CHANGE

You’ll be surprised to learn that I don’t plan family meals a week in advance.

Or even a day ahead.

No. I happen to know most local grocery store clerks by name. Because I see them most every day.

It’s embarrassing.

Except when it’s mortifying.  

Like yesterday. 

February happens to be the month for my favorite supermarket’s Support-Your-Local-Food-Bank crusade.

Our very large store –one in a vast chain of supermarkets - raises more than $50,000 for the needy in 28 days.

Think of it as the Bob Geldof of supermarkets.

Most every afternoon, I dash into this market and motor through the aisles, tossing a few cartons, bags and bunches into my cart. Then I hurry to check out the check-outs, attempting to decipher which line is shortest, and/or which clerk manning a 7 Items or Less line won’t mind ringing up 11 items.

Throughout February, clerks would finish processing my order and say, “Would you like to support the local food bank, ma’am?”

“Sure.”

“Five, three or one? Dollars.”

“Five.”

So it goes. February 1-12.

February 13^th. I begin thinking, “I should have written the Food Bank a check.”

My answer changes to “Three.”

February 23^rd.  I begin to count the number of days left in February.  I promise myself that next year I’ll be a brilliant planner, and visit the grocery store once a week, Tops.

My answer changes to “One.”

Rewind to yesterday.

I am doing my usual rush into and out of the grocery store.

  

Clerk places bag in my cart and asks, ““Would you like to support the local food bank, ma’am?”

I am surprised. “Are you collecting in March, too?” I ask.

“It’s February 29^th, ma’am. Five, three, or one?”

I know I should say “Five,’ but “Thanks, I am going to skip it today,” rolls off my tongue. 

Then Mortifying Happens.

The man behind me in line quips, “She seems like such a caring person in church!  I am going to watch on Sunday to see if she skips the collection basket, too.”

Stunned, I look to my left. A tall, gray-haired man is smiling at me. Is that a teasing twinkle in his eye, or the glare of florescent lighting?

I am torn between shouting, “I DO, TOO, contribute to the collection basket!” and “If the Food Bank was a Super Pac, I’d be their biggest monthly donor!”

Instead, I smile at him. Make small talk. Reach for my receipt, thank the clerk, and head for the exit.

The disorganization that has led to my 28 days of charity contributions has taken its toll.  I drive home thinking about all the phone calls we receive at dinnertime from one, six, twelve charity organizations we've supported (because no one else –but mom- actually calls the land line.)

I stop at the mailbox and grab a stack of envelopes – all but two - stuffed with stamps, cards, return address stickers, or post-its, and requests for help from charity organizations.

And haunting photos of children who are sick, disfigured, starving, dying.

Charities are big business, and plenty of people are in desperate need these days.

But the relentless barrage of requests for ‘help’ only makes it clearer that no matter how many livestock we purchase, wishes we help come true, first responders we support, fundraisers we attend, diseases we try to help cure, or meals and clothing we provide for the needy, it will never suffice.

There simply isn’t enough change to make enough change.

QUING Hereby Decrees:   Henceforth, donations to Super Pacs must be split 50/50 with the donor’s favorite charity, allowing corporations and unions the opportunity to pump millions of dollars into worthy causes.