The Gleaners
by Sandra Winter
You’ve noticed the men and women pushing shopping carts piled high with plastic bags along the street. Those folks are my tribe; they are the modern-day gleaners.
The topic of gleaning fascinates me, so I did a little research. Historically, gleaning was the act of collecting leftover crops from farmers' fields after they had been harvested. In biblical times the Torah mandated that farmers leave the corners of their fields unharvested and not harvest any leftovers that had been forgotten. The farmer was not permitted to benefit from the gleanings, and was not permitted to discriminate, nor “try to frighten them (the gleaners) away with dogs or lions.”
Fast forward to eighteenth century England where in small villages, the sexton rang the church bell at eight in the morning to alert the gleaners they could begin work in the fields and again at seven in the evening to signal the end of work.
In our modern world, gleaning is practiced by humanitarian groups that distribute gleaned food to the poor and hungry; this can include the collection of food from supermarkets that would otherwise be thrown away. For example, the Society of St. Andrew in North Carolina practices gleaning to remedy societal hunger. The mission of this lay organization is to introduce people to God's grace through meeting their hungers: “food for the body, God's word for the spirit, community of love for the heart, and opportunity for those who desire action.”
In Russia, gleaning and distributing food can be risky. The Law of Spikelets (1932) made gleaning a criminal act punishable by either death or years of forced labor. The common name came into use because peasants caught hand collecting the leftovers of grains or 'spikelets' in the collective fields after the harvest were arrested for "damaging the state grain production.” Some towns in the United States are considering ordinances banning the modern gleaner from going through trash put out on the street for collection. This practice is called garbage picking and takes place at the curb, in dumpsters or in landfills. When in dumpsters, the practice is called dumpster diving and is an effective urban foraging technique. These terms add a little class to the practice, don’t you think?
“Have you been dumpster diving?” My physical therapist asked in response to my complaint about pain in my lower ribs. The truth was I had been leaning too far into a dumpster trying to retrieve a little electric fan. I reached a critical point and fulcrumed over my ribs, leaving them badly bruised and temporarily putting me out of the dumpster diving business.
I am a self-confessed gleaner with an advanced degree in dumpster diving. This past fall, I gleaned apples from the neglected trees here in Marblehead. Three-dozen apples from three different trees yielded a big pot of applesauce. Sure, some were wormy and had bad parts, but cutting them out is just part of the job. These are not the perfect looking dollar-a-piece apples from Whole Foods; they are funky, misshapen, unattractive and otherwise destined to become compost, and they make great tasting applesauce.
Forty-six years ago, long before I was familiar with any of these terms but very conscious that I was living in “throw away” culture, I found an antique baby crib on the side of the road in a wealthy neighborhood. After it was scrubbed, painted white with little flowers, and fitted with a new mattress from Gardner Mattress Co., it was quaint and lovely. Both my children slept in it as infants and then it was passed along to another mother-to-be.
People often ask “Don’t you wear gloves, aren’t you afraid of germs, of catching something?” I am not squeamish and I can’t resist looking in the dumpsters we have here at Farrell Court where I live. I have found useful items that were discarded by the residents or their family. My personal best was five trash bags stuffed with expensive clothes, pocketbooks and shoes that had been tossed out by Carol’s daughter. I can understand. Sometimes it is too overwhelming for the children to make all those decisions about what to keep and what to let go when their parent dies. After rescuing the bags and delivering them to Lifebridge, Carol’s spirit lives on. Today, when so many things are disposable, the dumpsters are overflowing and life is good for us dumpster diving gleaners.
My friend Norman was my dumpster diver buddy. He moved to Farrell Court, a subsidized elderly housing project, a few years after I did. In another life, we were friends but lost track of each other, and I was surprised one day to see him here. He had retired to Mexico where alcoholism caused him to lose everything; his only choices were dying there or returning to the States. His financial situation dictated subsidized housing. His health was failing, he was suffering from various illnesses both physical and psychological, but we found dumpster diving a fun activity that we could enjoy together.
At Farrell Court, there are three dumpsters. Neither of us could bear to ignore the useful items in good condition that were tossed into them. We would compare notes on what we found and often we took our findings to the Lifebridge Thrift Store in Salem. Lifebridge is the main source of financial support for the Salem Mission’s homeless shelter. The staff always greeted us with appreciation because we brought them the best stuff: a working vacuum cleaner, an air filter, lamps, some with shades still on, new toasters, blenders, an unbroken mirror, household items, pictures and frames, and clothes.
Norman’s parking space was number 4, mine was number 5. He often left little gifts in my car: a pair of never-worn, still–in-the-box Merrell brand shoes, toys for my grandsons, jars of Legos, and funny silver snowflakes I found dangling from the rear view mirror in July. Norman had a quirky sense of humor that I loved. He was also my art buddy. I am a collage and mixed media artist and the piece, The Lost Children, made from an interesting piece of found wood he gave me, won Best of Show at our local art festival. Our gleaning and dumpster diving days together were cut short by Norman’s untimely death. He had long needed an operation for an aortic hernia; he finally had it and the operation was successful. He went to rehab; I saw him the night before he died. He was in good spirits and itching to get back to our favorite pastime. Something went haywire though, and he died that next morning. I still miss him; that was over a year ago. I remember him every time I get in my car. He was a world-class gleaner. I glean alone now.
I have found a way to help those shopping-cart-pushing, hard-working gleaners. I pull out the returnable bottles from the recycling bins here at Farrell Court and save them in my trunk. I have also asked friends to save their cans and bottles for me. When I am driving through Salem or Lynn and see someone pushing a cart laden with bags, I give them the bottles and cans. They are surprised but happy, and I am too.
Last week, I met Judy. She was pushing her cart down Route 1A in Hamilton. She was in her early 40s, dressed appropriately for the weather, wearing gloves and was neat and presentable. I had some redeemable soda bottles in my trunk. She was pleased with the bottles and said that God is taking care of her; that she loves being in Hamilton and if she gleans twice a week, she has enough money to stay in this upscale community. She mentioned too, the sea gulls that she feeds 5 days a week, the stray cat that follows her around, and how she relies on God to know what she needs. She said, “But I can’t just sit on my ass; I have to get out there and do the work but God will give me what I need.” We talked of spiritual matters for a few minutes longer, bowed to each other, and I got back in my car, happy to be a gleaner for the gleaners.
This week it was the tall, shabby, soulful man wearing several seasons of clothing pushing a cart down Munroe Street in Lynn who caught my eye. “Wait, wait,’ I called out and hustled down the street after him clutching a bag of bottles. He stopped and as I handed them over to him we made the most tender eye contact; we were so absolutely aware of each other with no pity from me and no shame from him. His thank yous were profuse and sincere. My gratitude for being of benefit to another being was profound.
Sandra Winter’s motto is: “it is never too late to bloom.” She is 77 and has been quietly writing and making art under the radar for a few decades. Her inspiration is provided by what she experiences in the ordinary events of everyday life; she is busy making meaning out of these experiences. In this incredible process known as aging, she is seeing the opportunity for accelerated growth and change.
by Sandra Winter
You’ve noticed the men and women pushing shopping carts piled high with plastic bags along the street. Those folks are my tribe; they are the modern-day gleaners.
The topic of gleaning fascinates me, so I did a little research. Historically, gleaning was the act of collecting leftover crops from farmers' fields after they had been harvested. In biblical times the Torah mandated that farmers leave the corners of their fields unharvested and not harvest any leftovers that had been forgotten. The farmer was not permitted to benefit from the gleanings, and was not permitted to discriminate, nor “try to frighten them (the gleaners) away with dogs or lions.”
Fast forward to eighteenth century England where in small villages, the sexton rang the church bell at eight in the morning to alert the gleaners they could begin work in the fields and again at seven in the evening to signal the end of work.
In our modern world, gleaning is practiced by humanitarian groups that distribute gleaned food to the poor and hungry; this can include the collection of food from supermarkets that would otherwise be thrown away. For example, the Society of St. Andrew in North Carolina practices gleaning to remedy societal hunger. The mission of this lay organization is to introduce people to God's grace through meeting their hungers: “food for the body, God's word for the spirit, community of love for the heart, and opportunity for those who desire action.”
In Russia, gleaning and distributing food can be risky. The Law of Spikelets (1932) made gleaning a criminal act punishable by either death or years of forced labor. The common name came into use because peasants caught hand collecting the leftovers of grains or 'spikelets' in the collective fields after the harvest were arrested for "damaging the state grain production.” Some towns in the United States are considering ordinances banning the modern gleaner from going through trash put out on the street for collection. This practice is called garbage picking and takes place at the curb, in dumpsters or in landfills. When in dumpsters, the practice is called dumpster diving and is an effective urban foraging technique. These terms add a little class to the practice, don’t you think?
“Have you been dumpster diving?” My physical therapist asked in response to my complaint about pain in my lower ribs. The truth was I had been leaning too far into a dumpster trying to retrieve a little electric fan. I reached a critical point and fulcrumed over my ribs, leaving them badly bruised and temporarily putting me out of the dumpster diving business.
I am a self-confessed gleaner with an advanced degree in dumpster diving. This past fall, I gleaned apples from the neglected trees here in Marblehead. Three-dozen apples from three different trees yielded a big pot of applesauce. Sure, some were wormy and had bad parts, but cutting them out is just part of the job. These are not the perfect looking dollar-a-piece apples from Whole Foods; they are funky, misshapen, unattractive and otherwise destined to become compost, and they make great tasting applesauce.
Forty-six years ago, long before I was familiar with any of these terms but very conscious that I was living in “throw away” culture, I found an antique baby crib on the side of the road in a wealthy neighborhood. After it was scrubbed, painted white with little flowers, and fitted with a new mattress from Gardner Mattress Co., it was quaint and lovely. Both my children slept in it as infants and then it was passed along to another mother-to-be.
People often ask “Don’t you wear gloves, aren’t you afraid of germs, of catching something?” I am not squeamish and I can’t resist looking in the dumpsters we have here at Farrell Court where I live. I have found useful items that were discarded by the residents or their family. My personal best was five trash bags stuffed with expensive clothes, pocketbooks and shoes that had been tossed out by Carol’s daughter. I can understand. Sometimes it is too overwhelming for the children to make all those decisions about what to keep and what to let go when their parent dies. After rescuing the bags and delivering them to Lifebridge, Carol’s spirit lives on. Today, when so many things are disposable, the dumpsters are overflowing and life is good for us dumpster diving gleaners.
My friend Norman was my dumpster diver buddy. He moved to Farrell Court, a subsidized elderly housing project, a few years after I did. In another life, we were friends but lost track of each other, and I was surprised one day to see him here. He had retired to Mexico where alcoholism caused him to lose everything; his only choices were dying there or returning to the States. His financial situation dictated subsidized housing. His health was failing, he was suffering from various illnesses both physical and psychological, but we found dumpster diving a fun activity that we could enjoy together.
At Farrell Court, there are three dumpsters. Neither of us could bear to ignore the useful items in good condition that were tossed into them. We would compare notes on what we found and often we took our findings to the Lifebridge Thrift Store in Salem. Lifebridge is the main source of financial support for the Salem Mission’s homeless shelter. The staff always greeted us with appreciation because we brought them the best stuff: a working vacuum cleaner, an air filter, lamps, some with shades still on, new toasters, blenders, an unbroken mirror, household items, pictures and frames, and clothes.
Norman’s parking space was number 4, mine was number 5. He often left little gifts in my car: a pair of never-worn, still–in-the-box Merrell brand shoes, toys for my grandsons, jars of Legos, and funny silver snowflakes I found dangling from the rear view mirror in July. Norman had a quirky sense of humor that I loved. He was also my art buddy. I am a collage and mixed media artist and the piece, The Lost Children, made from an interesting piece of found wood he gave me, won Best of Show at our local art festival. Our gleaning and dumpster diving days together were cut short by Norman’s untimely death. He had long needed an operation for an aortic hernia; he finally had it and the operation was successful. He went to rehab; I saw him the night before he died. He was in good spirits and itching to get back to our favorite pastime. Something went haywire though, and he died that next morning. I still miss him; that was over a year ago. I remember him every time I get in my car. He was a world-class gleaner. I glean alone now.
I have found a way to help those shopping-cart-pushing, hard-working gleaners. I pull out the returnable bottles from the recycling bins here at Farrell Court and save them in my trunk. I have also asked friends to save their cans and bottles for me. When I am driving through Salem or Lynn and see someone pushing a cart laden with bags, I give them the bottles and cans. They are surprised but happy, and I am too.
Last week, I met Judy. She was pushing her cart down Route 1A in Hamilton. She was in her early 40s, dressed appropriately for the weather, wearing gloves and was neat and presentable. I had some redeemable soda bottles in my trunk. She was pleased with the bottles and said that God is taking care of her; that she loves being in Hamilton and if she gleans twice a week, she has enough money to stay in this upscale community. She mentioned too, the sea gulls that she feeds 5 days a week, the stray cat that follows her around, and how she relies on God to know what she needs. She said, “But I can’t just sit on my ass; I have to get out there and do the work but God will give me what I need.” We talked of spiritual matters for a few minutes longer, bowed to each other, and I got back in my car, happy to be a gleaner for the gleaners.
This week it was the tall, shabby, soulful man wearing several seasons of clothing pushing a cart down Munroe Street in Lynn who caught my eye. “Wait, wait,’ I called out and hustled down the street after him clutching a bag of bottles. He stopped and as I handed them over to him we made the most tender eye contact; we were so absolutely aware of each other with no pity from me and no shame from him. His thank yous were profuse and sincere. My gratitude for being of benefit to another being was profound.
Sandra Winter’s motto is: “it is never too late to bloom.” She is 77 and has been quietly writing and making art under the radar for a few decades. Her inspiration is provided by what she experiences in the ordinary events of everyday life; she is busy making meaning out of these experiences. In this incredible process known as aging, she is seeing the opportunity for accelerated growth and change.
