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The sun is setting and dinner is nearly ready. The aromas of bread and soup fill the cabin. I go around and twist the blinds closed to make it even cozier, and then I join Scott and Morgen at the table. We each have a bowl of steaming soup and a piece of fresh bread. As we eat, we go around the table and share our favorite part of the day. It’s a little tradition we started up a few weeks ago, a way of reflecting positively. Today, Morgen’s favorite part was playing on the slide. Scott’s was watching Morgen pet the dog at the park. Mine was when I discovered, at last, that I can bake bread.
Coming Along
By the time the first snow falls in November, I’ve gotten it down to where my bread turns out every time. Whole wheat loaves, cinnamon rolls, and sourdough bread are all beautiful and delicious. On Sundays, especially now that the weather’s turned cold, I bake all day. On Monday, I bring the extra loaves into work with me.
The radio station has moved into a new building right on the highway on the outskirts of town. More space, better visibility, more production room. The only problem with the new location is that my desk is no longer in the same room as the others. Now, I have my own office, tucked away in the back of the station. I thought I’d love it. More privacy to make phone calls, more solitude to write grants. But I’m finding that there’s almost too much solitude now. Everyone’s in their own offices, and the on-air action happens at the other end of the building. Most of the time, I’m by myself for the whole day.
I come in the back door, walk into the kitchen, and drop the extra loaves of bread on the counter. I write a note to “Help Yourself” and retreat to my office to write another grant proposal. The economic series project is in full swing, and Joan wants to undertake more projects that address community issues. We’ve narrowed in on food availability and the need for local growing space, and I’m looking for a foundation that might possibly see the logic in granting money to a radio station to address this local issue. Not an easy feat.
But I’m confident I’ll be able to do it. I’ll find a few foundations that might consider our request, and then I’ll submit a compelling, persuasive argument in the grant narrative. It’ll be worth the extra effort in order to help make positive things happen.
I pull up the list of foundations on my computer, but just as I’m about to start my search, the phone rings. It’s an old lady who tells me in a shaky voice that she was interviewed for the economic series feature we’re airing, and she’d like a copy of it on CD.
“Of course,” I tell her. “We’d be happy to make you a copy. Are you going to be coming by the station any time soon? Can you pick it up?”
“I don’t get out much,” she says. “Can you put it in the mail?”
“Certainly. What’s your address?”
Her name is Mrs. McKinley, and she lives just past me, outside of town. I go into the production studio to burn a copy of the audio feature, and then I play it back to check that it recorded properly. The segment starts with music and the station’s introduction, then rolls into the food shelf director, talking about the incredible, largely unknown need in the community. There are a lot of people suffering right in our backyard, she says. Then the audio jumps to Mrs. McKinley talking about her inability to make ends meet. She worked hard her whole life and she always had enough to get by, but the past few years things have been getting harder and harder. She doesn’t get enough from the food shelf, so she just goes hungry a lot of the time.
Three of the four loaves of bread I brought into work are still on the counter. I grab one of them, and when I’m done with work I head out to the address I wrote down.
At the end of a long driveway through the woods sits her old wood house. It was nice once, I can tell. Nice and simple. It’s two stories, nestled in a grove of evergreens, some of which have grown so large that their branches reach out to the roof of the house. The elements have taken their toll on the paint. It used to be white, but is now a faded, dull gray, and is chipped and pealing all over.
I climb the sagging steps to the front door and knock. No answer. I knock again, louder. I hear movement, and then the door opens a crack and a lined, sweet face looks out at me.
“Hi, Mrs. McKinley. I’m Melanie, from the radio station. We spoke on the phone earlier.”
She smiles and opens the door a bit more, revealing her whole hunched frame, wrapped in a pink terrycloth robe. “Hello, dear. Come in.”
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