Courtesy of Silver Planet Staff

Late January. A vicious wind knifes inland from Humboldt Bay, and the sun glows ineffectually, low in the sky. The temperature hovers in the high 40s, cold for coastal northern California.

By midafternoon, many of Eureka’s poorest people begin to assemble outside St. Vincent de Paul’s Dining Facility in a bleak industrial area of town. Most are homeless; others just need a hand deep in the month, when their money runs out and the kids' bellies growl. Many suffer from addictions to booze or drugs. Others struggle with mental illness or physical disability. Some have just had bad luck, victims of "downsizing" or home foreclosure. The children, of course, are innocents.

A bristle-cheeked codger, head down, pushes a walker toward St. Vincent's entrance. "How ya doin’?" I ask, stupidly. "Not so good," he grunts.

Betty’s Blue Angel pulls into the parking lot a little after four, scattering a flock of seagulls pecking at bread crusts in the puddled street. Out pops Betty Chinn and a middle-aged male helper, neither dressed better than those in queue. They tug at the truck’s canteen doors, wasting no time setting up to serve dinner.

A line—comprising a mélange of ethnicities, from shivering white urchins to tattooed Yurok teenagers to twenty-something Asians to black Vietnam war vets—now snakes far down the block. One bearded trendsetter has fashioned his matted dreadlocks into a squirrel’s form atop his forehead, complete with a bushy tail down his neck.

“Hey, Betty! I heard you was quitting!” teases a grizzled Hispanic man in frayed cammies and red galoshes.

“Who told you that?” she snorts.

Smirking, he waves toward the line.

“Ah, some guy . . .”

She shakes a fist in mock anger:

“Why, you . . .”

They laugh. Betty jokes easily with her “patrons” as she and the volunteer serve free coffee, pint cartons of milk (white or chocolate), PBJs, chicken casserole, and brownies from the Blue Angel. She’s on a first-name basis with many and has a kind word or a pat on the shoulder for each person. Within an hour, perhaps 150 people eat a hot meal. After a few quick hugs and a chorus of thank-yous, Betty and her helper jump back into the truck and head for 10 other spots around Eureka: alleys and hangouts, encampments beneath Samoa Bridge, behind Bayshore Mall, in strips of woods and brush.

She will finish her rounds at eight or so, then return home for a few scant hours’ rest before arising at zero-dark-thirty to serve breakfast and do it all over again.

This has been her routine for 23 years.