Free The Journal: Cracked Earth by Deborah D. Moore Page A

I had the generator running this
evening, I watched the news for a bit. The Mississippi river is
slowly draining because of the new “dam” near Hannibal. There’s
talk of blasting it open, except they were afraid of triggering
another quake. The Army Corp of Engineers is there now, scratching
their heads like the rest of us. It’s possible that they can blast
in increments to relieve the pressure. What they don’t want to do
is send a twenty-foot wall of water cascading downriver. What
bridges along the river that didn’t collapse during the actual
quakes are being examined, and most of them have structural
problems which make them unsafe for heavy traffic. The good news is
that some of the bridges can be used for foot traffic. The death
toll keeps climbing, and now there is a plea for body bags. At this
point, one of the new concerns is disease, however they haven’t
said what disease they are concerned about.
     
    * * *
     
    Carolyn finally got back to me. I put a
couple of logs in the stove and headed over to her house across
from the church. In her seventies with a crop of curly gray hair
and lively blue eyes, she’s fit and spry, and has a delightful
sense of humor, though there’s not much that’s been funny
lately.
    “I did see you hiding in the back pew on
Sunday, Allexa,” she smirked. “Do I have a new convert? Or is
something else on your mind?”
    “Definitely something else, Carolyn,” I said.
“I was listening to some of the concerns of the congregation,
mainly about our food supply. It’s a valid concern, and I have an
idea for feeding the masses, and I think you are the perfect
choice. Before you say anything, hear me out. I’d like to see a
soup kitchen started. The Catholic Church isn’t suitable, since
people have to go down that flight of stairs to get to the
kitchens. Your church has that short ramp, making it much more
accessible, and your area is bigger.”
    “Go on”, she said, looking interested.
    “Do you know the story of Stone
Soup ?”
    “You mean the one where a stranger comes into
the poor town looking for food and no one has any? He claims that
he has a magical stone that will make soup; all he needs is a large
pot of water over a fire. After putting the stone from his pocket
into the pot, he says ‘it will be good, but it will be better if
there were a couple of carrots to put in,’ and someone brought out
some carrots. And so on with potatoes and onions until there was a
pot of real vegetable soup and everyone was fed,” she said.
    “Yes! That’s the story. What if you had a
soup kitchen where people could bring a can of something to donate
to the pot and then have a meal in the warmth of the church
basement? We could call it The Stone Soup Kitchen.” I let it sink
in for a moment.
    “Hunting season started today,” Carolyn said
thoughtfully. “I’m sure a couple of the guys would be willing to
donate some venison to add protein to the pot. And I love the name:
The Stone Soup Kitchen,” she said, letting the name roll around in
her mouth. “Yes, that would be the perfect name. I like it a lot.
Why are you doing this?”
    “First of all, Carolyn, I care about this
town and the people here. Second, as the emergency manager for the
township, I know people are easier to take care of if they’re not
hungry. I am not going to confiscate anyone’s food. If
someone was smart enough to stock up for the winter, then good for
them, it’s their food. If we make it easy for people to voluntarily
share or donate, I think we will have a much better response. You
could even ask for plate donations to be a can of something, since
money is useless right now. What do you think?”
    “I think God was wise in putting you in our
community,” she said and gave me a warm hug.
    “And all this time I thought it was my ex,” I
said under my breath. She ignored me.
    We went over some details about what would be
needed— cooks, someone to set up chairs and clean up,