Tina Starling Realtor

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New verse

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Senior Picture Day 2026
Rocky Bayou

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A must read

"I’m Peter. 68. Every Tuesday, I walk to the discount grocery store near my apartment building. Same time. Same cart. Same list scribbled on a torn receipt. Canned beans. Rice. Cheap oatmeal. Milk that’s about to expire (they mark it down).

Last Tuesday, three teenagers snickered behind me in the cereal aisle. One nudged the other, pointing at my cart. “Yo, grandpa’s broke,” he whispered loud enough for me to hear. “Look at that sad list.” His friends laughed. I kept my eyes down. Didn’t react. Truth is, it stung. But I got used to it years ago. People see an old man with food stamps, they assume the worst.

At checkout, my hands shook a little Parkinson’s, doc calls it. I fumbled the coupons. The cashier, Maria, she’s kind. Always gives me an extra smile. “Rough day, Mr. Peter?” she asked. I just nodded. Then I saw it. The teens were still there, watching. Smirking. One mouthed “loser” to his friend. My face burned. I wanted to vanish.

But Maria rang up my total. $28.76. I tapped my EBT card. Beep. Approved. I started packing my bags, slow, careful. That’s when the teens moved closer. The tallest one, maybe 16, leaned on the conveyor belt. “You really need all that government cheese, old man?” he sneered.

I stopped. Looked him right in the eye. My voice came out quieter than I meant it to. “Ain’t for me, son.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

I pointed to the bags. “Two bags of rice? That’s for Mrs. Gable upstairs. Her pension check got delayed again. Canned peaches? For the Henderson twins, they’re raising those grandkids alone since their mom got sick. Expiring milk? Old Mr. Peterson’s cat needs it. He can’t afford vet bills and cat food.” I paused, my throat tight. “I fix cars for folks who pay me in vegetables or socks. But sometimes.... you just see people hurting. And you carry what you can.”

Silence. The other teens shifted their feet. Maria wiped the counter, not looking up, but I saw her wipe her eye.

The tall kid cleared his throat. “You.... you do this every week?”

“Every week,” I said. “My list’s short ’cause my wife, Ellie, she’s sick now. Needs most of our food. But there’s always room for one more can.”

He stared at the cart. Then, without a word, he grabbed two heavy bags. “Where you live?”

I told him. Apartment 3B.

He nodded to his friends. “Come on.” They each took a bag. We walked out together. No jokes. No smirks. Just silence, heavy with something new.

At my building, they carried everything up the stairs, three flights, no elevator. My knees aren’t great. They set the bags down inside my door. The tall kid hesitated. “I’m Jamal,” he said. “This… this is cool, Mr. Peter.”

“Peter’s fine,” I said.

Last Tuesday? Jamal and his friends were waiting outside the store. With their carts. Jamal handed me a list. “We got Mrs. Gable’s rice. And peaches for the twins.” One kid held up a bag of cat food. “Mr. Peterson’s cat says thanks.”

Now it’s not just me. Kids from the high school take shifts. We call it “The Tuesday Cart.” We don’t leave food on fences or in fridges. We deliver it. Knock on doors. See the faces. Hear the “God bless you” from Mrs. Gable, who cries every time we come. Watch the twins’ eyes light up over peaches.

Ellie’s still sick. My hands still shake. But every Tuesday, my cart’s a little heavier and my heart’s a little lighter. Jamal’s applying to college now. Wants to study social work. “You showed me what real strength looks like, Peter,” he told me.

People assume food stamps mean broken. But sometimes? They’re just another way to carry kindness. One can of beans at a time.

You see someone struggling. Don’t assume. Ask. You might just find they’re carrying more than you ever imagined. And maybe.... you’ll find a way to help carry it too.”

Let this story reach more hearts...
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By Mary Nelson

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