(c ) Daniel Quentin Steele 2012
It's been awhile, but it's good to be back on LIT. This is a departure from anything I've done on this site. I hope that readers will enjoy it. This is a stand-alone story, although part of the First Coast series I've been telling over the last two and a half years. There are a couple of connections to another well known series if you look for them. But, as you might know by now, I believe we are all interconnected, all part of the same world, in literature and in reality.
DQS. And finally, as always, I would like to thank curiouss for his continued and valued editing of my rough work.
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The dirt road circled to the left and, when he passed the curve of trees, he saw the weather beaten white wooden structure, looking like nothing so much as a rural country church, probably Baptist. As he saw the sign he realized that was exactly what it was.
"Praise God Baptist Church," said one white sign and another nearby said, "Putnam County Food Pantry."
There were two dozen cars and trucks parked in the field surrounding the church. Twenty-year-old pickups; old model Fords, Chevrolets, 90s model Pontiacs; station wagons which had seen much better days. The trucks for the most part had beds filled with odds and ends and tools. The cars looked like the original coats of paint been transformed by dust and grime to some in-between shades.
The exception was a late model blue Dodge Grand Caravan parked almost out of sight behind the church. Two boys were running a hose over it and two younger girls were using rags with suds. He found a place to park and took his camera, tape recorder and notebook out before locking it. Probably unnecessary, but it was a habit.
He walked toward the front of the building attracting curious gazes from the line of men and women, mostly women, standing in a line outside the door. There were a lot of small children. Some were pre-teens, but most of them were young enough to be in diapers, or were toddlers held in mothers' arms.
A few of the women weren't bad; frazzled, too young for him, but not bad. Most were older, heavier, tired looking. Keeping up with the swarms of little ones would tend to do that. He had thrown the camera on its strap around his shoulder and put the mini-recorder in his pocket.
"Hi," he said to an older man leaning on a cane. "Is this where I can find Mrs. Miller?"
The old man gave him a blank look.
"Sorry?"
A young boy, who looked to be on the cusp of turning from a pre-teen to a fully-fledged teen because his hands and feet were outgrowing the rest of him, had heard and said, "Oh, you mean the Wheelchair Lady?"
"Tommy," an older woman said, giving him a hard look.
"Yes, sir, Mrs. Miller is inside. She keeps things running."
Then, moving a little closer, the older lady said softly, "Don't mind the boy. Everybody calls her the Wheelchair Lady, or Miss Jessie. She don't mind."
He pushed open the screen door and stepped inside. The church was bigger than he had thought. It ran backwards a ways, a long, rectangular room. Today it wasn't a church - there were no pews. Instead, wooden tables had been set up end-to-end and nearly a dozen men and women bustled about behind and in front of the tables. The tables were heaped with loaves of bread, pastries, canned goods and some green vegetables that looked like greens or collards.
The fronts of the tables were lined with men and women, again usually women, holding paper bags that the workers behind the tables were loading with bread and canned goods and a few green things. Children were begging for particular cakes or pies while their mothers tried to move them along.
A stoop-shouldered older man approached him, glancing at the camera on his shoulder.
"Can I help you?"
He reached out and shook the man's hand, saying, "Yeah. I'm Robert Kincade. I work for the Times-Union and we had contacted Mrs. Miller about coming out and getting a few pictures. Doing a story, for our Saturday Florida section, about her, the work she does."
"Hubert, Hubert Mossman, Mr. Kincade. She told a few of us that somebody was coming out. But she thought it was going to be some guy named Bass, Harry Bass. A kind of unusual name. Not hard to remember that."
Kincade smiled, "Yessir, Harry does have a memorable name, but he's tied up on another assignment and I'm taking his place."
"Glad to see you here, Mr. Kincade. Jessie - Mrs. Miller – is a good woman and she deserves a little attention for all that she does."
"Well, that's what I'm here for."
"Sure, well come on back. She's in the rear."
When he walked through the rear door he found a smaller room with the door open to a back porch. In the back was a Winn-Dixie truck with its back panel open showing boxes of canned goods and containers of bread. A half-dozen younger men were shuttling the boxes and containers out on to the back porch.
A woman with golden hair piled high and contained in a hairnet directed the actions of the crew emptying the truck like a conductor managing an orchestra. She sat in a gleaming wheelchair that raised her head up to about the height of his mid-chest.
Mossman stepped up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
"Whatcha need, Hubie? We need to get this stuff out because Ray at the WD just called and they need their truck back there in 45 minutes."
"A guy from the Times-Union is here, Jessie."
"That Bass guy? Whatever his name was?"
"No, he couldn't make it. They sent another reporter."
"Oh, well, send him back. I can't stop right now."
"He's right here."
She touched the arm of the chair and it swung smoothly around. She had blue eyes, the clearest blue Kincade thought he'd ever seen, except maybe one other time. And that was long ago so he couldn't be sure. She wore no makeup, no lipstick. She was dressed in a simple blouse and wore slacks that concealed her legs. And she was still a beautiful woman.
She touched the chair again and it whirred smoothly to within a foot of him. She had to look up to meet his eyes but, with the raised chair, not too far. She held out one slim hand.
