood stores, and the cycle con-tinues for the benefit of fifteen to twenty needy Orthodoxfamilies.

A few days later, as Julian and I wheel our suitcases be-tween the cartons, I no longer see them as an eyesore. In-stead of stale bread, I envisage a large family extending itslimited food budget. Rather than bruised fruit, I see nutri-tion. The outdated snack food packages seem to shimmerlike a child’s joy at discovering lunch bag treats.

I hug Miriam tightly. The project that nourishes mydaughter’s soul has refocused my vision. g

I don’t know why this man is homeless,but, judging from his actions here,he doesn’t belong in the box in whichsociety has placed him: unstable,undignified, unreliable.

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