There were always the homeless, the women with children thrown onto the street, the immigrants who dreamed they could make it in America until they found the wages low and the cost of living high.

Then the young families came knocking on Anne Tomas' door.

From a tiny bungalow in suburban Fairfax County, Va. -- the richest county in the nation, according to the Census Bureau -- Tomas' Baptist church mission feeds people out of a basement storehouse.

``Some of them are American. Some of them are college-educated,'' she said of these newcomers.

They come to the food pantry because of the downturn in the tech industry. They've lost their jobs, or taken a pay cut to keep them. Now there isn't enough for rent and food, too.

They show up along with the taxi drivers and catering workers and hotel maids and others in the hospitality industry, which has suddenly turned inhospitable.

There is something old and something new about this latest resurgence of poverty amid plenty. The U.S. Conference of Mayors' annual report on hunger and homelessness was a barometer in the 1990s of how many the boom missed. Now it is an early warning of how broadly the bust has hit.

The mayors' report is a transcontinental portrait of trouble. The demand for food assistance from families with children increased 19 percent in the past year. Requests from the elderly rose a similar amount. Well more than a third of adults requesting food were working.

Eighty-one percent of the cities reported an increase in requests for emergency housing. As usual, it could not be met. More than half the cities said shelters may turn people away because there is no room.

The voices of the city officials surveyed in the report have the tone of despair. They talk of mushrooming need and a corresponding catastrophe -- a steep drop in donations caused in part because so many donations went to the victims of the Sept. 11 terror attacks. A third of the cities reported food-assistance sites may have to turn people away because they don't have enough to give.

If these were dispatches from the war on poverty, we would declare the campaign lost.

From Louisville, Ky.: ``Working poor and welfare-to-work families have to make difficult decisions as to whether to pay for utilities, rent, medicine or food. . . . The distribution of baby formula has increased more than 24 percent.''

From Trenton, N.J.: ``In 2000, the Trenton Area Soup Kitchen was giving out 60 food vouchers a month. In 2001, they average 119 a month.''

From Norfolk, Va.: ``Supplemental pantries are needed by the working poor and the elderly clients on fixed incomes who sometimes choose between food and prescription drugs.''

From Santa Monica: ``Our demand exceeds supply.''

From Boston: ``Last year, there were less than 100 families placed in hotels and motels by the state of Massachusetts. This year there are over 340.''

From Charleston, S.C.: ``The number of intact families (seeking emergency housing) increased this year for the first time.''

From San Antonio: ``The increase is a direct reflection of low wages and the continued rise of housing costs in San Antonio. While rent costs are adjusted to reflect current market values, wages remain at the same level.''

It is all but certain the government will do nothing about this, not now. The federal surplus is long gone and the new costs of fighting terrorism abroad and at home still aren't fully known. States are worse off.

When the welfare-to-work legislation was passed in 1996, people who work with the poor said the true test would come in the next recession, when the newly distressed would line up alongside the chronically down-and-out. The test of recession is here. We've flunked.

We are united and resolved to fight a difficult war abroad to protect American values. The easier goal of feeding ourselves and keeping a roof over every American's head could be a national value, if we made it one.

The only hope, if you can call it that, is that it's not too late to give. The mayors said that in 100 percent of cities, the need is expected to grow next year.

© 2001 The Mercury News

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