For many Meals on Wheels clients, the front door isn’t just an entryway—it’s a boundary between them and the world beyond. Some struggle to answer because of limited mobility. Others, like one man on Edna Galoska and Hughie Mitchell’s delivery route in 1979, hadn’t been outside in weeks—his wheelchair couldn’t fit through the doorway.
Edna and Hughie teamed up once a month, delivering 16 meals in two hours. It was fast-paced work, but the real challenge wasn’t the schedule—it was the uncertainty. Their greatest hope? That each of the 16 doors would open.
One client took 15 minutes to answer because his cane had fallen, leaving him stranded in bed. Another relied on the volunteers to knock and come in directly—he simply couldn’t maneuver to the door on his own. A woman with a broken ankle found temporary relief in the service, knowing a warm meal would reach her even when she couldn’t make it to the kitchen.
Yet no matter the circumstance, there was always a smile waiting on the other side of the door. Payment—one dollar—was neatly left on a silver tray in a stately home or tucked under a paperweight in a modest boarding house. Every stop was different, but the connection was the same.
For Edna and Hughie, the job was never just about food. It was about showing up, stepping inside, and making sure no one felt forgotten.
