Life has many pitfalls. When you’re young and you witness an event you don’t understand, it can leave you perplexed.

Even though you block it from your mind, when you least expect it, it comes back to you in a very different form. This is what happens in . . .

Wishes Do Come True

The little girl never told her mother

or anyone else about what she saw

that day in the park four years ago.

Only five at the time, she observed

a huge man in a dark gray windbreaker

yelling at her grandmother in a way

that sent chills through her young body.

She turned her head, hoping what

she had witnessed would disappear.

She bit down hard on her lip,

trying to keep from screaming.

Unable to endure the shouting,

she turned back once again

to see what was happening.

Her grandmother wept uncontrollably,

tears pouring down her reddened cheeks,

as she watched the awful man

drift off into the distance.

Four years later,

her grandmother entered the room,

decorated with balloons and streamers.

The celebration of her granddaughter’s

ninth birthday warmed her heart.

She watched her smile as her mother

asked her to blow out the candles

on the chocolate cake,

overflowing with whipped cream,

and told her to make a wish

that would surely come true.

The little girl closed her eyes

and wished and wished,

as the air flowed from her mouth.

Opening them, she saw the flames extinguish

and giggled like any nine-year old would.

Thirteen years passed. Now twenty-two,

the young woman stood at the top of the aisle.

Dressed in a beautiful white wedding gown,

a classical music piece played in the background,

as she waited for a family friend, a kind gentleman,

to take her arm and walk her down the aisle.

She felt a presence come up behind her.

Taking a deep breath, she reached back

for the soft slim hand of the tall friend.

But it was not his hand she grasped.

A hand, large and rough, took hold of hers.

Surprised, she turned and stared

into the strong, penetrating eyes

of a man she had seen only once—

seventeen years ago—in the park.

The wedding march began to play

and the two walked down the aisle

and stood before the preacher.

The man spoke, “I, Albert Jefferson, give the

hand of my daughter, Samantha, in marriage,

to Joshua Lawrence.” As she again turned

toward him, tears welled up in his eyes. “It

has taken me many years to find the courage

to come back into your life, and with your

blessing, I will never leave again.”

With the broadest smile, Samantha leaned over,

kissed his cheek, and whispered,

“Birthday wishes do come true.”

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Did you ever want to give back to your community? One of the ways of doing this is to join a service club and get involved in its community projects.

Sometimes you end up getting as much or more than you give. This was the case in . . .

My Buddy: A True Story

“2014”

     As a retiree, I wanted to give back to my community. So as a member of the Rotary Club of Lincoln, CA, I volunteered to be a “Book Buddy.” How hard could it be? I thought—just sitting with children and listening to them read. So I calendared the two Thursdays a month I would go to the Creekside Oaks Elementary School to engage in reading with a third grader, one who would cherish the time spent with me and listen closely to the reading skills wisdom I would provide.

     That first Thursday arrived. I felt both confident and anxious at the same time. I parked my car in the school lot, made my way to the office, and signed in. I proudly placed the visitor’s badge on my shirt, not once, but three times, as it kept falling from my body to the counter. When I finally succeeded in getting it to stick, I was directed to the school cafeteria, where I would be paired with a child eager to read with me.

     Upon entering the cafeteria, I was instructed by the “Book Buddy” coordinator to take a seat at one of the eight-foot long tables. So I climbed over the bench, sat down, and waited. Then my world exploded. Hundreds of third graders rushed through the doors of the cafeteria. Well not quite hundreds—maybe twenty-five. They were told to stand in line facing the tables. Then the school principal spoke, “Boys and girls, the adults sitting before you will be your buddies this afternoon and will help you to improve your reading skills. Now, in the order you are lined up, I would like you to choose one of them to read with.”

     This frightened me more than a little bit. Who would pick me? I’m old. These are little kids. I became antsy as I awaited my fate. And then she appeared. A bubbly brunette, with a wonderful smile, gushed, “You’re the one I want to read with.” Taken aback, it took me a minute before motioning to her to sit on the bench to my right. She scampered up next to me and blurted, “My name is Olivia. Who are you?”

     “Uh, I’m Alan. I see you’re holding a book in your hand. May I see it?” She placed it in front of me and I read the title, “Crazy Jim’s Adventure.” I scanned a few of the pages. It looked okay—not too difficult, but somewhat challenging. Seemed appropriate for a third grader. “Let’s begin on page one.” But before I could give the book back to her, she posed a question I had not anticipated.

     She inspected me up and down, took a deep breath, and hesitated for a moment. Gathering her courage, she exclaimed, “How old are you? My mom is thirty-five, but you seem older than that.” She gave me a funny look. “Oh!” she shouted. “You must be my grandfather’s age.” Then she reflected, “But he’s only fifty-five, so you must be at least  . . .”

     Before she could complete her sentence, I chanted, “Let’s read.” And that began my relationship with Olivia that ran to the end of the school year in late May. Each day started with her interviewing me. During this time, she discovered my real age, found out I was married to a redhead, learned I liked the Oakland A’s and the Sacramento Kings, and realized I ate a lot of pasta.

     Now mind you, we did get to read on occasion. That is, when she wasn’t staring out the window at cloud formations, crawling under the table to see what kind of shoes I had on, or reading the signs on the cafeteria walls. A ball of fire with a large grin, she lit up my life for the brief forty minutes I spent with her at each reading session. That being said, the year ended all too soon. And as I told her how nice it had been to get to know her and how well she had done, she turned to me and whispered, “I’ll miss you.”

     “I’ll miss you, too,” I said softly. She gave me a big smile, handed me the bookmark I’d given her at the beginning of the year, and disappeared from the cafeteria and my life.

     I dropped the bookmark face down on the table. To my surprise, on the back was a picture of a girl she had drawn, with the inscription, “From Olivia for Alan. So you won’t forget me.” At that moment, if I could have been granted one wish, it would have been to see the future. For I truly believe, this bright, talented, energetic, inquisitive young girl will be destined for greatness.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Have you ever asked a simple question? One you believed should have elicited a quick reply.

However, life’s necessities got in the way and no answer was forthcoming. This is what happens in . . .

Just Answer My Question

     Some questions go unanswered. Although frustrating, even sad, this seems to be part of life and, in particular, love. We get caught up in the daily grind and lose sight of what should be our central focus. Such is the case in the lives of Max and Martha Slepper.

     It had been a long, fall day. With clouds overhead and rain threatening, Max swept the garage floor, gathered up the trash from his bright yellow beach bungalow, and dragged a half empty garbage can out to the curb for collection the next day. He then washed his ten-year old Ford Taurus, soapy water flowing down the driveway, although he knew his efforts might be wasted with the possibility of rain on the horizon. He hosed down the mess he created and trudged into the house, dragging his tired, aging body toward the master bedroom.

     “I’m so confused,” he muttered. “I’ve got this question that’s been hanging around in this tired brain of mine. I’ve got to confront Martha. I have no choice.” Oh, there she is. Standing in the bedroom doorway, he stared at the woman in his life.

     Martha had just finished making the bed after a day of what seemed like endless household chores and sat motionless, head bent to her chest, on the still rumpled bedspread she had not finished straightening out. She wondered why she had put it on the bed in the first place, for she soon would be turning in for the night. Then a rustling noise interrupted her thoughts. With a tired look in her eyes, she lifted her head and gazed at Max, standing in silence in the doorway.

     “Max, you look like you're lost.”

     “Maybe I am,” he moaned, his breathing labored.

     “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

     “I don’t know. Just bothered by the reality of life and my impending death.”

     “Death? You’re not dying. You just had your annual physical. You’re in great shape for a seventy-six year old man.”

     “Well, yeah, but—“

     “But what?”

     “Do you love me?”

     “How can you ask such a question?”

     “Because, I’m old and I need to know.”

     “I’m old too. So what?”

     “But do you love me?”

     “We’ve been married fifty-six years. Doesn’t that mean something? We’ve raised four wonderful children. John’s a doctor. Maura’s a lawyer. Chip built a marvelous catering business from the ground up. And Sammy? Maybe someday he’ll realize his dream. But enough about him.”

     “Okay, we have three wonderful children.”

     “Three? Don’t you mean four?”

     “Guess so—if Sammy ever finds himself.”

     “See, we do have a great life.”

     “But you haven’t answered my question.”

     “What question, Max?”

     “Do . . . you . . . love . . . me?”

     “We have a beautiful house, where we raised the kids—so many good memories. You have your man cave, where you can have your space. I have my kitchen, where I can putz around all day. We have it so good.”

     “But am I the man you still want to be married to?”

     “We’re a couple. We watch TV together. We walk the dogs, Sven and Oogie, together. We shop together. Oh, by the way we need to pick up some groceries tomorrow. The grandchildren are coming on Saturday.”

     “Groceries? What does that have to do with the question I asked?”

     “Everything. We all have to eat good to stay well. I want to make sure you stay healthy so you can have a long life and take care of me if, heaven forbid, I can’t take care of myself. I am seventy-five, you know.”

     “So you just want a caregiver? Is that all I am to you?”

     “No, No. You’re much more.”

     “Okay, tell me then. Do you love me?”

     “Did you hear the buzzer on the clothes dryer?”

     “What?”

     “The clothes dryer. Did the buzzer go off?”

     “But I asked you a question.”

     “And I asked you one?”

     “Is the clothes dryer so important you can’t answer my question?”

     “You don’t want wrinkled clothes? Do you?”

     “I really don’t care. I just want an answer to my question. It’s not hard. If you love me, just say it.”

     “I will, but first I have to get the clothes out of the dryer.”

     “Answer my question and then you can do whatever you want to do.”

     “It’s always what you want. I have to drop everything just to please you.”

     “Oh my, how have I put up with you for fifty-six years? Fifty-six exasperating years.”

     “Because you love me. Right?”

     “How should I know? I can’t even get a simple answer to my question.”

     “Well, do you love me?”

     “Huh? I don’t know anymore. You drive me to distraction—make me crazy.  I’m not even sure why I came in here. I’m going to the kitchen to get a coke. I need a good dose of caffeine.”

     “But . . . I love you, Max.”

     “Not now Martha, I can’t handle this.”

     “Do you love me?”

     Max didn’t respond. He turned and trudged down the hallway, leaving Martha sitting on the bed staring off into space confused. Her heart palpitated. She wanted to run after him . . . put her hands around his neck and strangle him. He started this whole thing—not me, she thought. Then tears welled up in her eyes as she whimpered, “He does love me. Doesn’t he?”

     At that moment, Max appeared in the doorway. Their eyes met, and he muttered, “Yes.” 

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Life can be mystifying. Things happen that cannot be explained.

But death may be more confusing than one could ever imagine. So it would seem in . . .

 

 

Stranger In The Night

 

A man of forty-four went to bed each night 

in fear of what he might dream. 

He tossed and turned 

and disturbed his wife and children 

with a menacing scream. 

 

When he awoke each morning, 

his head would throb, 

but he could not remember a thing. 

However, his left hand ached 

from a stabbing pain in his finger, 

just above his wedding ring. 

 

Night after night he feared going to bed 

and angered his wife 

with ridiculous excuses for staying awake.

She ragged on him 

to reconsider the late hours he kept 

and told him his annoying behavior was a mistake.

 

What caused these nightmares 

that raged in his head 

troubled him in ways 

he could not explain.

This torment persisted, 

interfered with his ability to function at work, 

and made him feel like he was going insane. 

 

In order to survive, 

he had to discover 

why he could not recall anything       

about his eerie encounters at night. 

He had never experienced something 

like this before, 

and he knew in his heart 

this was not right.

 

So he picked up the phone 

and called a friend, 

a man he had known for years, 

a man he could trust.

The phone rang and rang 

and then a strange voice 

echoed in his ear,            

which left him nonplussed.

 

Trembling, he moaned, 

“Who are you? 

You do not sound like Justin, 

the friend I tried to call.”

“It has not been a long time 

since we last spoke, Lawrence,” 

the voice resonated. 

“And what we talked about 

you should recall.”

 

Lawrence did not know how to reply 

and sat silent, trying to think 

of what they had spoken about.

The more he wracked his brain, 

the more confused he became, 

and then he lost control 

and began to shout.

 

“Stop playing games 

and tell me who you are, 

where Justin is, 

and what you want from me.”

“Lawrence, Justin is a figment of your imagination, 

the major player in your dreams—

the nightmares you cannot picture or see.”

 

“But I have known Justin for years 

and we have done things together 

and have served as each other’s source of support.”

“Yes, you have done that, 

but with me, 

two days a week for the last seven years. 

And you have made great progress, 

I am happy to report.”

 

“With you? 

I do not even know you. 

You are just a voice on the phone, 

but I have never seen you before.”

“Well, your wife was so bothered 

by your nightly troubles, 

she sought out a therapist 

who could provide assistance, 

answer your questions, and more.”

 

“But for seven years, 

how can that be? 

You would think it would be difficult   

to erase that from my memory.”

“Many clues to your situation 

have been discovered 

through the use of hypnosis, 

while other information 

you have kept hidden cleverly.” 

 

“So, if you are not Justin, 

then who are you? 

And what did you find out, 

as a result of my hypnotherapy?”

“Please call me Dr. Demon. 

And, yes, I uncovered a deep-seated fear 

you have kept a secret from yourself, 

and even tried to keep from me.”

 

Lawrence became very uncomfortable 

about what he might hear 

and began to shake uncontrollably.

“Secret? A secret I have kept from myself 

for so many years,” he stuttered. 

“But how can that be?”

 

“I do not think this is a subject 

we should get into over the phone—

it would be best discussed 

at my office later today.”

“I know you said I have been there before, 

but I have no recollection, 

so please give me the address 

and help me find my way.”

 

Later that day, Lawrence ambled down Wentworth Avenue, 

turned the corner onto Market Way, 

and climbed the steps of a building at the top of the hill.

He stared at it quite perplexed, 

for he knew deep down 

he had never been here before, 

and his insides churned, 

as he began to feel ill.

 

Something felt dreadfully wrong 

about this whole scenario, 

and he thought about turning around and running away.

But then his left hand began to ache 

from a stabbing pain in his finger, 

just above his wedding ring, 

a gruesome feeling he could not downplay.

 

“Trust me,” a voice in his head murmured. 

“You are on the right path 

and will soon find your salvation.”

The voice sounded like Justin’s, 

but he had been told Justin was not real,     

so this brought him even greater consternation.

 

His aching finger pulsated 

at a level so far off the charts 

that his head became cloudy, 

and he felt faint.

The world around him became murky—

he stumbled back and forth 

and then, standing before him, 

he saw his patron saint. 

 

Justin, dressed in a white robe 

and what seemed to be a halo circling his head, 

smiled and motioned to him to follow his lead. 

With no effort at all, 

he floated behind him, 

as if riding through the clouds 

on a gentle steed.

 

Murdered by his wife seven years ago, 

Lawrence had entered purgatory      

to expiate his sins, 

but now Justin assured him 

heaven awaits.

He became calm 

and the pain in his finger disappeared. 

No longer confused, 

he entered the giant Pearly Gates.

 

  

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

What do you do when the unexpected happens? You didn’t see it coming and had no time to plan for it.

All of a sudden you’re alone, with no one by your side. And just when it all seems hopeless, you’re given . . .

One More Chance

     When you’re young and single, you confront life with vigor and determination. The challenges are infinite and the encounters are intriguing. However, when you are “old” and single, your approach to the single life is one of caution and trepidation. At the same time, you want to be both a “player” on this stage and to avoid it like the plague. 

     My name is Andrew Page. And at age sixty-one, I found myself single again. I didn’t ask for this, nor did I want it, but the choice was not mine. She just walked out on me. Her words, “I’ve never lived on my own and I need to do so now. We can still date.”

     When I caught my breath from being punched in the stomach, I stuttered, “But, but, we’re married.”

     “I meant after the divorce,” Joanie spouted in a nonchalant manner.

     “Huh?” I had to think, so I left the room and crawled into my private space in the den.

     Six months later, when I’d healed from the shock of finding myself in a world to which I was not accustomed, I had to decide how to approach my new single life—wallow in self-pity and abject loneliness or venture into the hard and sometimes cruel world of dating. To my surprise, I chose the latter.

     It amazed me, for the decision to accept my fate as a single individual was not as difficult as I thought it would be. But deciding how to make my way in this strange, new, alien universe boggled my mind. Being neither a drinker nor a smoker, the bar scene, although seductive, frightened and repulsed me.

     Now, there were many singles dances advertised online. I love dancing, but shook with fear at the thought of being rejected when asking a woman to dance. I pictured, in my mind, moving with caution in the direction of an attractive lady, making eye contact, and asking in my most melodious voice, “May I have this dance?”

     Anticipating her reply, “Nooooooooooo,” would make me quiver and retreat back to my corner of the room to curl up in a ball and die.

     Okay then. “How should I do this?” I muttered. As an ardent explorer of the Internet, one Friday, I came across a dating website, “One More Chance,” that seemed to bubble with excitement. My eyes scanned the many postings from exciting, beautiful, voluptuous, intriguing, dynamic, playful, and heavenly women. How could I go wrong? The site allowed me to go from posting to posting and to check off those women who seemed to fit my most wonderful fantasies. At the conclusion of my search, I selected four “lucky women” who would receive a reply from me.

     The site’s protocol allowed me to post a message at the end of each woman’s alluring self-description page, along with my contact information, and then await a reply. I rehearsed my message over and over again. I wanted to appear eligible, but not too eligible; exciting, but not overly excited; interested, but by no means needy; and a good catch, but certainly not desperate. So I crafted a statement that I could deliver to each woman in a way that appeared to be straight from the heart. Then, with some hesitance, I hit reply and what I thought was the greatest “sales pitch” of all time traveled through time and space to four different destinations. Having accomplished my mission, I sat back and waited.

     As I found out, most of the women who roamed this marketplace received as many as a hundred or more replies. Even the exceptional ones, such as mine, might get overlooked. Not to be put off, I did what all self-assured, great men would do. I continued to wait.

     One evening, after returning home from work, there were two replies on my computer. “Hooray!” I shouted. I’d hit the jackpot. Oh my God!  Now I have to respond to them.

     Both women had given me the option of contacting them through FaceTime. This meant making myself as alluring as possible. After spending twenty minutes combing my hair, changing into a shirt that showed my bulging muscles, and making sure all my dinner had been removed from my teeth, I set out to contact the first lady, a fifty-six-year-old, ravishing blonde. 

     When her picture came up on the screen, the saliva began to drip down my chin. She was gorgeous. “Oh, hello, I . . . I am,” I driveled.

     “Well, hello to you, my good man.”

     Her voice enthralled me. “My name is Andrew,” I mumbled. “But you already know that. Don’t you?”

     “Why, yes, it was in your response to me. You seem a bit ill at ease. Do I frighten you?”

     “Uh, no. Should you?”

     “Probably.”

     “But why?”

     “Cause I’m able to seduce you with the passion in my eyes. And having an enormous chest doesn’t hurt either.”

     I started to speak, but was at a loss for words. Nothing came out. I bowed my head in embarrassment. When I lifted it, she was gone. I sat there staring at myself on the screen. “Oh my, this has been a catastrophe,” I screamed.

     I’d entered the water and drowned. Certain the future had nothing to offer but disaster, I decided never to do this again. I’d be better off taking up drinking and hanging out at local bars.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.