Volunteer Explorer

I texted Zully yesterday because I wasn't sure if maybe I had forgotten an appointment I had to meet with her. A third of the way through the semester, I'm beginning to feel my obligations becoming unwieldy, even though deadlines are still weeks or months away. Zully didn't text back, but she called me today. I will meet her Friday morning at St. Bernard's and accompany her to a client's appointment at a health clinic! When I offered to drive the client home afterward, since Zully has another appointment and the client was going to get a taxi, Zully said she has to check with Mary to see if that is allowed. Such bureaucracy! But then, what does one expect from the Catholic Church--the original too-big-to-fail corporation!

"I-38." "Bingo!" Some lucky senior just won a Bingo game and a round of applause from her companions. That is such a nice way to be serenaded as I walk down the hall of the Biruta Street offices for the second time. The lockers are still decked out in colorful paper and paint, but this time I do not need an escort to find the elevator or the Hall of Honor. The second-floor hallway is void of people when I emerge from the slowest elevator in Summit County. As I approach the little table and chairs in front of the wall of plaques, however, Mary Case comes out of a door marked Administrative Offices. She is buttoned into her long wool coat and carrying a paper shopping bag. "Hello, Mary!" "Hi, Sharon! Let me find Zully; I think she's in here..." We shake hands, even though Mary seems distracted and rushed. As we walk into another office, she mumbles about having to go to a doctor's appointment this afternoon with her si...

 I know where a lot of things are in Akron, but I'd never heard of Biruta Street, so I made a trial run on Sunday. Turns out, it's only about ten minutes from my home!  Heavy clouds threatened more snow as I pulled into the parking lot next to Catholic Charities Services, a former elementary school building on a quiet street not far from the expressway. A tiny car repair shop stood sentry at the far end of the street; a row of tidy wood-frame houses of one and two stories faced the building, their small yards and steep roofs blanketed in white. An arched red awning stretched from the double glass entryway doors to the sidewalk, orange plastic mesh lashed to both sides. Inside the doors, a tiny gray-haired woman with a pleasant but guarded expression greeted me from behind a glassed-in reception desk. I told her my name and whom I was meeting as I wrote the same information on the sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. She handed me a blue and white name tag, imprinted wit...