Number 182

The Six Degrees of Chicken

When I pulled into the parking lot behind the building yesterday, I was not greeted by the pleasing scent one might encounter in a field of wildflowers. Instead, my nostrils were assaulted by the smell that could be described as rancid chicken guts left out in the hot sun for far too long. Which, I knew for a fact, was what I was actually smelling. Unpleasant for sure, but I knew it was merely the inevitable by-product of some serious community outreach and volunteer work going on inside.

Let me try to set the table succinctly (not my strong suit). There is a restaurant/bakery in town called The Wooden Spoon (great food, by the way), that is involved in local hunger relief. They make and distribute food to a few different social service organizations in town, which then pass it on to the folks who can benefit from that type of assistance. Volunteers from the community also help in the food prep. Also in town is a large Wal-Mart distribution center. Sometimes semi trucks have their deliveries disallowed for some reason or another. When that cargo is food, The Wooden Spoon will often receive a call wanting to know if they want the rejected items. As a system of distributing food from people who have more than enough to the people whose cupboards are bare, it's pretty cool. But, on occasion, it becomes an all-hands-on-deck logistical nightmare.

That's where the scent of malodorous chickens comes in. You see, last week a semi full of whole chickens came into the Wally World distribution center. A large number of boxes had leaked, rendering them unfit for acceptance there. Uh-oh! What to do? A quick call to The Wooden Spoon, and the chickens were on their way there. The staff there got right to work roasting the birds before they spoiled for good, but then what to do about the hundreds of cooked chickens? That's when the call went out to all the volunteers: "Chicken shredders needed! Time is of the essence!"

Because this post is ultimately not about the wonderfulness of volunteerism (although it could be), I'll cut to the chase. The job got done. The Wooden Spoon has many bags of shredded chicken; all ready to put into their many marvelous entrees as needed.

No, this is a post about making connections. If I haven't made it clear by now, I have trouble connecting with people and making friends. I'm doing better now that I've more clearly sorted out my true self; but it's still a work in progress. (It is interesting to note that I do much better, friendship wise, when I have a role to play: teacher, youth group leader, choir member, parent, etc.; than when I'm just plain old Nora.) But when you're just standing there with other people ripping chicken carcasses apart, friendly conversation flows easily. Maybe I didn't find a new best friend, but it was nice meeting new folks and laughing over the shared misery of chicken fat, cheap disposable gloves, and dinner plans (no one was planning a chicken dish, I can assure you!)

The other topic that came up often was the 'mini bio.' You know, when you tell someone your life story in five sentences or less. Yesterday, the woman working across from me asked me where I was from. I usually hesitate when I'm asked that because we moved around so much when I was young. I usually want to say Ohio, even though I only lived there for 2.5 years (ages 9-12). I suppose it's because so many of my relatives were/are there. Anyway, I responded by saying, "I'm kind of a mutt." 

"Oh," she replied, "I was born in Illinois, outside of Chicago." 

"So was I. In Elgin." I said.

"Me, too!" (This was getting interesting.)

"Did you go to Larkin High School?" she asked.

"No, we moved to Wisconsin after I finished 1st grade. I went to McKinley Elementary," I said.

"Me, too!" (definitely interesting now.) "Who was your Kindergarten teacher?"

(This is an interesting question, because my teacher's name was Miss Rypczynski [rip-zin-ski]. She was an older woman who correctly inferred that 5 and 6 year old children were going to struggle with her delightful Polish surname. Instead, we called her "Miss Lorraine." Of course, at the time, we all thought that was her last name. I remember looking back at my classroom picture a few years later, trying to figure out how "R-y-p-c-z-y-n-s-k-i" could be pronounced "Lorraine." I asked my mom and she spilled the beans on the whole subterfuge. Anyway, I was a seal at the end of the year classroom circus.)

"Umm..."

"Was it Miss Lorraine?"

"Yes! You, too?!"

So 50 years, 10 homes, and seven states removed from my Kindergarten year, I found myself shredding chicken across from someone who had had the same teacher as me. What a marvelous coincidence!