Welcome To My Blog

 

To help you select the stories and poetry you might want to read, below is the list of all posts made to my blog since its inception. Posts are listed in chronological order from the first post made on April 18, 2019, until the most recent post (The most recent post appears first on the blog). Please browse the list of posts to find the titles that most intrigue you. Then do one of the following:

 

1.         Place the title of the post in the space beneath the header, “Search This Blog.” With regard to poetry, a post may contain more than one poem. You may have to insert the first two poems listed to find what you want. Then click on search. The posting should appear at the top of the screen for you to read. Or . . .

 

2.         Using the date a particular posting was made, go to the “Blog Archive” to the right of the posts and click on the particular month in which the poem or short story was posted and scroll down until you find what you would like to read. Please note that if you scroll through all the posts on the screen and don’t find what you are looking for, below the last post on the screen, on the right, are the words, “Older Posts.” Click on this and you will find the additional posts made during the particular month you have selected. Scroll through these until you find the story or poem you wish to read.

 

Enjoy the journey, as you read the creations of my heart and my mind.

 

Thank you.

 

Alan

Alan Lowe
Poet and Writer

slolowe@icloud.com

https://slolowe44.blogspot.com/

 

 

 

 

 

Getting old is hard to do, especially when it involves the changes taking place in technology. Sometimes these make my head spin.

 

On my 80^th birthday, I received a gift I had not expected. Was I ready for this . . .

 

 

Change In My Life

 

As a poet, writer, and playwright, I’m dependent on my computer 

     to make my words come alive.

However, my computer is aging faster than I am and this is compromising 

     my hard drive.

 

My son, a computer expert, has been after me to buy a new Mac mini, 

     paired with a 27” screen.

Being comfortable with what I have and somewhat resistant to change, 

     about his idea, I have not been too keen.

 

Two days before my 80^th birthday on the July 13, 2024, I told him I would 

     think about his proposal and let him know when and if I was ready 

     to proceed.

Not overly happy with my answer, he said, “That is your choice, but with 

     the changes coming in software, a new computer is what you need.”

 

That weekend, my son and his wife and my daughter and two of my 

     grandsons, one with a friend, came to spend the weekend with my 

     wife and me.

We brought in dinner on Friday evening, met Saturday at 2 pm at an 

     axe throwing shop, and then came back to my house before dinner 

     to party.

 

When we were all settled in on the living room couches, I was presented 

     with birthday cards to read and a small box was placed on the coffee 

     table in front of me.

I looked at my family staring in my direction, with smiles on their faces, 

     waiting for me to open the wrapped box—my present to see.

 

My hesitation perplexed them and, in unison, they spoke, “Are you 

     going to open it? We have to go to dinner soon—a twenty-minute ride.

I pulled the box toward me. It was heavier than expected and began 

     to unwrap it to discover what was inside.

 

To my surprise, a Mac mini danced in front of me causing me to smile 

     and shake at the same time, as I envisioned the changes in my 

     computer life I’d have to make.

Then a large box followed, with a 27” screen inside, and my heart beat 

     out of control, hoping this wasn’t a mistake.

 

I thanked my family for the wonderful gift and told my son to put his life 

     on hold, as he probably would be speaking to me every day to help 

     me adjust to my new technical change.

Since all of my software also has been updated, it makes my had spin, 

     in a world I find quite strange.

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

There are rewards in life we try to attain. But the cost could be high.

 

Should we take the chance? It depends on . . .

 

 

What’s At Steak?

 

Are you sure you want to do this?

No.

Then why are we here.

Cause the frig door is ajar.

Should we peek in?

I don’t know.

But this was your idea.

So?

We can be in big trouble if we get caught.

But we won’t.

How do you know?

Cause nobody’s watching.

Are you sure?

Maybe.

Just maybe?

Best I can do.

Well, that’s not good enough.

That’s your problem.

Our problem.

Wait, I hear something.

You do?

It’s getting louder.

What are you doing?

Hiding.

Get your nose out of my butt.

“What’s going on here?”

“Daisy, what do you have in your mouth?”

“My God! It’s our . . .”

Run, Jasper. Run.

Where?

Beats me.

“Stop! Stay! Sit!”

We’re dead meat.

”Drop the steak, now!”

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

From the time I was born, music played a role in my life. Memories of my parents singing me to sleep filled my mind.

 

As I grew from a child to an adult, I listened to . . .

 

  

Songs That Shaped My Life 

     It was a cool, wintry morning. I came bouncing down the staircase from my room on the second floor of our beautiful three-bedroom home, on the South Shore of Long Island. As I looked over the handrail into the living room, I screamed, “Hey! Leave my guitar alone, you little wimp.”

     “Your guitar? When was the last time you picked that thing up. It’s been sitting here collecting dust for months,” my eight-year-old my sister, Leah, screamed.

     “But that’s how I’m going to play, ‘I’m Back in the Saddle Again,’ Gene Autry’s song.”

     “On a horse?”

     “Why not?”

     “You’ve never been on a horse.”

     “Yes, I was.”

     “When?”

     “Three weeks ago at the mall.”

     “That was a fake horse.”

     “But you said it was a horse.”

     “I’m only eight. What do I know?”

     “And I’m only ten. So that’s the best horse around for me to ride.”

     Well, I never did play “I’m Back in the Saddle Again,” on the guitar, but I did ride my first real horse at age fourteen. And when it jumped a fence with me on board, I found myself holding on to its mane and staring into its soft, beautiful eyes. I hoped I’d never be “back in the saddle again.”

     In 1956, I went to the movies with Leah. At twelve, I was becoming a man and falling in love with the girl of my dreams—Doris Day. Listening to her sing, “Que Sera, Sera, Whatever Will Be, Will Be,” made my heart melt. Leah stared at me and said, “You look like you’re going to barf.”

     “Huh,” I replied. “What are you talking about?”

     “Your face is as red as a beet.”

     To this day, that song resonates within me, when things don’t turn out exactly the way I want them to. But, I know a better future is coming. And Doris Day is still my heart throb.

     In 1962, I graduated high school and went off to college in upstate New York. As a Psych major, I knew I’d find everything out and become a success—especially in discovering the girl to make my life complete. And my favorite song. “Chances Are,” by Johnny Mathis, said it all, . . .

“Guess you feel you'll always be
The one and only one for me
And if you think you could,
Well, chances are your chances are awfully good!”

 

     The evening was cold and windy. After the party, my date, Linda, and I rushed from the frat house to my car. After helping her into the passenger seat, I went around the car and got in. I sat in the driver’s seat shaking.

     “Aren’t we going?” Linda asked.

     “As soon as I warm up,” I replied, quivering.

     “Well, you have to turn the car and heat on, if you want that to happen.  And by the way, Art asked me out and I said, ‘Yes.’”

     “You what? You’re going on a date with my fraternity brother?”

     “You heard me. Art and I flirted all evening. You were too busy snacking to notice. So we’re done.”

     And so it became clear that for a continuing relationship with Linda, “Chances are my chances aren’t awfully good.”

     This experience was mind boggling, but life goes on. To survive, sometimes I had to pretend I was somebody I wasn’t and had the confidence to do the unexpected to achieve my goals. The song that rattled around in my brain and kept me going was “The Great Pretender,” by the Platters.

     I made things happen as a professional educational administrator in Northern California. I had to be strong in the eyes of those who reported to me and make them believe I could do it all on my own. And so I sung to myself,

 

“Oh yes, I'm the great pretender
Adrift in a world of my own
I play the game but to my real shame
You've left me to dream all alone.”

 

          The “you” was my second wife, Jessica. She came to me one evening and said, “We’re through. I’m leaving.”

     I gulped, “Why?”

     “I need to be on my own. But we can date.”

     “Date? We’re married.”

     And then we weren’t.

     But as Tommy Edwards sung, “It’s All In the Game.”

 

“Many a tear has to fall but it's all in the game
All in the wonderful game that we know as love.”

 

     One relationship ends and a new one begins. You search for that special person and she emerges from an ad in the Personals Section of the newspaper. You call her phone number and she answers, “Hello.”

     The warmth of her voice makes your heart beat out of control, and The Everly Brothers song, “Let It Be Me,” flows through my mind,

 

“I bless the day I found you
I want to stay around you
And so I beg you, let it be me
Don't take this heaven from one
If you must cling to someone
Now and forever, let it be me.”

 

     And it was. Now the only thing hampering our wonderful marriage is aging, with aching bodies and fading minds. Frank Sinatra’s words, in “As Time Goes By,” paint a picture of our future,

 

“You must remember this:
A kiss is still a kiss,
A sigh is just a sigh.
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by.

And when two lovers woo
They still say, "I love you."
On that you can rely,
No matter what the future brings.
As time goes by.”

 

         The songs that shaped my life left indelible imprints, as I traveled with them down life’s roads. I go to sleep with them and awake each morning to unforgettable music and lyrics.

 

 

Copyright © 2025 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Can an individual’s personality change dramatically? And, if so, how?

 

You grow up knowing your mother. Then why would you say . . .

 

 

She’s Not My Mother

 

     I’d just sat down at the kitchen table to eat dinner, when the phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello.”

     “Adam, this is your loving sister, Eve. I’ve got some disturbing news for you.”

     “Okay, Eve, I’m listening.”

     “Dad started a big fight at Mom’s and his social club meeting. It was so bad that he declared, ‘I’m moving from this ridiculous retirement community. I can’t stand it anymore.’”

     “Don’t get so upset, Eve. It’ll all blow over.”

     “I don’t think so.”

     “Why do you say that? Things like this have happened before. Mom and Dad are always complaining about their community, the association, and their friends.” 

     “But not like this.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “They put their house up for sale.”

     “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you?”

     “No big brother, I’m not.”

     Three months later Mom and Dad moved to a senior apartment complex just two miles from Eve’s home in the San Fernando Valley.

     I was sitting at my computer in my home office in the Bay Area, two weeks after they moved in, when the phone rang, pushing me out of my mental fog. I grabbed it and said, “Hello.”

     “Adam, it’s Eve. We’ve got a problem.”

     “Another problem? What kind of problem, Eve?” I said, in a frustrated manner.

     “Two of Mom’s and Dad’s friends have called me twice.”

     “So?”

     “They both said they believed there was more to the story that Mom and Dad shared with me. The fight really wasn’t that big. And the people involved have already put it behind them.”

     “Then why did they move?”

     “I don’t have any idea. And that’s what scares me.”

     “Should I fly down to you now?”

     “Maybe, or maybe not.”

     “Well, which is it?”

      “As you know, your niece’s mother-in-law’s seventieth birthday is three weeks from today, the Saturday before New Year’s Eve.”

     “Yeah. Betsy and I are coming. It’s a big deal.”

     “Yes, a catered dinner, dancing, and . . .”

     “Okay, maybe it’s best to wait until then to see what’s going on.”

     “I think so.”

     “Call me if there’s more I should know before I come.”

     “Will do. See you at the party.”

     Three weeks passed quickly. The night of the party arrived. Betsy and I walked through the ballroom doors to soft music and about sixty people standing around mingling. My eyes perused the room and I saw Dad sitting next to Mom at a large round table. He was white as a sheet.

     We approached the table. “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad? How are you doing?”

     “Just fine,” Mom chanted.

     “And you, Dad?” He didn’t respond immediately. And then . . .

     “I’m okay. Just a bit tired.”

     Well, the night was pleasant. We had a good time. And Francis, my niece’s mother-in-law, was “queen of the ball.”

     Dad made it through the evening and I believed he was just wiped out from his big move. All was good. We said good night, wished everybody a “Happy New Year,” and the next day we flew home.

     We had a quiet New Year’s Eve. Then just after noon on New Year’s Day the phone rang. I lifted it off the living room coffee table and muttered, “Hello.”

     “Adam, sit down.”

     “Eve, you sound weird.”

     “Dad’s in the hospital.”

     “What? Why?”

     “He has terminal cancer. He only has three weeks to live.”

     “Oh, my God! I’m on my way.”

     “Adam, wait! There’s more.”

     “More? How much more can there be? He’s dying.”

     “Not Dad, Mom.”

     “Mom? What about Mom?”

     “She’s in the hospital, too.”

     “Well that’s normal. She should be with Dad.”

     “But she’s not with him.”

     “How could she do that?”

     “Because she’s also a patient in the hospital.”

     “What? What happened?”

     “She stopped taking all her medicines when she found out Dad was dying, about two months before they moved here. Seems they had an agreement. Either she would die first, or they would both die together. She had a massive stroke. They didn’t want us to worry, so they didn’t tell us or anybody else about Dad’s cancer. That’s why they used the fight as an excuse to leave their retirement community.”

     “I’m on my way.”

     Dad passed away three days after I arrived. Eve and I settled his affairs and then focused our attention on Mom. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t honor the agreement she had with Dad. She survived.

     Eve and I knew she couldn’t live alone. And Eve’s home didn’t have a ground floor bedroom, so she couldn’t live with her. She needed a walker and someone to replace Dad, as her support—both physical and mental. She seemed to be aware of what was going on around her, but it became obvious that she wasn’t all there.

     Therefore, we checked out the assisted living facilities in the area around Eve’s home. We found one, Garden of Eden Assisted Living, where Eve knew the manager. She had spent time with Eve’s mother-in-law, as her caregiver. This seemed like the right place for Mom.

     We got Mom settled in and I went home. I stayed in contact with her by phone, twice a week. Our conversations were interesting.

     “Hi, Mom, it’s Adam. How are you doing?”

     “I’m doing fine. Who is this?”

     “Adam, Mom.”

     “Oh, Adam! I’m so glad you called. I have so much to tell you.”

     “Okay, tell me.’

     “Tell you what?”

     “Well, let me tell you something. I just bought a new car.”

     “That’s so nice.”

     “Do you want to know how much it cost? It was expensive.”

     “That’s fine.”

     Her reply was odd. Mom was not always the most pleasant person to be with. She usually had adverse opinions about everything. There was only one way to do things—her way. But now she seemed to have just one negative response, when I answered her question, “What are you doing this weekend?”

     “It’s that time of the month, Mom,” I said. “Saturday’s our monthly dominoes game.”

     “And she responded loudly, “Oh, boriiiinnng. . . .”

     Mom seemed to have a full life in her assisted living home. She played bingo twice a week, ate her meals with friends at a table in the dining room, and saw shows in the small theater. And Eve told me she smiled a lot.

     Eve visited Mom a couple of times each week. At one of her visits, an employee approached her and said, with a lilt in her voice, “Eve, your mother is such a wonderful person. She loves everybody and everybody loves her.”

     “But she’s not my mother,” Eve replied.

     “Oh, I’m sorry. Your stepmother is so nice.”

     “She’s not my stepmother, either.”

     “I apologize. I’m glad to have your friend living with us.”

     Eve didn’t reply. Had Mom remained Mom, after she stopped taking her meds, she would either be the new manager of the assisted living facility or living on the street.

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Growing up I followed an unknown path. The mystery of life was complex.

 

Sometimes the struggles overwhelmed me, but . . .

 

 

I Knew I’d Find My Way

 

I was a young boy and had no idea what to do.

The world was an open book, but what I was looking for, I had no clue.

I wandered down a path leading to somewhere I was sure.

I wandered down a path leading to somewhere to find a cure—

A cure for the problems I had yet to face,

An opportunity to compete successfully in life’s great race.

My doubts about the way to go confused me in ways I didn’t understand.

My doubts about the way to go confused me in ways I hadn’t planned.

Opportunities presented themselves before me,

Chances to make my way and become the person I wanted to be.

Certain I could swim in a sea of uncertainty, I saw a better day.

Certain I could swim in a sea of uncertainty, I knew I’d find my way.

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Family arguments are common. Differences of opinion can breathe life into relationships between family members or, if overwhelming, cause havoc.

 

Sometimes confrontations are heated, but then they cool down and family members embrace one another. But one thing remains . . .

 

 

Sibling Rivalry Never Dies

 

     Life in Merrill Heights, a small suburban community, just outside San Diego, was usually calm and collected. Nothing much of consequence occurred. In this upper middle class town, people kept to the themselves, working hard to maintain an upscale lifestyle.

     It was a sunny, Tuesday afternoon in early May. Shadows fell on a small house on Urbana Way, shared by two brothers, Blake, age twenty-two, a college senior, and Tony, age twenty-one, a junior. Quiet permeated the home, and then . . .

     “How many times do I have to repeat myself to get you to listen?” Tony asked.

     “Huh?”

     I said, “How many times do I have to repeat myself to get you to listen?”

     “You talking to me?” Blake questioned.

     “Who else would I be talking to? You and I are the only ones in the room.”

     “That’s not true,” Blake replied.

     “What’s not true?”

     “That you and I are the only ones in the room.”

     “Are you out of your mind, Blake? Who else is here?”

     “Maggie and Debbie.”

     “You’re kidding? Aren’t you?”

     “No, I’m not,” Blake said.

     “But they were killed in a car accident four months ago. How could they be here?” Tony questioned.

     “Because they want to be.”

     “Why would they want to be?”

     “To punish you for your mistake, Tony.”

     “My mistake? What mistake?”

     “You were supposed to have the car serviced in January. But you didn’t,” Blake stated.

     “But the car was fine,” Tony declared.

     “Then why did they die?” Blake asked, in an eerie tone.

     “How the hell should I know? I wasn’t there.”       

     “You should have been.”

     “I what?” Tony shouted.

     “Should have been there,” Blake said.

     “But then I’d be dead, too.”

     “That’s right.”

     “What’s right?”

     “That you should be dead, as well,” Blake expressed in a way that made the room shake.

     “You’re not serious? Are you?” Tony asked.

     “I’m very serious. They were my sisters.”

     “They were my sisters, too. Maybe you’re the one at fault.”

     “I would have made sure the car was in good condition,” Blake stated.

     “But they were drunk when the car went over the side of the mountain. It wasn’t the car that killed them.”

     “Why were they drunk, Tony?”

     “I don’t have a clue.”

     “It was your booze they were drinking.”

     “My booze? You bought it, Blake.”

     “And you opened it.”

     “What are you saying?”

     “They shouldn’t have been drinking and driving. You killed our seventeen-year-old twin sisters.”

     “No, we killed our seventeen-year-old sisters,” Tony replied.

     “So you’re admitting guilt, Tony.”

     Silence fell upon the room, as the two brothers stood staring at one another. And then the quiet was rudely interrupted.

     “Hey, guys, just shut up,” Maggie shouted.

     “How are we hearing you?” Tony inquired.

     “If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you,” Maggie said, emphatically.

     “I told you they were here, little bro. You should have listened to me,” Blake quipped.

     “I’ve got to be dreaming. This can’t be happening!” Tony screeched.

     “Oh, yes it can,” Maggie said, with a lilt in her voice.

     “Well, what do you want?” Tony asked, somewhat irritated.

     “What do we want?” Debbie echoed.

     “You’re souls,” both girls chanted in unison and laughed out of control.

     “What? Do you work for the devil?” Blake asked.

     “Devil? Hell, no,” Debbie replied.

     “Then why do you want our souls?” Tony queried.

     “To bring the family back together again,” Maggie said with joy in her voice.

     “But that would mean we’d all be dead,” Blake whimpered.

     “Aren’t we already dead? Debbie asked.

     “No way,” Tony yelled. “I’m not ready to die.”

     “The choice isn’t yours, my sweet brother. Mix drinking and driving together and that’s what you get,” Debbie stated.

     Click, click, ummmmmmmmmmm.

     “What’s that weird noise?” Maggie questioned.

     Ummmmmmmmmmm.

     The hospital trauma center light blinded her. And then a robust voice made her quiver. “This one’s coming back, Dr. Sherman.”

     “So is this one,” Sherman said.

     “I think the other two are responding, as well,” Dr. Moran screamed excitedly.

     Blake stared into Dr. Moran’s eyes. “Where am I?” he moaned.

     “Mesa General Hospital,”

     “How did I get here?”

     “ You and your brother and two sisters were having dinner on the patio at Pasta Superba. A drunken driver smashed through the fence and plowed over you. We believed all of you were going die.”

     “Didn’t they?” Tony inquired.

     “They?” Dr. Sherman asked.

     “Our sisters. They were drunk. They crashed the car four months ago and died. My brother and I weren’t there.”

     “You all have head trauma. What you believe is not what happened. And what did happen, occurred earlier this evening.”

     Days passed. The shock wore off and the four siblings were slowly returning to the reality of life—two sisters back at home with their parents and two brothers living on Urbana Way, a mile from the University of Southern San Diego, where they attended college.

     At dinner at the family home a month later, it became evident that some things never change.

     “You know your being a jerk, Tony,” Blake moaned.

     “You’re no prize, either,” Tony responded.  

     The two sisters shook their heads and sung out, “You guys are horrible, as always. We’re glad you don’t live here anymore. Hooray!”

     And so it became obvious---sibling rivalry never dies.

 

 

Copyright © 2024 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.