Chapter 1 - The Players

Introduction to the story.

As the wind whips along the pavement, I walk quickly through the alley lodged between two old buildings. I love to follow the lines of the brick, hinting there was once a window here and there, now covered up and weathered as the years passed by. My attention is diverted to the mixture of snow flurries and rain blowing across the entrance onto the street. This is central Indiana, where the weather is never to be counted on. Yesterday, it was sunny and warmer than usual for a March day, but today differs quite a bit.

My arms are weighed down with two grocery bags full of supplies needed to start the day. I finally reach the front door of my shop, but fumble to turn the knob. As I balance one bag on my hip, hold the other between my knees to keep it from touching the damp ground, I finally am able to free my arm enough to throw the door open and hold it with my hip.

I am usually the first one here, but leave a key with one of my more responsible employees in case of delays due to the weather being so unpredictable. This was one of those mornings and they all seemed to come in earlier than usual.

At this point, at least five employees jump to rescue me, all grabbing the bags from my arms. They are so anxious to help that they pull the bags in several directions, tearing one completely in half and spilling the supplies all over the floor.

“I’m sorry, Debbie, I didn’t mean to tear it,” Casey explains as Teresa falls to the floor chasing the paper towels rolling under the window display.

“Debbie, I have to talk to you about something that happened last night,” another spoke up, not even comprehending the confusion of the moment.

“You had a phone call,” a third one chimed in. “They wouldn’t leave their name.”

“My friend’s bird died and she needs a sympathy spoon,” Rhonda begins her story about the previous night.

I look up to see Jeri holding her new cassette tape that she bought last week, and then notice Jeffrey smiling at his new lighter sitting on the table. “Jeffrey, why do you have a lighter here at work?” Joanne asks him, eyeing me, which is her way of telling on him. Nervous twitches in play, she is sitting in the chair next to him shaking one leg as she sticks her tongue out of the corner of her mouth.

 “Because I am a man,” he answered. “I am a man, Joanne, and men have lighters.”

At this point, Teresa catches the runaway paper towels beneath the table, only to stand and bump her head, knocking over a tray of jewelry. “Jeffrey’s Dad said he could bring it in,” Helen explains. “He won’t light it. Will you, Jeffrey?”

“But he is not supposed to have lighters here,” Joanne quickly retorts, with her leg shaking faster. “Is he, Debbie?”

“I am going to make a card for Susie’s bird. How do you spell Jeri’s last name? I want all our names on the card.” Rhonda was still talking about the previous night as if we were the only ones in the room.

“His dad said he could have it here!” Helen snaps back to Joanne. With everyone talking at once, Joanne about to respond and Rhonda still going on about the bird, I hold my hands up, coat and gloves still on, and raise my voice two degrees, “Everyone stop!”

A hush fell upon the room, but only for about five seconds. Then Rhonda continues, “Well, I am going to make a card.” I look hard into her eyes as everyone else remains quiet.

I then hold my finger in front of my mouth as if to say shhh, but very quietly speak instead, “Let me take my coat off, put my things away, and say good morning. Then I will speak to each one of you individually.” The art of talking to a whisper, which is not my forte, usually works.

“Now take your seats!” I said sternly. I then turn to hang my coat in the back room. Not a sound is made until I am out of sight. The disagreements then continue until Jeri starts to play her new cassette.

“Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” changes the mood of the room immediately, and I even hear a few sing quietly. They hardly notice my return as each one focuses more on the music and the work I have already laid out for them. Whenever things seem a little out of control, give it a minute. The mood of the room is constantly changing, except for Rhonda. She seems to have a one-track mind.

I take my place behind the counter that overlooks the room and call each one up individually. As I check their work, some talk about plans for the weekend, birthdays coming up, and of course, Susie’s bird and Jeffrey’s lighter. By 10 a.m., all the problems of the world have been discussed and all seems a little calmer.

* * * * * * * *

As you can tell, this is not your usual work environment — nor your usual employees. My story has taken many twists and turns, so I need to start at the beginning. First and foremost, I am an artist; a wood carver to be exact. I spent 35 years traveling to juried art shows, primarily around the Midwest, from Michigan to Florida, selling my art pieces.

A juried art show is similar to a street fair with white tents lined along both sides of the street containing displays of fine art. But please don’t confuse this with a flea market or craft fair, because each artist has to go through a jurying process in order to participate in the show.

I started out carving the image of people’s houses into large wooden plaques and eventually branched out into every subject imaginable. My “bread and butter” items were small, hand carved spoons, each with individual stories related to the carvings. These “Friendship Spoons” became such a success that I found myself eventually carving and selling about 2,000 per year.

As a member of an artist’s group in town, I saw the need for a place where talented local artists could sell their work, so I started Originals Art Gallery. My gallery became the home of some of Indiana’s most beloved artists and was quite popular, especially during my annual Holiday Open Houses. But while artistry was my passion, I ended up pursuing a mission.

Because I had a relative with Downs Syndrome, I became familiar with the local state-run sheltered workshop. At that time (mid ‘80s) sheltered workshops were non-profit entities where individuals with disabilities could go during the day and work. Based on my own experiences and observations, I was concerned that some of the workshop’s “clients” were slipping through the cracks of society.

I truly believed I could teach many of these individuals my trade, so I acquired a license to run my own sheltered workshop. As a result, my shop became a studio for my own art, a gallery for local artists, and a sheltered workshop for my employees (not “clients”). Every one of my employees had some form of disability; mental, physical, or both, and each one felt the need to nurture and console all the others. We had become a small family within these walls.

I would look around the room and call to mind the heart-wrenching stories that befell each person, wondering if I would actually be as strong as they were if our situations were reversed.

* * * * * * * *

The rest of the morning was uneventful, but today was Thursday: pitch-in day. The shop is equipped with a full kitchen in the back. Every Thursday, we have a cooking class incorporating the foods they have in their home. It gives me a chance to see what they are eating from their own refrigerators. It also helps me teach them about the shelf life of leftovers and the importance of cooking meat all the way through.

“So what did you bring for us today, Joanne?” I asked, hiding the look of apprehension on my face.

“I made chili!” she exclaimed with excitement.

“Oh?” as I looked into the container, and had to ask, “Why is it pink? How did you cook it?”

“Well, I boiled macaroni noodles and then put the hamburger in,” she said with a smile, as she was very proud of this new dish she made.

“Did you brown the meat first?” I inquired, already knowing the answer.

“Do you have to?” she returned with a shocked look on her face.

“I’m afraid you do,” I replied.

“I’m not eating that!” Rhonda quickly responded.

“Neither am I!” Helen joined in. Helen is legally blind but her hearing is excellent and she detected the uncertainty in my voice.

“I’m sorry, Joanne, but we cannot eat this,” I respectfully told her, “because the meat is not cooked enough.”

The disappointment was evident on her face as she covered her dish and put it back into the refrigerator. “You can’t take it home and eat it, either,” I explained, taking it back out of the fridge. “It will make you sick. We will have to throw it out.”

To an outsider looking in, this probably seems cruel. But many of these folks live alone, and they need to understand the rules of cooking. The rest of the food passed inspection. I’m not saying it was world class, but it was edible. Except for the cornbread that Rhonda always brings.

“Did you follow the recipe...