I rode along on a Meals on Wheels route for the first time
It finally really hit me that most of our clients aren’t just the elderly. They are the poor elderly. Some pay a token sum for their meals (about $25 dollars a week for seven days of meals, two meals a day), but many can’t even afford that. I knew those numbers as an objective fact, but experienced them on a more emotional level as we drove.
The neighborhood we delivered in is a rough one, often featured on the evening news. Bernard pointed out local landmarks – “that’s where the fire was last year that killed those kids” or “over there is where that shooting last week was.” The houses themselves told a story of poverty and neglect. Battered cars parked along streets pocked with deep potholes. Rusted fences, boarded up windows, and sagging porches. Once beautiful homes, now peeling and graffitied and tired.
But in the midst of the decay, there were the inevitable marks of human occupation, signs of lives not just endured but enjoyed. A tattered American flag in a window. Wind chimes swaying gently on a porch. A well-tended rose bush growing defiantly among the weeds.
Most of the clients that I met matched their surroundings – old, tired, but with grateful smiles to greet the arrival of their meals. Most were shy about meeting me, hesitant to have their pictures taken (although most relented after being assured that they looked just fine).
“Oh, I’m not dressed for that!”
“Let me just freshen up a bit.”
“Well, now, you caught me in my bathrobe! Can’t take a picture like that.”
For some of these men and women, that brief interaction as the meal is delivered and pleasantries exchanged might be their only human contact of the day. I got the impression that they treasure it. That it’s every bit as important to them as the food we brought.









