COTTONWOOD HEIGHTS » Days went by and not a single shopper wanted the sweet red pepper on the grocery store shelf. So Larry Gydesen found it a home.
Six days a week, this great-grandfather stuffs his white truck with passed-over cheese, strawberries and everything edible before delivering it to the people who need it most: the homeless, recovering addicts and the poor.
The food man, as he's called, is a savior of the nearly expired, guardian of the day-old and rescuer of the not-quite-good-enough. Gydesen knows it will all feed the hungry.
Yet most people never know they have Gydesen to thank for the chopped up onion in their salad.
It was about eight years ago that Gydesen noticed food being thrown away from a grocery store and decided to step in. What began as a personal one-store deal morphed into an all-day adventure, during which he visits food pantries and homeless shelters that have grown to expect and rely on his unofficial deliveries.
Parking behind the Whole Foods in Cottonwood Heights on a recent Friday morning, Gydesen began by collecting the store's castaways -- food that's good but no longer sold to customers.
The 70-year-old hauled and shoved, sorting and organizing, as the boxes began to crowd the back of the truck. In and out of the back door he went, wheeling his loot in a shopping cart.
The retiree knew every employee by name or at least by a name he invented. Mr. Cheesy is, of course, the guy selling cheddar.
The physical labor didn't seem to tire him; his pace was brisk, his mood bright.
Gydesen tells a story of a bedraggled older couple he saw walking down the street a few weeks ago. When he offered them food off his truck, they told him they hadn't eaten in five days.
"You want to know what keeps me going?" he asks. "That. Just helping people."
You could say he was ahead of the curve. Two years ago the Utah Food Bank began a formal effort to pick up fresh, discarded food from grocery stores. Their program has increased to include about 150 stores throughout the state.
Gydesen works alone and does not get paid for his efforts. But he's far from lonely.
"I love people," he said. "I hate waste."
His nickname, which his kids plastered in big letters on the back of his truck, evolved from his early visits to low-income neighborhoods to hand out food. Kids would see Gydesen and say, "Here comes the food man."
Now, after a 31-year career in the corrugated box business, he's surrounded by boxes once again.
"I can't slow down," he said.
His fresh fruits and vegetables are part of the key to recovery for the residents at the Center for Women and Children, a detoxification facility run by the Utah Volunteers of America.
Mary Smith, a chef with a soft Irish accent, helps the women get their bodies back as they begin to be healthy again. "It takes a while to get used to it," she said.
The men at The Rescue Mission in downtown Salt Lake City have felt the impact of Gydesen's quiet devotion. He brings food, particularly dairy products, they might not otherwise have.
"So often he drops off his food and we don't even know he's here," said executive director Chris Croswhite.
As for days off, Gydesen said he doesn't get sick. And he doesn't even eat lunch. Just a coffee and buttermilk bar donut at the end of the day.
"I don't have time to retire," he said. "Too many hungry people."
