Betsy Winkler’s first stop is the bakery counter. It is early on a drizzly summer morning, and the grocery store is neat and quiet. But when the sleepy clerks roll out carts brimming with past-their-prime breads and pastries, the 60-year-old gets to work.
She fills the back of her dusty green minivan, neatly stacking croissants and chocolate muffins, cookies and cinnamon rolls, Dutch apple pie and foot-long hot dog rolls. In an hour or so, the volunteer will deliver the baked goods to the Kuna Good Neighbors Inc. food bank.
Before that, though, Winkler has another stop to make: the grocery store dumpster. That’s where she gathers the fruit and vegetables that will sustain her throughout the week. What she does not eat she will can, freeze or dry for even leaner times.
Winkler’s husband, David, has Alzheimer’s disease. She can no longer care for the 69-year-old in the converted garage she calls home. Every month, Winkler now writes a hefty check to pay for her husband’s assisted living facility. And when it comes to her own needs and wants, Winkler makes do.
After she’s paid the bills, she tries to live on just $30 a month. While $1 a day doesn’t go very far, Winkler knows she needs to have something in savings to pay for the increased cost of David’s care as his condition worsens.
The Winklers represent the intersection of two Gem State demographic trends. Idaho’s population is graying faster than the nation as a whole. And more than a third of the state’s households have difficulty making ends meet each month, left behind by a booming economy with its help-wanted signs and soaring construction cranes.
Which is why Winkler is pushing aside boxes of corn husks and watermelon rinds in search of summer’s bounty in a grocery store’s garbage.
“There’s peppers, asparagus, lettuce. Here’s a whole bag of potatoes and some apples,” she says, head down, intent. “They’re starting to get bad, so they toss them out. But there’s some nice potatoes. See? It’s just not up to their quality. ...
“I’ve been gathering up mushrooms lately,” she continues. “I probably have enough to last me through the winter. Any other mushrooms I get, they just go direct to the food bank. I’m not gonna be greedy about it.”
She opens up an ear of corn before filling up her back seat. There is more than enough for her and her struggling neighbors.
“There might be a bug in the top,” she says. “You cut it off!”
At the food bank — a collection of coolers, cupboards and open shelves in the carport of a private home — no one notices blemishes or expiration dates. They are grateful for the groceries. Period.
Keith Hartmann, who had a stroke two years ago and cannot work, drives up in his white pickup truck as Winkler unloads her van. The 57-year-old is especially glad for the mostly fresh produce Winkler has delivered, because he’s been trying to drop a few pounds.
“I try to eat healthy,” he says. “And it’s expensive. ... We’re on a fixed income. When we go shopping, it’s like, ‘We can’t get this. We’re on a budget.’ Before it was, ‘You can never spend too much on food.’ This is a blessing.”