Buzz Trexler

It was 20 years ago this week that I came to The Daily Times: Dec. 19, 1989.

I believe it was on Dec. 20 that I met Paul Bales, who came into my office with what looked like a homemade pad of newsprint with numbers on it, asking, “How many columns do you need?”

Having worked at a metro newspaper where someone else made those decisions, I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, and he knew it.

Paul, who is retiring from The Daily Times at the end of this year, was likely thinking, “This boy’s still wet behind the ears.” Still, he was kind enough not to say it to my face.

I learned a lot about Paul over the years, but nothing more important than his willingness to serve. On Thursday night, I was privileged to get a glimpse of the fruits of five decades of service to Blount County’s needy through his work with The Daily Times’ Empty Pantry Fund — and I was filled with awe and wonder.

For two decades, this editor has viewed the chronicles of that annual — let’s call it what it is — mission and ministry to, and by, this community. This year, I was determined to join other Alcoa Kiwanians at the Junior Service League’s packing of toys this past Monday and the packing of food on Thursday night for the Empty Pantry Fund. However, I got tied up at the office on Monday and could not be a part of the toy packing. Still, I was determined to make the Empty Pantry Fund event.

On Thursday, I ran across Paul in the composing room.

“I’m going to be there tonight,” I said.

“You are?” he said with big smile. “I sure am glad.”

He then went on to give me some volunteer advice.

“Now, you need to get there around 6:15 or 6:30, or you might not have a place to stand,” he warned. “Plus, you might not have a place to park if you wait until 7.”

I decided to take him at his word but, as newsroom events often dictate, I found myself leaving The Daily Times at about 6:45 p.m. As I approached the National Guard Armory on U.S. 321, there were cars turning in the same direction … and cars lining the entrance to the armory … and cars parked in the field.

“Oh, my gosh,” I thought. “This is serious. I’m not going to have a place to park.”

I slowly made my way through the traffic and turned around, thinking, “I don’t think they need my help.”

Driving back toward the highway, the thought came to me: “It’s been a long day. They don’t need my help. Just go on home.”

I passed volunteer after volunteer, young and old, walking in the dark toward the armory. The most impressive, fairly emotional, sight: A man on crutches who had lost a leg to some misfortune.

It was apparent: “There’s something special going on in this place. I’ve got to experience this thing.”

I spied First Tennessee’s nearly empty parking lot across the highway and sped across, parking under a street light.

“Great,” I thought as I checked the traffic before sprinting across U.S. 321. “I can see the headline now: ‘Foolish editor tries to cross parkway in dark.’” Not only did I have to face highway traffic, but the slightly winding road offered its own challenge.

Finally entering the armory, I was met with people lining up to serve.

What an incredible sight to see in what we sometimes believe is an age of selfishness: Here, in Blount County, people line up to serve. Of course, it was, as one volunteer analyzed, “Organized chaos.”

Volunteers pushing baskets along a route where others dropped in hams, yams, green beans, sweet peas and 43 other ingredients into huge, white sacks. There were Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Cub Scouts, parents, grandparents and probably not a few great-grandparents working together.

For two hours, I found places here and there to serve. It was obvious I wasn’t needed, nor had my presence been missed for nearly two decades. Still, having experienced a fraction of what Paul Bales and tens of thousands of other volunteers have for more than five decades, I found myself in envy: Here were those who came year, after year, after year, to serve the least of these; in fact, from what I have gleaned, some of those serving had, in fact, been served themselves by the Empty Pantry Fund.

All of Blount County, it seemed, was on hand Thursday night to fill 1,424 baskets with 63 tons of food. By the time the servants gathered again and drove 70 routes, about 1,500 people will have been involved.

Chatting with Paul and some of his “partners in crime” when leaving, one servant put it this way: “I don’t think there’s another thing like it in the nation,” he said, with a touch of pride. “This is Blount County.”

A place where people line up to serve.