Some things you need to do in life can be boring. Sitting in a car dealership waiting for your vehicle to be serviced ranks high on the list. 

Trying to amuse yourself as you wait isn't easy. And, at times, what you hear going on around you may seem strange. So . . .

  If You Listen To It, Do It “Carfully”

     Monday morning, I sat at my desk in my den thinking about what chores needed to be done this week. I pulled out my “To Do List” and scanned the items on it to determine what my priorities for the week should be. Oh my, I thought, it’s time to get the cars serviced again. Not putting much mileage on them in retirement, my service advisor and I determined that both cars should be serviced twice a year to extend their life span.

     I reached for the phone and punched in Gene’s number at the Nissan dealership. It rang and rang and rang. I was about to hang up when . . .

     “This is Gene Gorman. How can I help you?”

     “Hi Gene. This is Aaron—Aaron Brass. Your phone rang so long, I thought it was going to voice mail.”

     “Sorry about that. I was just finishing up a call I couldn’t interrupt. So how can I help you?”

     “It’s that time again, Gene. Both cars need to be serviced.”

     “I’m glad you remembered. When you’re on a twice yearly schedule, you’re not in our automated reminder system that is triggered by miles driven.”

     “Oh, I didn’t remember, My Altima did.”

     “Your telling me there’s something wrong with the car?”

     “No, I’m telling you there is something right with the car. It told me it was time.” He didn’t reply, and then . . .

     “Okay, so you want to schedule an appointment?”

     “Yes.”

     “Usual arrangement—bring the Murano in, go to breakfast, come back, and exchange cars?”

     “You’ve got it down pat, Gene.”

     “Well, you’ve been doing this for over ten years. So it doesn’t take a genius to remember the routine—although I am close.”

     “I wouldn’t go that far, but . . .”

     “Aw, come on. Give me a break.”

     “How’s this Friday morning at 9:30?”

     “Schedule look’s pretty open. See you then.”

     Friday arrived—a beautiful October day. Julie and I dressed, walked and fed the dogs, jumped into our cars, she in the Murano and me in the Altima, and headed off to the dealership. I tried to follow her, but got caught by three lights. So when I arrived, Julie had already checked the Murano in. She waited outside the large double-glass doors, with the “I’m hungry look” on her face.

     Seeing me pull into the lot, she rushed to the car. As she opened the passenger side door, she chanted, “I’m starving. Len’s Diner work for you?”

     “Sure. Get in.”

     We had a wonderful breakfast, talked about all the old folks in the restaurant with us, paid the bill, and headed back to the Nissan dealership. When we arrived, Julie went into the building to see if the Murano was ready and I checked in the Altima.

     By the time I’d finished and started to head toward the building, Julie was coming out. She yelled, “It’s all done. No surprises, just the basic oil and lube. With the discount coupon, it cost us $23.75. I’m going home.”

     “You’re not going to stay with me?”

     “What for? You’re a big boy. I’m sure you can handle all the excitement and intrigue alone.”

     “Guess I’ll have to. See you at home.” She headed to her car and I went into the building to spend an hour plus in the waiting area—alone.

     I sat down and watched the other people, as they “enjoyed” what must have seemed like an endless wait for their cars. I became bored and restless. I perused the showroom area and saw two new cars on display, one a Rogue, I was familiar with, and the other a 2018 Nissan Kicks, which I hadn’t seen before. So I ambled over to it and grabbed the door handle on the driver’s side.

     Hey, don’t touch me, a low, raspy voice commanded.

     I spun around to see who’d said that to me, but nobody was there. "What the . . . Must be my mind playing tricks on me," I muttered.

     Deciding to continue exploring the vehicle, I walked toward the rear of this small SUV. I reached down and began to open the hatch when I heard . . . How would you like it if I touched your butt, mister?  

     “Huh?” Startled, I looked behind me, but didn’t see anybody near me. About eight other people lounged in the waiting area, but none of them paid any attention to me, so I decided to ignore what I believed I’d heard. I hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. Maybe I just nodded off and dreamed this.

     I focused my attention back on the car. Why I persisted in doing this, I didn’t understand. It wasn’t all that interesting. However, I decided to check under the hood. As I opened it, I was taken aback by . . .

     What gives you the right to poke around in my mouth? Are you an oral surgeon? Why aren’t you wearing gloves? Are your hands sterile?

     Not believing any of this was real, and feeling the presence of someone lurking behind me, I turned around to look. What I saw was a little guy, no more than five-feet tall, standing there, staring at me. So I peered back at him.

     “Why you lookin’ at me, man?” he asked, somewhat annoyed.

     “Nice game you’re playing,” I said with anger in my voice.

     “Game?” he queried, looking puzzled.

     “Throwing your voice into that SUV, so I’d think it was speaking to me.”

     “What’re you talkin’ about? I didn’t throw nothin’ into nothin’,” he said in a harsh tone.

     “Oh, come on! Own up to it.”

     “I don’t want to own it. Costs too much money. Just leave me alone.”

     He gave me a weird look and walked away. Bewildered, I stood motionless. What the hell is happening? Am I going crazy? I thought.

     Then bellowing laughter erupted behind me. Shocked, I pivoted to assess the situation. It was coming from the open hood of the Kicks. Now I was totally confused and frightened to boot. Not knowing what to do, I headed toward the door. Maybe I’d better get out of here. Wait outside for my car to be finished.

     As I made my way to the exit, someone called out to me, “Hey, fella, I think you dropped something.”

     I turned back to look and just stood there with my mouth wide open. A sign I hadn’t seen before, in large, bold letters, read, “THIS CAR OF THE FUTURE WILL DRIVE YOU CRAZY, IF YOU LISTEN TO IT.”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Have you ever been confused about what day it is? You wake up in the morning thinking it's Tuesday and you have a doctor’s appointment, only to find out when you appear at the doctor's office that it's Monday.

Some of us blame this confusion on old age, while others place the blame on a busy calendar. But maybe the responsibility for this bewilderment belongs to someone or something else, as you will discover in . . .

The Daze Of The Week

     My name is Simon Peter. I’ve worked for Dr. Theo Lord, therapist and life guide to those who seek his help and support, for as long as I can remember. I’m his personal secretary and general office manager.

      It is through me those who wish to see Dr. Lord must pass. I manage the gates, the entrance, to his magnificent office. The doorway of golden tile glistens. The rays of the sun, floating through the outer office’s large picture window, provide a halo effect around the entryway to his inner office.

     He has a full complement of very special patrons. He treats them as individuals and helps them surmount the barriers life places before them. He serves as their mentor and mine, as well. We all respect him and trust him with our lives.

     I leaned back in my chair and pondered my good fortune. The intercom buzzed, interrupting my mind’s meanderings.

     “Simon, please come into my office so we can discuss this week’s appointment schedule.”

     “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

     As I entered his office, Dr. Lord motioned to me to sit down. I sat in the first of the two chairs placed before his large mahogany desk—my usual seat. I like consistency in my world.

     “Simon, I need your assistance. I have some concern about the week. There seems to be some uncertainty about which day comes first. On my appointment list, you have my usual second appointment listed first. As I scanned the rest of the list, all my appointments have been transposed. Everything is out of order. Do you have an explanation for this?”

     “Well, sir, it’s a little complicated. As you know, we’ve always considered the first day of the week as the time you meet with Seth Sunday.”

     “Yes, that’s true. So, I don’t see a problem.”

     “Let me continue. A bit of an issue has developed. Misty Monday now insists she should be your first appointment and not Seth. This has led to utter confusion, as each of your other very special daily clients has become somewhat dazed by this matter. Therefore, the schedule has become quite chaotic.”

     “But how can this be? Everything has been in perfect order in the past.”

     “I don’t know, but the phone has been ringing off the hook. As I’ve already indicated, Misty Monday will begin your week. She’ll be followed by Toby Thursday, Sadie Saturday, Willie Wednesday, Frankie Friday, Tina Tuesday and, last but not least, Seth Sunday. And Seth is very disconcerted by this turn of events.”

     “I’m not surprised by his reaction. This is all quite awkward, and, if not fixed, will have an impact well beyond these very important daily clients. As you are aware, others are extremely dependent on the maintenance of this appointment sequence, and subsequent public calendar created, to maintain order in their lives.”

     “Yes, I am, but how do you propose to address the problem?”

     “I have an idea, but it is quite radical. And if it doesn’t work, it may forever upend the order of the week I’ve worked so hard to preserve. It may be a little tricky. It also involves risk.”

     “Risk? What kind of risk? This makes me very uncomfortable.”

     “I don’t mean to do that to you. But, if you’re going to work with me to correct the current confusion, you’ll need to be privy to all the dangers involved with the technique I will employ. May I proceed?”

     “Yes, please continue.”

     “Good. Now, what I propose to do has never been done before with these very significant patrons. I’m going to have them participate in a group therapy session.”

     “You don’t mean you’ll bring all your daily clients together in the same room on the same day to engage one another?”

     “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

     “But that’s absurd. They each have their own day. They are so independent, single-minded. They don’t talk to one another. They don’t share. This is why you’ve never done it before. It can’t work.”

     “It has to. So please schedule all these very important individuals . . . and I do mean all . . . no exceptions, for my first session next week.

     “Okay, but whose first session? Seth’s or Misty’s?”

     “That’s your call. Make it happen.”

     “All right. But do I tell them up front they’ll meet as a group and not have individual sessions? Or do I wait until they all show up and find themselves in the same room?”

     “Again, Simon, I’ll leave the decision up to you.”

     Back at my desk, I contemplated how best to address this matter. I had to be gentle, but firm in my approach and, at the same time, not let my own fears show.

     Since Misty Monday could be described as “all work and no play,” and somewhat hardheaded, I decided the group session would be scheduled on her day. Seth Sunday was more laid-back and easy going, a guy who takes time out to rest on his day. Although bewildered by this whole mess, it would be easier for him to adjust than it would be for a very hyper Misty. The others, considered followers or middle of the pack types, will accept my proposed meeting schedule without a lot of consternation.

      I decided I’d call each of them in the order of our current scheduling pattern, beginning with Seth Sunday. And I felt it best to tell them up front this would be a joint meeting of all Dr. Lord’s seven important regulars.

      I spoke in my most respectful manner and treated the invitation in a matter-of-fact way. To my amazement, none of these souls questioned the reason for the timing of the session. They all accepted it.

     Misty Monday seemed so elated they would be meeting on her day, she gushed, “Oh thank you for choosing my time to meet, for the activities of the week do begin on my day. As such, your choice is quite appropriate.”

     When I told Dr. Lord all had agreed to meet together at Misty Monday’s meeting time, he became ecstatic. He called me a genius for pulling it off . . . and then I, too, became ecstatic.

     Bright and early Monday morning, I sat at my desk and awaited the arrival of our very important patrons for this crucial meeting. As they entered the office, I greeted them and chanted, “Hello, welcome, my friends.” They seemed pleased with my enthusiasm. With all now assembled, I shepherded them into the room where the session would take place. The chairs had been arranged in a perfect circle with no first, second, or third position evident. For the purpose of this meeting, all participants would be considered equal.

     Each client took a seat. With all now seated, I pressed the intercom button. A strong, powerful voice bellowed, “Theo Lord speaking.”

     I replied in a soft, but confident manner, “Dr. Lord, we are ready to begin.”

     As Theo Lord entered the room, the clients began to rise before the great man. But he raised his hands high, palms showing, and then slowly lowered them, the message clear—no need to rise. And those gathered sat back down.

     I took my position in the rear of the room—my responsibility—observer and recorder of the session’s outcomes. I set up my laptop, entered the time, 10 a.m., and the day, Monday, Misty’s day and time slot.

     Theo Lord began to speak. “My very special clients, and, might I say, friends, welcome. I’ve asked you here today so we might straighten out the week. That is, when it starts and when it ends. I thought we’d all agreed Seth Sunday’s day began our week. But now I’m told at least one among us no longer accepts this.”

     “I believe, Dr. Lord, you’re speaking of me,” Misty Monday said, with some indignation.

     “Yes, my dear, Misty. Your request that you be my first client of the week has driven the others gathered here today into a state of dire confusion. Therefore, we must address this issue, because the way our week operates affects our friends and neighbors and even others we don’t know.”

     “Well, then what’re you proposing?” Misty queried.

     “I’d like each of you to present your position, that is, why you do or do not believe a change in our current arrangement is necessary.”

     “Okay!” Misty screeched. “I’ll start.”

     “Please, Misty, I want to start at the beginning of the week.”

     “But I am the beginning,” she whined.

     “No, not unless we change what we’ve always done. Therefore, for today, Seth Sunday is still the beginning and he will start.”

     Seth appeared very uncomfortable as he wiggled around in his chair. He stuttered, “I—I don’t know what to say.”

     “Please, say what you’re feeling,” Theo Lord commanded with authority, but gentleness.

     “Uh, I’m very religious. I pray on my day. Also, this is my time of rest and preparation for facing the week ahead. Everybody needs this.”

     Misty squealed, “That’s so ‘old school.’ Others rest on Saturday and some on Friday. Seth, you’re more in the middle than the beginning of the week. I’m the day that drives the week—the one that propels people to action. It’s me, Misty Monday, who starts both the work and school week. I get people’s blood flowing.”

     “Oh, Misty, you’re such a pushy broad,” bellowed Tina Tuesday. “Maybe, in reality, I should be first. Things are hectic on your day. Many people try to avoid it and some even hope it never comes. On my day, everybody’s calmed down. They settle into their routine and become resigned to the fact they have to work. My day is known as the time to bring out the best ideas in people. If we had this meeting on my day, I bet we could reach a solution to our problem faster.”

     Before Misty could respond to Tina, Dr. Lord chimed in. “Is there anybody else who would like to speak?” His eyes focused on Willie Wednesday. Willie was a middle-of-the-road type and somewhat of a daydreamer. He needed to be reminded there was more of the week to come after his day and he had to get back into gear.

     “Huh, why, why you lookin’ at me,” he stammered.

     “I want to give you the opportunity to state your position,” Dr. Lord explained.

     “Well, I don’t have one. I can go either way. Doesn’t matter to me,” Willie blurted.

     As Dr. Lord began to reply to Willie, Toby Thursday interrupted. “Let’s get this show on the road. I have to get back to the office to get my work done. The weekend’s coming. This meeting is a waste of my time.”

     Frankie Friday moaned, “You can’t end this. Only I can. I’m the end of the workweek. So when I say it’s over, it’s over. You got that.”

     “Hey guys,” a bright and cheery Sadie Saturday sung out. “Everybody used to be happy on my day. But now, so many of them have to work. Our world has become so crazy. And, Frankie, you’re full of it.”

     It became obvious things had gotten out of hand. Our important clients continued to interrupt each other and bicker back and forth. I looked for Dr. Lord, but he had disappeared from the room amidst the chaos.

     In his absence, I thought maybe I should speak up. I reached deep inside myself to find the nerve to say my piece. Then, out of nowhere, a booming voice halted the turmoil. Coming from the heavens above, it shook the circle of significant patrons to their very souls.

     Through the speaker system mounted on the room’s ceiling, the voice resonated, “I am Theo Lord, and mine is the word you will listen to and obey.”

     Our important clients sat straight up in their seats and focused their attention on the powerful voice emanating from above.

     “My very special friends, our hour is up and since the problem before us has not been resolved, we will reconvene here one week from today.”

     A wisp of a smile appeared on Misty Monday’s face as she exclaimed in delight, “See, I told you my day starts the week.”

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Do you know what it’s like to live the life of a dog? Sometimes feeling trapped behind the fence of your owner’s home can make you quite uncomfortable.

But what if you had the chance to leave? Would life be better? You’ll soon find out in . . .

The Encounter

     I live at 333 Cherry Tree Lane. At least that’s what I heard them say was on the tags that hung from the collar around my neck. I love this place—lots of room to poop, play, and explore. And there are plenty of vibrant flowers to smell and critters to chase. However, at times, this beautiful chain-linked fenced property feels somewhat confining.

     Such was the case on this warm August day. The sun shined, not a cloud in the sky. I romped up and down the length of the fence, which protected the perimeter of my yard. Although I loved my family, today I felt imprisoned inside a small portion of a world that had a lot more to offer beyond my gated compound.

     As my boredom reached an excruciating level, I noticed the gate had been left ajar. Restless to see what awaited me in the world beyond the fence, I nudged it with my nose, pushing it open enough to make my escape.

     “Oh my!” I yelped. Freedom felt good. I began running with an unburdened enthusiasm. 

     I started down Cherry Tree Lane, as I always did on my morning walks with my master and friend, Mort. I gazed at the basset hounds, cocker spaniels, schnauzers, and mixed breeds like me, and others of all sizes and shapes. They walked with pride on their leashes, controlled by owners, both fit and flabby men and women, following behind them.

     One, a basset hound, named Irving, gave me a quizzical look and grunted, “Where’s your Mort?”

     I smiled and snorted back, “On my own today,” and I danced off.

     I turned left on Witherly Avenue and then right onto Main Street. As Mort had taught me, I sat at each corner, looked both ways to avoid oncoming traffic and then continued on my way. 

     Main Street was a fantastic place. Restaurants and markets of various kinds produced a myriad of smells. My sensitive snout wiggled out of control. One shop, in particular, always aroused my hunger for exploration. The pungent odors from this establishment were so inviting. I stared at the store and wondered how I might get in. I already had broken out of prison. Could I now break into this new and exciting arena?

     My mind filled with ideas of what I might find behind the golden glass doors. My head moved back and forth as I watched them open and close as patrons went in and out of the shop to conduct business.

     I can get in. I know I can. I’m quick and agile. Chances are, with my speed, they won’t see me enter. But, can I afford to take the chance? What if I get caught? My future could be ruined. I might be sent to the pound—the real prison.

     However, the aroma coming from within had roused my sniffer to new heights. I could no longer ignore the yearning. I had to breach the entry and make my way into the store.

     I scrutinized the area around the shop’s entrance and awaited my opportunity. It seemed like an eternity had passed, when a couple approached. I tried to look inconspicuous.

     “Look, Myron. What a cute little dog,” the lady gushed.

     “Wonder what he’s waiting for Maggie? Seems to be on a mission.”

     Was my objective so obvious? I thought to myself. I didn’t react to their words and they continued walking by the shop I eyed with great desire.

     Then I viewed a shopper, carrying a large, striped cloth bag, walking toward the store. He grasped the gold handle on one of the glass doors, swung it open wide, and trudged into the shop. This was the opportunity I’d waited for, the chance I had to take to satisfy my curiosity and the gnawing hunger within me. I lunged forward, slithering through the door as it closed behind me.

     Once inside, I moved with caution in the direction of the smell of meat coming from the rear of the store. As I neared my mark, I lowered my body to avoid detection. I crawled toward my goal, my belly dragging on the floor and my tongue hanging out the side of my mouth. Saliva dripped down both sides of my jowls. My heart pounded in anticipation of the acquisition of the “spoils of war.”

     The butcher placed a large slab of juicy tenderloin on a magnificent, bright silver table in the cutting area in the back of the shop. My passion to acquire this prize heightened beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. I needed to make my move and I had to do it now.

     I approached with the caution and precision of a leopard stalking its prey. Squinting, I focused on my target. All the muscles in my body tightened as I readied myself to spring into action. I counted, one, two, three, four . . . ten. It was now or never. I leaped.

     “Oh, no!” I squealed. In mid-air, I realized the butcher had spied me—the anger on his face unmistakable.

     He screeched, “Get your tail-waggin’ butt outta here.” And with cleaver in hand, his size elevens moved in haste toward me. 

     I plummeted to the floor and tried, with little success, to catch my breath. With no time to think, I tucked my tail between my legs and scampered through the shop and out the now partially open door to freedom. My quest, so close, yet out of reach. My feast—it wouldn’t be today and maybe never. 

     I scurried down Main Street heading as fast as I could toward Witherly Avenue. I stumbled as I turned the corner onto Witherly. Not watching where I was going, I crashed into something or someone. Scared out of my mind, I stared up into the warmest, kindest eyes. I felt a gentle hand run over my head.

     “Where have you been, Winston? I thought I’d lost you forever,” a soft, mellow voice said.

     My whole body quivered with excitement. Our love rekindled, Mort hooked my leash to my collar. I pressed my torso close to his leg. It felt so good.

     “You must have had quite an adventure, boy. Let’s go home. A very special dinner is waiting.”

     “Ah, my feast will be today after all,” I yelped in utter delight.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes it isn’t easy to be a grandpa. We love our grandkids, but we also can get ourselves into difficult situations.

And, in so doing, we can learn a lot about ourselves, as I did in my story . . .

A Holiday To Remember: A True Story

“Thanksgiving 2012”

     After a long drive home from Southern California, where Barbara and I celebrated Thanksgiving with my sister Rita’s family and my daughter Stacey, her husband Brent, and my three “grandboys,” I sat on our plush leather living room couch and reflected on our visit. I got to spend plenty of quality time with each of my grandkids. The experiences expanded my view of them, put me in my place, damaged my body, and tugged at my heartstrings.

     Now Drew, the seven-year-old, couldn’t wait to see me so we could draw together. Within minutes after I arrived at my niece Wendy’s home on Thanksgiving Day, he raced toward me yelling, “Grandpa! Grandpa! Come draw with me.”

     “Okay,” I replied.

     He led me out to my daughter’s motor home, where he pulled out his artist’s drawing tablet and placed it between us on the small kitchen table. Pointing to the open tablet he said, “I’ll draw on this page and you draw on that one.”

     Thinking this might not be the best way to go, I responded, “Why don’t we draw together on the same page?”

     He took a moment to reflect on my proposal and stated, “All right. Let’s draw a woman.” He drew a circle for the head. Then said, “We’ll start with her hair.”

     We each began to draw on opposite sides of the head. Before long he stared at my side and perused it with a critic’s eye.

     “What are you looking at?” I asked.

     “That’s not the way it should be done,” he sighed. “This is not working for me. I’m finished here.” He got up and went out the motor home door leaving me sitting by myself with a deflated ego and wondering what I did wrong.

     While Drew put me in my place, Max, my three-year-old grandson, did a number on my body—probably more my fault than his. Following a wonderful turkey dinner, he approached me, with balloon in hand, and blurted, “Grandpa, let’s play catch.”

     After several minutes of tossing the balloon between us, I became bored and suggested to him that we hit the balloon in the air to one another without letting it drop. To my surprise he was diving all over my niece’s living room slapping the balloon back to me with amazing accuracy and skill. Trying to keep up with him, I twisted and turned and twisted again until the pain in my lower back became excruciating and I felt awful. I grimaced and asked, “Max, do you want dessert?”

      He looked at me and screamed, “Yes!”

     “Thank God,” I muttered.

     The next day, my daughter, niece, and their families went to Six Flags Magic Mountain. We wouldn’t see them until we met after dinner at El Burrito.

     As we entered the restaurant, my eldest grandson, Riley, age nine, approached and asked me to write poetry with him. This request surprised me, as we’d never done this before.

     We sat down at a table. He placed a pad in front of us and gave me a bewildered look.

     “You don’t know how to start, do you?”

     “No,” he replied.

     “Let’s try something. Write the first letter of your first name on the top line of the page, then put the second letter on the next line, and the third on the next, and so on.” He followed my instructions with great precision.

     “Now what?” he asked.

     “Well, what would you like to write about that begins with the letter R?”

     “Richard,” he replied.

     “Okay, now say something about Richard.”

     He wrote, “Richard is a very nice man.” Then he stopped and looked at me with a sad expression on his face—like he’d done something wrong.

     “What’s the matter, Riley?” I asked.

     “Is this making you feel bad?” he whimpered.

     “Is what making me feel bad?”

     “Writing about my other grandfather and not you?”

     “Oh, Riley, that’s so thoughtful of you to ask,” I gushed. “No, Richard is a wonderful man and it’s great you want to write about him.”

     Later in the evening as I lay in my own bed, which felt so good after being away for five days, I muttered, “What a fantastic trip.” I closed my eyes and fell into a peaceful sleep.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

One of the things we learn in life is that it is our responsibility to make the world a better place. But how we should accomplish this is quite a challenge.

Then I heard about a guy who came up with a unique idea to improve the quality of life of others. And what follows is his account of the outcome of his plan to . . .

Compliment Three People Every Day

I believed "complimenting three people every day" shouldn’t be hard.

So I wrote ten compliments on a pad and transferred each to a business card.

I figured I could hand out at least three and probably all ten by the end of the day.

So I dressed in gray pants and a nice blue shirt, left the house, and went on my way.

I walked down Main Street, searching for someone to give a card to with pride,

And saw a teenage boy push an aged gentleman, who struggled to open a door, aside.

While his action rattled me a bit, I decided not to give up on my quest to find   
     someone deserving.

Then a man in uniform ignored a woman having difficulty pushing a stroller 
     over a curb, and this was quite unnerving.

Although taken aback by what I observed, I still believed I would find a worthy 
     star.

Instead, a man, seemingly helping another lying on the ground, stole his wallet 
     and jumped into a car.

A beautiful young woman, looking quite robust, jogged down the block at a rapid pace.

I called to her and reached out to hand her a card, only to be slapped across the face.

The day had just begun and my success rate had been far less than expected.

Not only had people treated others in ways I had not imagined, I had been rejected.

Just as I felt like calling the whole thing off, a young man came to the aid of a  
     child who had fallen down.

My elation soon diminished as the tot’s father screamed, “Get your hands off 
     my son, you miserable clown.”

What is the world coming to? I mused, as I decided to abandon my day’s intention.

With head bowed, I sulked, as I plodded home without paying much attention.

Then I felt a hand grab my arm and yank me out of the way of an oncoming car.

I looked up and saw the smiling face of a bedraggled, homeless man, as a 
     crowd cheered from afar.

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Making the world a better place begins at home, with our children. Getting to know them, as they grow and develop, is key to their future success in life.

However, keeping the door open, so we have access to them and they to us, is at times difficult. We need to keep in mind the benefits of . . .

The Joys Of Sharing

In today’s fast paced world, we sometimes lose sight of the important things—like sharing ourselves with our children. We become so involved in reaching our work and other life goals, we often leave them behind to grow up on their own.

Children tend to be more engaged in an electronic environment than a personal one. It is not uncommon to see two youngsters sitting back to back on a park bench pounding on their smartphones. While, on the surface, this may not trouble you, the fact they are communicating to each other should.

I have heard it said, “Children watch less television now than in the past,” but I have observed my grandkids’ alternative—the Internet. And schools are turning to teaching by computers, rather than teachers, and this makes me shake my head, for I grew up interacting with others and, in so doing, learned the value of communication—listening and being listened to, understanding, and caring.

Now, do not misinterpret what I am saying, as I did spend time in front of the TV, but my sister lay staring at the screen alongside me—making my life miserable. I shared my world with my sister, my folks, my friends, and neighbors—we talked and enjoyed each other’s company.

As I think about the future, I know we must return to the past, a time where we, as adults, realize that—

         Sharing

              knowledge with children

              opens the world to them.

         Sharing

              trust with children

              lets them know we believe in them.

         Sharing

         love with children

         allows them to receive the joy 
         and warmth needed to thrive.

         Sharing

              freedom with children

              provides them with the opportunity 
              to explore the world 
              and find their way.

         And sharing

              ourselves with children

              touches their hearts 
              and lets them appreciate 
              the joys of sharing.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Did you have a mother who seemed to be ever-present in your life? Growing up, wherever you went and whatever you did, was she always there, looking over your shoulder?

As an adult, does she still play the same role, or are you now in charge of making your own life decisions? Think about it. But remember to . . .

Call Your Mother

     I had a hard week at work. But today was a beautiful, sunny Saturday morning. So I stashed the remnants of the idiocies of my job into the recesses of my mind. I sat at the kitchen table staring off into space.

     “Hey, Tom. You there?” Maria asked, with a bit of sarcasm in her voice.

     “Huh. Yeah. Good morning, Maria. I couldn’t stay in bed any longer. And you seemed so peaceful. I didn’t want to wake you. So I just snuck out of the bedroom and came down here to the kitchen.”

     “Thank you. I was wiped out. Friday was a bear at the office. I needed the rest.”

     Maria and I have been going together for almost six months—the best six months of my recent life. For the previous six were horrific. I smashed up my car coming home from work on a foggy Tuesday evening. Then I got bitten by the neighbor’s dog, when I was mowing the lawn the following Saturday. On Monday of the next week, I was hit in the head by the newspaper being tossed onto the driveway by the “blind” delivery woman. Then, on Wednesday, my credit card number was stolen at the Dollar Store, but they caught the clerk who took it before he had a chance to use it. However, that was the past. Now, with Maria in my life, my world has been moving in a better direction.

     “What do you want to do today?” Maria asked. “The sun’s shining. The news last night said it’s going to be about seventy-five. Maybe we could go on a hike in the park—nice trails to walk, beautiful plants to see.”

     “Oh, my. What time is it?”

     "Five after ten.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Why?”

     “I was supposed to call my mother at ten sharp.”

     “So, five minutes will make a big difference?”

     “To her it will.”

     “Then you better do it. We’ll eat after your call. And then talk about the hike.”

     My mother lives in the Prickly Pine Glen Assisted Living Residential Home. And she rules the roost. “You do it my way, or don’t do it at all” is her motto. I picked up the phone and punched in her number. It rang once and then a voice echoed into my ear.

     “Well it’s about time. I’ve been waiting over thirty-five minutes for your call. Can’t you ever be on time?”

     “But I’m only five minutes late.”

     “Actually, it’s eight, but who’s counting.”

     “All right. Will you forgive me?”

     “I’ll try. But you need to do something for me.”

     “Name it and I’ll do it.”

     “Come visit me next weekend. And bring that woman, Maryann, with you. I want to meet her.”

     “Mom, her name’s Maria.”

     “Whose name is Maria?”

     “The woman you asked me to bring with me when I visit you next weekend.”

     “You’re coming to visit me?”

     “Yes.”

     “That’s wonderful. And bring Margaret with you.”

     “Okay. We’ll be there Saturday at ten. See you then. Bye, Mom.”

     “Bye, Tommy.”

     Whenever I’d complete a call with Mom, I was never sure if she was dropping into the deep abyss of memory loss, or if she was just playing me, as she’d done most of my life. I’d spoken to her doctors after her routine exams, but since she still had control of her affairs and was deemed capable of making her own decisions, all they would tell me was not to worry. So I tried not to.

     “Tom, what are you so engrossed in?” Maria inquired.

     “Mom.”

     “But she’s being taken care of. What are you worried about?”

     “That she’s losing it. You’ll see when we go to see her next week.”

     “You’re finally going to introduce me to her?”

     “Why, yes. I have to.”

     “You have to? Well, that’s real sweet.”

     “No, I didn’t it mean it that way. It’s just that Mom is different. She’s been hard to deal with all my life. And now, . . . who knows how she’ll treat you?”

     So Saturday arrived. The sun was shining, with a brisk wind blowing. My anxiety level was high. I had no idea how Mom would behave toward Maria. We drove to the “home” without saying a word. I pulled into the parking lot and maneuvered into a tight space. And then, I just sat there behind the wheel gazing out the front window.

     “Tom, are we going in?” Maria asked, somewhat frustrated.

     I didn’t answer.

     “Tom, I asked you a question. Didn’t you hear me?”

     “Yeah, we’re going in. I told Mom we’d see her at ten, and we’d better be on time.”

     Maria and I exited the car and trudged through the double-glass doors into the brightly lit lobby of Prickly Pine Glen. Everything and everybody seemed so cheerful—except me. We checked in at the front desk and I asked, “Is Loretta Warren in her room?”

     The desk attendant gave me a funny look and said, “I’m not sure we have a Loretta Warren here.”

     “What? Are you new?”

     “I’ve been here almost a month. I know most of the residents. But I don’t usually work the front desk. Let me look at the room list.”

     “He grabbed a book and begin turning and scanning the pages. Looking up at me, he muttered, “Don’t see a Loretta Warren listed as being in any of our rooms.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “Could have missed her name, but I don’t think so.”

     “Look again.”

     “Hey, I already did it. You sure you’re in the right assisted living residence?”

     “Yes, I’m sure. I’m the one who helped her get settled here. Wouldn’t I know where my own mother was?”

     “Does she have the right to make her own decisions?”

     “Yes, she does. But what does that have to do with her whereabouts?”

     “Because she probably moved.”

     “Moved? Without anybody notifying me. That’s absurd. I want to see your manager.”

     “The manager’s not on site today. Big meeting at the corporate office.”

     “Then who can I talk to who knows what the hell is going on?”

     “That’s me, Simon Schuster. He pointed to the temporary name plate at the front of the counter.”

     “But you’ve been no help.”

     “Sure I have. I told you she’s not here. So, goodbye.”

     I was about to scream, when Maria, who’d kept silent until now, grabbed my arm, and whispered, “Let’s go.”

     “Go where? I’m not going until someone tells me what happened to my mother.”

     “Tom, please come with me,” she implored.

     She dragged me through the front door. I turned toward her and yelled, “I’m not leaving without my mother.” I pulled away and headed back toward the door. Maria followed close behind.

     “Tom, stop it!” Maria bellowed. “You’re going to get arrested, if we don’t leave now. He’ll call the cops. He told us to go. And we have to go.”

     “But, my mother . . .”

     “She’s not there, Tom. Let’s go.”

     I ignored Maria’s pleading and stuck my face against the glass door and peered inside. “Maria,” I murmured. “There’s someone else at the front counter. I believe it’s a woman. Maybe that fella’s boss came back from the big meeting. She may be able to tell me about my mother.”

     I grabbed the door handle and entered the lobby, towing Maria behind me. The woman’s head was bent down, so I couldn’t see her face. I said, “Hello, may I ask you a question?”

     She muttered, “Yessssss, how can I help you?”

     “I’m looking for my mother. She’s supposed to be living here, but the guy who I spoke to before had no idea who she was. Her name is Loretta Warren.”

     With her face still obscured, she responded. “I think I’m familiar with this Loretta person you are asking about, my child.”

     Such a response seemed odd to me, but I guess when you get old, all younger people are like children. “Do you know where she is?”

     “With her son.”

     “But I’m her son.”

     “Yes, dear. I know. And by the way, is this your girlfriend, Maria?”

     Once again, Mom was in control.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.