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Faye Dunaway to be Evicted?
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Nintendo's Mario endures even as games come and go
Families hit by hardship they never anticipated
Published on Thursday, Nov 22, 2007
The line seems to go on forever, cars idling down Opportunity Parkway, each waiting to turn into the driveway of the new Akron-Canton Regional Foodbank facility, each waiting for the allotted three boxes of food and household supplies.
Distribution wasn't supposed to start until 1 p.m., but the cars began arriving at 10:30 a.m., and the staff improvises, taking them as they come, hoping there will be enough.
Three days before Thanksgiving, there is need.
The line seems to go on forever, and in a way it does, with graphs and statistics trailing ever upward — a 66 percent increase in the number of people served by this agency between 2001 and 2005; a 17 percent increase in families seeking ''emergency food.''
You watch the cars and you begin to notice things that don't play to the story you had in your head — a new Saab; a woman in a business suit. You begin to wonder.
Something has happened in many of these lives, some unexpected turn, that has meant the difference between having enough food to make it through the month and not having enough. You look at the numbers and you listen to the experts and you see troubling evidence:
hunger creeping upward into the middle class. People are doing things right and still falling short.
You stand at the front of the line where staff and volunteers are lifting the boxes into the trunks and back seats and you talk to the people about why they have come here and how this food will change their Thanksgiving, and you hear a certain word again and again.
They call it a ''blessing.''
It's not exactly that. It's a one-time program, funded by the state, to distribute food to Ohio Works First clients in the few days before Thanksgiving. Enough to serve 1,980 recipients. It is a booster shot to the food bank's mission, a mission brought into greater prominence last month, when the agency moved into the former House of LaRose headquarters.
This has been a year of noteworthy local ribbon cuttings, new buildings that both define and reflect who we are as a community. A new art museum addition, a new Urban League facility, a rock star's vegetarian restaurant, a food bank.
And you wonder about this last one: Is it a reflection of something good — a community that prioritizes feeding the hungry? Or of something less optimistic — a community whose need is growing?
Here in the line, you find evidence of both. You find good-hearted people trying to lift the spirits of those who've come for help, and you look beyond into the windswept November afternoon to see a line that seems to stretch forever.
And then you hear a story.
It all fell apart
She is sitting in the passenger seat of her daughter-in-law's pickup truck, a child between them. She doesn't want to be here; she never thought she'd need to be.
All her life, all Anna Kirby has ever done is work. Fifty years, from the time she was 16, she has worked. Twenty eight years at her last job, painting and cleaning houses for a real estate company. She was a subcontractor, she got paid by the job and worked long hours, far longer than a 66-year-old woman should be working.
She had her reasons: two granddaughters at home, 5 and 7 years old, in her custody.
Twenty eight years, and in May it all fell apart.
The real estate company told her she wasn't needed anymore. She tried to rebound, to find other work, but before long she lost her car, and without a car, she can't work.
Just like that, Kirby went from a decent living to this — sitting in a line of cars waiting for her boxes of food.
Her eyes seem to beg for something other than this.
''I wanted to pay my way,'' she says. ''I'm not one to take.''
And you look back at all the cars behind her, and you realize:
This could be anyone.
Losing it piece by piece
The living room in the little house near Goodyear Heights does not feel desperate. The furniture is comfortable, newish. The house is neat and warm. Kirby's granddaughters are at school, their framed photographs holding their place.
In the kitchen, a turkey is beginning its thaw on the counter. The food from the boxes is put away. Canned cranberries near the sink; corn on the table.
She tells you that she has $8 to get her to the first of the month.
You look around at a house that feels comfortable, stable, like any house you know. She explains: Everything was fine until May, and now she's losing it, piece by piece.
For six months, she has survived on $1,000 a month from her ex-husband's Social Security and $336 in Aid to Dependent Children.
She missed payments on her van. They took it away.
She was buying the house on land contract. Now she's renting month-to-month.
The girls' bedroom suites were repossessed. They sleep with her.
You sit back down in the living room, and you listen to a story that begins in Kentucky, where Anna Kirby was born into a family of 21 children.
Twenty-one? you ask.
Yes, she says. There was a first round from one mother, and a second round from another.
She moved to Ohio as a child. The home was not happy. She left at 16 and began to work.
She didn't finish high school, got married at 19 and had three children. In the early 1970s, she and her husband divorced. A year later, he committed suicide.
She raised the children alone. She worked and worked. They grew up. They had children. Some had problems. She made decent money; she helped them out, paying and paying. She was not good at saving, she admits, but she never had to be. She worked, and she made her way.
She raised one granddaughter, now grown. And now, for the past five years, she has been raising two more, one in kindergarten, one in second grade.
They would never drink milk before, she says. Now all of a sudden, the past few months, no paycheck — they want milk. She finds a way. There are two jugs in the refrigerator.
Expanding need
Back at the food bank, Gary Green, the agency's member services coordinator, is checking paperwork at a car window.
He asks the driver to pop the trunk. She's an older woman; the side window is covered with one of those visors that keep the sun out of a baby's eyes.
''We see a lot of people taking care of children they weren't expecting, and that's what's put them over the edge,'' Green says.
But it's hard to grasp exactly, completely from where all these new clients are coming. The Akron-Canton Regional Foodbank serves eight counties. Last year, the food bank and its member agencies distributed a record 11 million pounds of food. The expanding need, coupled with the dramatically expanded facility, means those numbers will probably spike even higher.
They couldn't have distributed these boxes of food from their old facility on Grant Street. They didn't have the capacity; they didn't have the flow of a building like this one. They were turning away a million pounds of donated food a year.
The new facility is 85,000 square feet, an increase of nearly 50,000 square feet. It was bought and renovated for $6 million; an ongoing capital campaign to cover those costs, plus a $2 million operating endowment, has raised nearly $6 million.
It looks like a Sam's Club inside, with broad, no-nonsense shelving stacked with crates — potatoes, onions, apples — forklifts buzzing to and fro, a driver shivering as he motors into a 4,000-square-foot freezer, more than five times the size of the old freezer and full to the ceiling.
Thanksgiving represents the beginning of the food bank's busiest season; activity will be at a peak through the holidays. But the need will be there all year.
A car stalls in the line out front. It needs a push.
A woman — a girl, really — showed up the day before with a baby carriage to haul her boxes. Someone in line recognized her and offered a ride.
At the front door, a man who doesn't speak English is trying to get his arms around three large boxes, to make it to the bus stop. A staff member is trying to help him, but he's trying to do it himself, and they endure an awkward dance — the helper and the man who doesn't want to acknowledge he needs the help.
It goes on like this long after you leave.
Raising grandchildren
A car pulls into the driveway. The girls are home from school. They rush into the house, calling — ''Nana!'' — and run to her, hugging her leg.
Shania is shy; she retreats to a bedroom, peeking out. Melissa plops down on the couch and begins to empty her school folder. She has made a book, cutting and coloring. They read it together.
''The little pilgrim brought sweet potatoes; the little pilgrim brought squash.
''And this little pilgrim stopped by to say, 'I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving.'''
Melissa's school picture is pasted there. Kirby squeezes her. The girl dashes off to find her stuffed bear.
''They probably saved me,'' Kirby says. ''You can't worry about yourself when you have them.''
She's certain she'll get back on her feet. It's only been six months; she worked 50 years before this. Life can't turn so hard so fast. A car. Another job. She can do this.
For some reason the thought has not occurred until now. She's 66. Even if she finds work, she'll be raising these children for — what? — another 12, 13 years.
You begin the question.
When you look ahead —
She stops you cold.
''I don't.''
Her eyes blink against tears.
''Cause I get too scared. I'm gonna be here till they're 18 years old. Just watch me.''
And what then? Who will take care of her?
''I'm a very strong person. I've had to be all my life,'' she says. ''I learned how to take care of myself the hard way, a long time ago.''
This is one person in one car in a line that seemed to go on forever.
David Giffels is a Beacon Journal columnist. He can be reached at 330-996-3572 or at dgiffels@thebeaconjournal.com.
The line seems to go on forever, cars idling down Opportunity Parkway, each waiting to turn into the driveway of the new Akron-Canton Regional Foodbank facility, each waiting for the allotted three boxes of food and household supplies.
Get the full article here.
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