I thought I heard a voice from the other side of the door, but with the howling wind, I couldn't be sure. So wait a few seconds, and then knock again.

This time I heard it. A man's voice, telling me to come on in. So I opened the flimsy storm door, standard on most mobile homes, opened the fake wood door, and went on in.

An old man was sitting in a large chair in the living room, looking over his shoulder to ask me what I wanted.

I give him the standard response. We're scouting for food. Do you have anything to contribute?

He gives me a blank stare, holding his hand to his ear, and I repeat myself.

"You'll have to speak louder," was his quiet reply.

So, two more times I explain what I'm doing in a loud voice. He can see the uniform under the down vest I'm wearing. Wearing for that express purpose, because it is actually cold enough out there for a full winter coat. If it weren't for the heavy gloves, I'd have had to take a break to warm up over an hour ago.

When it came time to divvy up our part of the town food drive between our four teams, I saved the trailer courts for the wife and I. They're the hardest to do, often occupied by folks you wouldn't send a kid to see, and often attended by less than friendly dogs. So that's where I've been walking for the morning.

Of course, the wife's observation of many years ago still held true.

Those who can spare the least tend to give the most.

Probably because they or someone they know has been at the receiving end of these food baskets at some time or another.

So the old man is tired of not being able to hear me, and wants to take a peek inside my bag. And sees four or five cans of chili or other canned foodstuffs donated by his neighbors.

"Sit down and tell me what you're doing," he says, pointing to the nearby stuffed chair.

Don't really have time for this. We're short handed this year, and started late because all but us and one other family forgot about today's activity. (We reminded them all at the Court on Tuesday. How could they forget?) So, lots of use on the cell phone.

But he has been polite, and really wants to know. And it would be rude to turn and leave. So I sit and explain, in a loud voice, what we are doing. Collecting packaged foods for the holiday baskets for needy families. Does he have anything he wants to give?

I make no comment about him being clad in only a loose bathrobe.

He stops and seriously considers my request.

He counts them out on his fingers. He can spare one, two cans of chicken noodle. And one of chicken broth. They're on the kitchen counter. I'll have to get them myself.

So I head into the kitchen.

The bare kitchen.

As in, there is nothing in there except a few pots and plates, and a counter piled with cans of soup.

Chicken noodle soup, and chicken broth soup.

No other flavors. No other foods.

I didn't look, of course, but I know in my heart there are no other foods in the cupboards. Why else would the soups be piled low where he could reach them?

So I pick out two cans of chicken noodle, and one of chicken broth. Realizing I am probably taking a day's food from this man's kitchen. And let him see them as I drop them in my bag.

He's not quite beaming, but his face has changed. No longer an old man, nearly helpless in his stuffed chair, dependant upon the helping friend he was expecting this morning. He is now a contributor. A neighbor sharing with the less fortunate.

I loudly thank him as I head to the door, and wish him a good day.

"Thank you," is his response to me.

My eyes were watering quite a bit this morning.

I'm sure it was the wind.