Later Tuesday afternoon three cars and an SUV pulled into the parking lot by the small restaurant across from the shipyard. They were the typical, beaten-up rides most of us drove. From them men and women emerged and they brought folding tables on which they placed coolers and bags that turned out to contain sandwiches and fried chicken and soup. I walked over to get some soup as I hadn’t eaten in the excitement. No one spoke of what was happening; instead we talked about the sort of food we preferred; turkey or bologna, peanut butter with jelly or with honey or simply by itself, white bread versus rye or wheat or potato bread. We joked a bit and then settled into eating the simple, wonderful lunch we had been given. The only significant detail I took from this moment was that no one seemed to know these people. They saw what was occurring and they helped us. This happened again and again throughout the week.