A volunteer Meals on Wheels driver delivers a meal.

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A volunteer Meals on Wheels driver delivers a meal.

There are five people on my route. Two live in apartments and three live in houses. I have no idea how old they are, but their hair is gray like clouds before it rains.

I see them once a week when I drop off their lunch. I guess you can say I’m the delivery boy, bringing a hot meal to a person in need. I do it because it gets me out of the house, because it’s the right thing to do and because their gratitude warms me. I’m a driver for Meals on Wheels.

Begun in Philadelphia in 1954, Meals on Wheels brings nutritious food to more than 2.4 million senior citizens. It is a partnership between federal and local governments, supported by 5,000 community-based programs and 2 million volunteers. It takes me about 40 minutes to complete my route. It is the best 40 minutes of my week. My first delivery is for Sam, who lives in a basement apartment. When I get to his place, I hear music playing next door. I knock three times. Within a minute the door opens slightly. I press the brown bag filled with food into Sam’s hand. He takes the bag, smiles and says thank you. I walk away.

Next is Molly. She also lives in an apartment, just up the road from Sam. When I get to her building, I buzz to get inside. Most times she is quick to let me in, but sometimes she is slow. This time she is quick, and I step inside the foyer. Unlike Sam, her door is open wide. She is happy to see me. She also smiles, takes her lunch and says thank you. “Have a nice day,” I say. “You, too,” she replies.

It’s 10 minutes to my next delivery. Anita lives in a modest colonial style home on a dead-end street that could look like any dead-end street in America: two-story homes that are white and brown and green, double garage doors, manicured lawns, and one or two American flags among the dozen houses. The street dips into a small valley and in every direction are the Berkshire hills, brown in the winter, green in the summer, yellow, red, and gold, through the months of autumn. If I had to live on a street with neighbors, this would be the street for me.

I get out of my car and walk to the front door. There’s no doorbell, so I knock on the glass side light. Anita worries about COVID, and even though I’m wearing a mask and triple-vaccinated, I step away from the door, leaving the bag of food on her stoop. Within a minute or two I see her smiling face in the side light. She waves to me and opens the door. I’m halfway back to my car and she says, “It’s so nice out today.” It’s 48 degrees and sunny, which is a lot nicer than it’s been. “Sure is,” I say. “Bye.”

Golda lives on a long straight road that goes up and down for two miles. I pull into her gravel driveway and turn off the ignition. There is a small table beside her front door where I sometimes put her lunch. I press the doorbell. It goes ding when I press and dong when I release. And then I wait. I hear her unlock and then open the door. Of all the people I bring meals, Golda seems the frailest. She is at the door with her walker, looking at me as if she were confused. She is not. She is simply old. Maybe she is hungry. I hand her the lunch bag and she says, “It’s cold out.” It’s still 48 degrees, but two days ago it was 70, a tease of spring-to-come from Mother Nature.

My last delivery is for Bernice. I travel along a dirt road to get to her lakeside home overlooking the water. She has a great view. I ring her bell, open her door and put the bag inside. And then I leave. We talked a few times when I first began making deliveries. I hope we’ll talk again now that the weather is getting warmer. Bernice used to live where I used to work. We had a few shared experiences in the community. She also reads this column. Bernice, if you’re reading this, I changed your name, along with the names of everyone else.

When I was a kid, I had a paper route. I was attacked by a dog. I was yelled at. And when the paper went from 75 cents a week to a dollar, I lost a lot of my 25-cent tips. This route is so much better. I may not get any tips, but a thank you and a smile times five is nicer than all the tips I’ve ever received. I’m lucky to have the route and grateful for the joy it brings me.

Richard Reiss is the author of “Desperate Love: A Father’s Memoir.” He lives in Canaan, N.Y., with his wife Paula. He can be reached at rpreiss63@gmail.com.

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