Shelter

I check the weather report in both Chicago and New York City every couple of hours. The thought of the kids being cold haunts me. I do not approve of either of their coats but they turn up their noses when I point out bargain priced and perfectly fine looking, practical winter jackets. In solidarity, I walk on the bathroom tile sans slippers and go out at night without a sweater.

Number One Son, after having spent Thanksgiving with us, is unable to get time off during Christmas week. Spuds fortunately has a week off. He arrives home with a bad cold but shortly recovers enough for meals and movies. Himself and I militantly eschew New Year's Eve activities. A couple of times I've prepared a meal to serve at a neighborhood homeless shelter. I volunteer to make New Year's Eve dinner and while not enthusiastic, Spuds and Himself pitch in and help schlep big trays of lasagna and boxes of cupcakes.

There are only 50 beds at the shelter which opens at 6 p.m. When we arrive there is already a line of people with stuffed backpacks and giant suitcases. There are a handful of folks who look grimy. Some mutter to themselves. But these are the exception, and for the most part it could be an airport TSA line.

Ordinarily there are about a dozen volunteers to help with serving and clean up. Someone shows up about forty-five minutes late to unlock the kitchen and then leaves. A young couple arrive with New Year's decorations and sparkling cider. They take off, leaving paper bugles at each place setting, and therefore don't have to endure the constant honking during the meal service. Spuds mans the dessert table, Himself serves garlic rolls and I handle the lasagna station. Most of the guests are gracious and appreciative. Many are articulate and well spoken. I've made terrible decisions and experienced my share of bad luck but I never slipped over the edge. I serve dinner to those fortunate enough to have secured a bed for the night. I realize that still, an accident, illness or another unforeseen disaster could still decimate my own comfortable circumstance. All of the guests are fed and a line forms for seconds. There are no leftovers. Spuds picks up dinner for us from a taco stand.

My three week teaching vacation is almost over. I work on test creation at school for a couple of mornings but I've been free of the burden of planning lessons and classroom management. My fantasy is to hunker down during vacation and complete my lesson planning for the rest of the trimester. Today, I half heartedly thumb through my textbook until I decide that it's urgent to head to Burbank to avail myself of a sale on dog food.

With my two year teaching contract, Himself and my schedule's no longer jibe. I'll go see the kids during my spring break but it is likely that 2018 won't bring much other travel. I remember a meal I had in a grubby cafe when I first arrived, famished, in Paris around 1975. I can feel the texture of the pate and the crust of the bread in my mouth. I struggle to remember what I ate yesterday. The vividness of travel experience feels life prolonging. My day in and day out are not unpleasant but the days run together.

Aggressively perusing meaningful experiences here at home substitutes a bit for the cherished powerful impressions etched in parts unknown. I moan and groan about not being solvent enough to retire and envy my friends when they embark on exotic travels. Every day brings me farther from “This is my life” and closer to “This was my life.” I want it to be more than sitting on the couch, waiting for Trump to be impeached and missing my kids.

Serving a meal once in a while, or teaching a class of immigrants provide alternative memorable milestones.

It isn't like teaching or feeding the homeless makes me feel superior, or as one of my friends suggested, “saintly.” I bristle when someone refers to me as a “good person.” I haven't the time to enumerate my bad qualities nor do expect that providing service for the less fortunate will somehow balance out my karma. I devour the power of human resilience. A pretty beaming young woman with a British accent thanks us for the lovely meal. Will she have a place to sleep tomorrow? My students, for the most part are invisible, underpaid for their crap jobs. They laugh at my inane jokes and they chip in to get me a gift card for Christmas.

My inclination is to sit on the couch, watch CNN and eat during the commercials. There is a long list of places I hanker to visit. Maybe. Maybe not. In the meantime, there are extraordinary people right here at home who cope and remain thoughtful and optimistic in unimaginably bad circumstances. I'm not giving up my couch or Anderson Cooper. I will likely remember the Trump era as a dreadful disheartening time. Perhaps I'll make it back to Mexico but in the meantime I can mark these weird days with tiny flashes of grace.