I volunteered with a community center years ago, and this story is pretty much what happened. Of course, the names were changed to protect the innocent.
*****

Bits of dust particles floated in the morning rays that lit the room. Some came to rest on the wooden work table which was a little rickety but serviceable nonetheless. The long streaks of sunlight decorated the red canvas work, which were placed around the table, with shadows of stripes.

“Look, you guys! There’s a circus cage on my canvas thing,” said Joey, his voice quivering around the edges with unbridled glee. “Funnnnny!” The other seven at the table, six men and me, looked up from working with our clay. A few of the men laughed and poked fun a bit. “Hey, Joey. Need new glasses? Been takin’ your meds?” I shushed the on-lookers and looked to see what Joey was seeing. Sure enough. His work square looked like a striped circus caravan, the cage that carried the tigers and lions from town to town.

“It absolutely does, Joey,” I said. “It’s great to see you sharing your wonderful imagination with us.” Joey blushed at my praise, so deep a blush his face remained red for quite some time. Then we all then returned to our activities. The men’s artwork was in different phases of creation. Tony and Ray and I were smushing our unwieldy mounds of clay; Nick was painting his vase. Richie and Ted were arguing a bit over a crossword puzzle and Jeff was simply gazing out the window, his mind far away. During the class, almost anything was a go. Just as long as my guys didn’t weave out of control and crash, I was fine with anything.

***

I applied to the city’s Mental Health Center last October, shortly after its’ opening. A recently vacated school had been turned into a community based center offering a variety of services for mental health clients. I thought maybe I could assist an art instructor or play games with some of the drop-ins. When I called the office, the woman I spoke with said to come in the next day.

So the next morning I arrived for my tour and interview exactly on time, but the main door was locked. I rang the brass buzzer, and waited, shifting my weight back and forth from one leg to the other. I was nervous. It began to rain so I pushed my body against the door, trying to avoid the large droplets. Just when I decided I had come at the wrong time, someone unlocked the door and opened it wide.

“Hello, my dear. Come in. Come in out of the rain.” A tall, striking woman, who surely was a beauty 30 years ago, motioned for me to follow her. She strode down the hallway talking nonstop, and I tried to keep up and listen simultaneously. “So glad for you to come. I’m Marion Pole, director of activities here at the Center. We’re always thankful for any volunteers we can get; we’re very short staffed at the moment. Oh, I’m sorry, but your name is…?”

“Lydia. Lydia Fahr.”

“Well, yes of course. Liddy. You don’t mind me calling you Liddy, do you? Lydia is such a formal name.”

Before I could say I didn’t use that nickname ever, she continued her monologue. “So here we are. The pride of our rough and tumble building, the arts and crafts studio.”

Marion Pole opened the door and let me pass into a large room. As I looked around, my inner artist gave a silent groan. The walls were painted a color I’d never actually seen before. A depressing institutional green with streaks of an odd shade of muddied yellow. Paint chips were flaking from moist spots on the walls, and ten gallon buckets were strategically placed about the room to catch dripping water. Four tables were spread around the room, with a variety of metal and wooden folding chairs shoved in disarray around each workspace. The room’s only redemption was its old-fashioned windows, lead glass panels which stretched from ceiling to floor and a spattering of artwork taped to the walls. A middle-aged woman sat at a small metal desk near the door and she was mumbling into a phone.

“This is JoyEllen,” said Marion Pole. “She’s our receptionist and does all the office work, plus she’s specially trained. JoyEllen’s always in the room when classes are in session. You have any problems at all, you let her know right away.” The woman at the desk gave me the briefest of smiles and returned to her phone conversation.

“Problems?” I hesitated. “There are problems?”

“I wouldn’t worry. Now the classroom, as you can see, is plenty big for our arts program. You’ll be in charge of the clay table.”

She seemed so pleased with this idea I hated to interrupt. Even so, my words tumbled out. “I don’t want to be in charge of anything. I’m not really qualified. And I don’t like to work with clay. I mean, I don’t know how. Uh, it’s really not my medium.”

“Medium. Schmedium.” Marion Pole clucked her tongue as she looked me up and down. “Why, I’m sure you’ll do fine. I know people and I can tell. If you wish, I’ll write out a few instructions and tape them to your table.” Her enthusiasm cut off my objections. Even when I heaved a big sigh of desperation, it didn’t faze her.

“Now, Liddy. It is Liddy, right? We’ll spread the word immediately. JoyEllen can call a few people at Beacon House and I know of two men who are interested. Your table will probably fill up in a few weeks. The men at Beacon House are hungry for any kind of activity if it provides some relief from boredom.”

“Men?,” I asked. ‘Just men?” I had imagined myself chatting with a circle of women as we sat sewing or sketching. I don’t know why, but that’s what I’d had in mind. Not men.

Marion Pole answered with a nod and gave me a puzzled glance. “Mostly men. Many of our clients live right next door in the high rise. It’s a half-way home for men who have a few problems. The building once housed the YMCA and most of the town people still prefer to regard it as such. You know. Ostriches with their heads in the sand.”

I was growing wary. “Problems. Problems?” I asked. It was suddenly hard for me to speak in coherent sentences. I seriously thought of leaving, but Marian Pole was blocking my way.

“Yes, Liddy, a few problems. I’ll explain, but this is confidential. We must always protect the privacy of our clients. They have rights, you know.”

Now my throat was tightening. “Uh.” I swallowed hard, but couldn’t say any more.

Marion Pole continued, not sensing my discomfort. (She said she knew people, but she apparently didn’t know me very well.) “Yes. These men do have their problems. All of our clients have a mental health challenge of some sort. Some have a history of schizophrenia; others are bipolar or psychotic. Some are chronically depressed. And then we have quite a few men with dual diagnoses. You know, mental illness coupled with an addiction of some kind. But remember, our clients are provided with the support they need at Beacon House. Meals and medicine, social workers and nurses. A very progressive outfit, and about half the men stabilize enough to go on to live independently.”

Finally I was grasping the scope of the program, and my racing heart settled into a clip-clop.

Marion Pole walked me over to the clay area. “Now, clay class is held from 9 to 12 on Tuesday mornings. Go to JoyEllen and she’ll will give you a parking pass. The main doors open at 9:00, but just buzz if you come early. And it was nice to meet you, Liddy. Very nice, indeed.”

***

So here I am. For almost a year, I’ve enjoyed meeting with this group of companionable fellows. We all get along famously. As we share our stories, we shape the gray clay into objects, paint them with under glazing, and send them off to be fired in the university’s kiln. It becomes very routine.

Then one day, half way through this morning, there is a hardy knock on the door. Randy who is an art student from the university comes in carrying a large box of fired pieces. Everyone comes to attention. It is an event of some importance to my men when the university makes a return delivery.

Joey and Earl stand up, anxious to get to the box. “Hey,” shouts Joey. “Open the box!”

Earl shakes his head, but gives Joey a kind smile. “Joey, what d’ya know. The box!” Then he turns to me. “Open the box, Lydia. Here. Use my pocketknife.” Earl rummages in his pants pocket.

Immediately I am distracted by Earl’s movement. “Don’t take that out of your pocket, Earl. You can’t have a knife in here. You know the rules.”

Joey still can’t wait. “Come on, Lydia,” says Joey. “Please hurry and open the box.”

“You guys, you’ll have to wait. Earl and I need to see JoyEllen for a moment.” It is times like this, when I must be a disciplinarian to these adult men, that I wonder how I became qualified to do this type of volunteering.

I escort Earl to JoyEllen. Earl is angry and he pounds his fist on the office desk. The metallic sound reverberates throughout the room, and everyone turns to watch him. “I got rights, JoyEllen. You know that. I ain’t getting in any kind of trouble. And I paid for that knife out of my own money.” His words carry throughout the room.

Marian Pole appears from nowhere and assesses the situation. “Earl, just take the pocketknife back to your room. Don’t bring it back to the Center. Why don’t you come back, though. There’s still an hour left of clay.”

As I watch Earl stomp from the room, Joey calls my name.

“Lydia, Lydia, do you smoke cigarettes?”

“What? Mm-mm. No, Joey. I’ve never smoked.” He looks so interested in my answer that I continue. “I don’t really like the smell. Do you smoke?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, not me. I don’t like smoke, either.” Then Joey starts grinning wildly. I notice he is holding something secretively behind his back. “Lydia, here. I made this for you.”

The other men have stopped their activities to watch Joey and me. I can see by their expressions they are in on this surprise. There are whispers and furtive glances at the package. They seem pleased by the unfolding event.

Joey extends a newspaper bundle towards me. “Here, this is yours.”

I unwrap his gift and hold a flat piece of ceramics in my hands. There is a bit of a rim around the plate, glazed in a beatiful cobalt blue. I am unsure what I should say or do. Then Joey helps me along.

“Lydia, it’s an ashtray. I made it so you can give it to company. Like to a friend who comes in your house with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.”

I am delighted by his words and touched by his gesture. “Thank you, Joey. It’s a wonderful gift, and it’s especially wonderful because you made it for me.”

While the other men hoot and clap, Joey gazes at his special creation. “You’re right, Lydia. It is pretty wonderful.”