Life can take you in a direction you don’t want to go. You feel you have no purpose.

Then the unexpected happens and you know what you must do. This was the case for . . .

Edward

     A bitter wind whistled through the bare branches of the oak trees lining a desolate street in a downtrodden section of Ember Woods. A young man looked out his window into the dark night and quivered at the thought of his bleak existence. At twenty-two, he stood alone in a world that rejected him and sent him spiraling into despair.

     He bit his lip in frustration and wanted to scream and let all know of his tortured soul. But who would listen? Who cared about a nobody just drifting along going nowhere? Trembling, tears flowed from his dark, sad eyes. Then the light in the room flickered and everything went black.

     Overwhelmed, he stood frozen in place, powerless to escape the darkness that befell him and the tragedy of his life. Contemplating ending it all, he held his breath, hoping to lose consciousness and disappear. Yes, disappear and never again see the light of day.

     But this was not his time. A reemergence of light created a faint glow from which he could not escape. Deep down, he did have hope. If only he could muster the courage to reach within and bring it to the surface. If, yes if? He did not want to die, but the alternative seemed to be a mountain he dared not climb for fear when he reached its peak, he still would not have escaped from the hole into which he had fallen.

     The young man turned away from the window. His eyes fell on the room that mirrored his existence—a pathetic setting furnished with rummage sale rejects. A desk, composed of unpainted splintered wood, sat to the right of the window. An old, faded beige wooden chair to the left of the desk provided the only seat in the sparsely furnished room. A twin bed, with a tattered multicolored quilt thrown over its body, rested across from the desk. A discolored ceiling light fixture dangled on a rusted chain and provided the only light for the room.  

     He walked toward the mirror that hung askew on the wall next to the bed and stared at the creature reflecting back at him. What he saw frightened him. The image, clad in an old faded gray shirt and stained blue trousers, looked forlorn. Its brown scuffed shoes covered its large feet. Its black hair flew every which way, as if blowing in a wind tunnel. Its eyes, misted over, looked vacant, and its face exhibited a painful, grim expression.

     “What am I here for?” he murmured. “I have no purpose.” He bowed his head in shame. Shame for the mess he had made of his life. Confused, he shook his head and wept. Nothing had gone right. He had wandered off the path into a wilderness from which there was no return. He had no family. His friends could not handle his moodiness and the deep depression that seemed to engulf him.

     As his world grew dimmer, there was a knock on the door. ”Go away!” he screamed. “I do not need your help. I do not want your pity. Just go away. Leave me alone. My life is over. My time has come. Just let me go.” Another rap on the door jarred him back to the reality of the moment.

     He dragged his tired, aching body to the door and reluctantly turned the knob. He pulled it toward him and looked into the pleading eyes of a young boy—a boy who looked much like he did at age twelve—lost and alone. He extended his hand and the boy grasped it in a way that sent chills through his body.

     “Please help me,” the child whimpered. “I am your younger brother, Charley.” Edward pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the tears from the lad’s eyes. He ushered him in and sat him down on the rickety chair and knelt before him. A bright light illuminated the room, for now he knew what his purpose was and what he had to do. He could not let this child—his brother—lose his way, as he had done ten years earlier. He had been given a second chance to avoid the mistakes of his past.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You get married believing the union is forever. But things happen and your world is shattered.

How do you make things right? It may not be possible, when you are . . .

Conflicted

The world came apart at the seams that morning five years ago,

My heart broken in a way I never imagined.

With tears in her eyes she lamented, I had not been there for her,

Married fifty years, I had not lived up to the promises I made.

She told me our wedding vows meant nothing to me,

That I had set them aside and left her hoping for something that now will         
     never happen.

I tried to tell her we needed more time to decide what our future together    
     should be.

There was no reason to move quickly—to make a decision we both might    
     regret.

I implored her to give me another chance, but, as I lay in the hospital bed, I     
     knew it was not possible,

For she sat stone-faced and could not hear a word I said.

“Regret,” she moaned. “What I regret is we got married in the first place.

You made your decision a long time ago, and now I have made mine.”

My emotions clouded my mind. I had no idea how to respond, but even if I did, 
     I knew she would not hear me.

My heart beat furiously as I struggled to breathe and the tension of the       
     moment permeated my body.

I engaged in a tug of war with myself, one I could not win.

My mind and heart knotted in confusion; I prayed for the words to flow from      
     my mouth—words that would make everything right.

But they were not there and the anger on her face destroyed me, as she    
     bellowed,

“You are going to another place—one far from my life, one where you can        
     no longer hurt me.”

Today, I stood, invisible at the gravesite, amongst the mourners who           
     wished her well, as she left this earth.

Death may not have been her choice, but her body ravaged by the passage     
     of time and her confused, aged mind left no alternative.

The preacher prayed for her soul and a tranquil existence in the hereafter,

A place where I hoped I could put my missteps behind me and join her for all 
     eternity.

The light of the sun shined brightly, a sign of the clear road ahead I longed       
     for.

My death five years before had left me empty, but now my heart warmed,     
     knowing I might have a chance to make amends and ask for her         
     forgiveness.

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

We all wish for a long life. Living into our eighties or nineties with good health would be a welcomed gift.

However, living to 100, with the ability to still make a difference is rare. One such gentleman I know has done this in style. I’d like to introduce you to him in . . .

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Facing the changes in life as we age can be difficult. When we are young, we manage to adjust.

As we get older, however, it becomes harder to move on with life, especially if the change is due to the loss of a very special loved one. But to continue to thrive, we have to, as is the case in . . .

A Sketch Of Life

     Jeb, Marty, and I sat on the plush leather couches in my living room. Pictures of Nancy, the kids, James and Casi, and me, dressed in our holiday best, hung somewhat askew on the wall to the left of the large stone fireplace. Nancy died three years ago and I haven’t been the same since. Married for fifty-two years, we had good times and bad, but she’d been the center of my life.

     I looked over at Jeb, his chin bent, almost touching his chest. His gray, unkempt hair fell toward his face, decorated with a two-day growth of beard. He wore a decade old plaid shirt and dark blue jeans and had tears in his eyes. At age seventy-five, his fifty-four year marriage all but ended as the gods of memory took his wife, Mary, from him six years ago.  Sitting next to Jeb, seventy-four year old Marty smiled, not a big broad smile, but a small sad one. His eyes stared off in the distance, looking for the days that had disappeared into the depths of a tired brain. Marty had been alone for ten years, his wife Karen, killed in a car accident at age sixty-four. And Marty still hadn’t recovered.

     Three men sitting together, but very much alone, shared an overcast, mid-October, Saturday afternoon in Sacramento. The three of us had accomplished much in life—Jeb, a pharmacist and community leader; Marty, a businessman who’d owned twenty successful jewelry stores; and me, a former educator and author, who, in my prime, had three books on the New York Times best seller list—but today, we wondered how we’d survive the years to come.

     Marty looked at me and mumbled, “Did you say something?”

     “No, not really. Just thinking aloud. I do a lot of that these days.”

     “What are you thinking about, George?” Jeb muttered.

     “The future. Just pondering what it will be like and if I even want one. I don’t know if it’s worth going on. The house is too big for me. I don’t seem to have a purpose anymore. The kids live four hundred miles away in the L.A. area. They’re very busy. Working long hours and raising six grandkids between them, they have little time to visit. And I hate traveling.”

     “So what’re you going to do?” Marty inquired.

     “I don’t know. I just don’t know,” I whimpered.

     “You know we’re all in the same boat,” Jeb chanted.

     “And it’s sinking,” Marty moaned.

     “If it didn’t already sink?” I said, somewhat confused. “Have you guys thought about the future?”

     “Not me, it’s been ten years and I haven’t left the past behind,” Marty murmured.

     “Me either,” Jeb groaned. “My wife’s not gone, but she is gone. When I visit her at the Village Memory Care Home, she has no idea who I am. None at all. It drives me crazy.”

     “So, what are we going to do?” I asked.

     Both Jeb and Marty shook their heads and mumbled in unison, “Don’t know. Just don’t know.”

     “Well, this has got to stop. We’re intelligent men with successful pasts. When we leave this world, we should do it in style.”

     “In style?” Jeb chanted. “I haven’t been in today’s world in ten years. It all went down hill when Mary’s memory started to fade. I didn’t care who I was or what I looked like.”

     “All right, I’ve got an idea. Are you with me?”

     “I’m not even with myself.” Marty droned in a dull monotone. “But if both of you are willing, I guess I am, too.”

     “I’ll try,” Jeb said in a voice just above a whisper.” 

     “Okay, I want you both to go home. Come on, get going.”

     “Go home? And do what?” Marty questioned.

     “Think about what you want to be when you grow up,” I shouted with enthusiasm.

     “Grow up? What the hell does that mean. I grew up a long time ago and now I’ve grown down. I’ll be dead in a year or two. So why bother?” Jeb sputtered.

     “Calm down fellows. Let me rephrase. Go home, sit in your favorite chair, lean back, and dream of the most elegant clothing you can imagine being buried in?”

     “Buried? For heavens sake, I’m going to be cremated,” Marty shouted. “Signed the papers years ago. I don’t need clothing to do that.”

     “Humor me guys and just do it. I don’t want to see you for a week.”

     “But what about our Thursday night card game?”

     “I’ll cancel it. Be here at six on Saturday dressed in the style of your choosing. Dinner is on me.”

     I shooed them out the door, sat down on the couch, put my feet up on the leather ottoman and began to resketch my life. My mind flittered back fifteen years to the night I was honored for my literary prowess at a major dinner for dignitaries in the world of literature. Nancy looked beautiful in her elegant silver and white Armani gown. And I was a dreamboat. All the women stared at me. Their eyes sent messages of seduction. In my blazing black tux, complete with red and white plaid cummerbund and matching tie, I was every woman’s desire. And now I knew I had to recreate that moment . . . without Nancy, of course.

     During the week, I dug through the cedar chest in the attic. I seemed to recall I’d put the tux up there. I had worn it on a special night and figured I needed to keep it. Dragging it from the chest, I laid it over the arm of an old oak rocking chair and disrobed.

     Ten minutes later, I stood in front of an ancient, standing floor mirror and perused the man I used to be . . . a bit plumper and with somewhat less hair, but still very handsome, if I do say so myself. The tux seemed a bit tight, but it would do. Just had to suck in my gut.

     I grabbed the clothes I shed off the rocker and went downstairs, still feeling on top of my new world. Saturday couldn’t come too soon for me.

     What the guys didn’t know was that I had arranged for all three of us to attend a singles dinner dance at the Elks Club. Now, technically Jeb wasn’t single, but we’d just need to keep that little piece of information our secret for now.

     My heart raced all day Saturday. I hadn’t felt this good in years. I got up early and did some chores around the house. Completing my tasks, I showered and dressed. Then I just stood in front of the full-length mirror in the bedroom and fantasized about how the women would pine over me. “Wow! This will be a great evening,” I sighed.

     The bell rang about ten minutes before six. I ran to the door and tugged it open. There, stood Marty looking like a gent out of GQ Magazine. With his white hair slicked back, he had dressed in a blue pinstriped suit and bright red tie. “How do I look,” he asked, in a meek manner.

     “Great! Just great,” I shouted, as I ushered him into the living room. At that moment, the bell rang again.

     As I opened door, I bowed and made a circling motion with my hand and arm in respect for the elegant man in my doorway. Jeb, clean-shaven for the first time this week, with combed gray hair, returned the bow. My eyes ran up and down his tall, slender frame. Dressed in splendor in the gray business suit he wore as a city council member, he spurted, “So what do you think?”

     At a loss for words, I gulped, “Fabulous.”

     I gathered Marty off the couch and the three of us scrambled into my eight-year old Toyota Camry and started driving the short two miles to the Elks Club.

     “Where are we going?” Marty asked.

     “Just trust me. We’ll be there in five minutes and you’ll find out.” Neither man said another word, as we pulled into the parking lot at the Elks Club.

     When we entered the building at about 6:15, nobody greeted us. Hearing the door, a custodian emerged from the storage room to the left of the entrance. “What’re you guys doing here?”

     “We’re here for the dance.”

     “Dance?” he said, totally bewildered.

     “Yeah, the City Annual Ball.”

     “Oh, that’s not until next week. Nothing much happening here tonight—just some Elks in the back holding a business meeting. Think you need to go now.”

     With tails tucked between our legs, we shuffled out the door into the parking lot. Then I heard a chuckling sound coming from Marty’s direction and then an outright burst of laughter coming from Jeb.

     We looked at one another and I shouted, “Aren’t we the greatest looking gents around.” The others shook their heads in agreement.

     A new sketch had been drawn and life looked a lot better than it did a week ago.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Money plays an important part in our lives. A downturn in a country’s economy can throw it into disarray.

Governmental decisions have a major impact on the economy. But how can we make our rich leaders understand the effect their actions have on us? You may find out in . . .

Truth Be Told

     The clouds darkened the horizon of the prosperous city of Millingham, the capitol of the small, obscure kingdom of Mount Essex, located in the mountains of Northern Europe. This city is a very special place. It is where I was born and raised. My name is Zachariah Lewellyn, the city’s historian . . . and this is my story. 

     I stood on the corner of Hanover and Crossenby Streets watching the people. They moved with grace and quickness through the bustling marketplace, some carrying umbrellas in anticipation of the coming rain.

     In this city of the present, many customs of the past endured. The main mode of transportation, horses, adorned with diamond-studded bridles and polished leather saddles, carried riders through streets paved with ruby red bricks. Beautiful horse drawn carriages, some enclosed with frilly curtains covering modern plate glass windows, transported aristocrats to the clothing shops, museums, and upscale restaurants lining the road.

     On this overcast day, the town brightened by the arrival of Sir Antony Garrison, the region’s financial guru, the man whose expertise provided the direction necessary for our thriving economy to remain at its current level. He rode into the center of the city, mounted with pride on an Andalusian horse, which pranced to his command. Horse and rider stopped in front of the Smithson Bank and Trust. Sir Antony dismounted, took the horse’s reins and tied them to the solid gold hitching post in front of the bank—a symbol of the city’s affluence.

     These were good times in our tiny metropolis. With flowing wealth, the posh lifestyles of our people could be sustained. The elegance of clothing and homes became obvious to all who visited the capitol. For twenty-five years, King Barwick, the Glorious, ruled this dynamic dominion in a way all enjoyed. And he, too, lavished in the land’s prosperity.

     I watched from my station as Sir Antony waived to the throng of ardent admirers who awaited his discourse. Every Monday for the past ten years, it had been his custom to address those assembled. He would speak of the marvelous growth of the economy. Those gathered today had expectations he again would praise the kingdom’s financial state.

     I found myself staring at him in awe as he took his place at the beautiful marble podium in the center of the town square, across from the front doors of the bank. The boisterous crowd became wild with anticipation. They expected Sir Antony’s economic projections would assure them their investments would increase in value.

     But as I listened, today’s message did not bring the anticipated words of encouragement. Instead, Sir Antony spoke in a deliberate manner and with an air of caution. The expression on his face showed signs of pain. “My fellow citizens, our kingdom’s imports have come to exceed its exports. This has caused a severe devaluation of our currency and has put a terrible strain on our economy.”

     “What can we do about it?” yelled a tall man in a black suede sport coat.

     Another man, attired in an expensive gray pinstriped business suit, screamed, “Give us answers, we need answers.”

     However, Sir Antony provided nothing to calm the now rowdy crowd. A cloak of blackness fell upon the city, as people felt the world closing in on them. With their livelihood threatened, they shook their heads in dismay. They began to realize their great wealth might no longer be sustainable.

     As he concluded his presentation, his final words sent chills up the spines of those assembled. He grimaced as he spoke, “The financial status of our tiny fiefdom has been compromised and all of you will be affected. Heavy taxes may have to be levied so the government can again operate in its customary, effective manner.”

     As the crowd dispersed, most felt depressed by the distressing message. Many of the city’s leaders, however, became angered by the implication that the people must bear this burden. Later that day, these leaders and all other interested residents gathered at Wickerby Hall in the midst of a pouring down rain.

     Levi Anderson, a wealthy businessman and outspoken critic of government spending abuses, moved to the front of the room. He attempted to get the attention of the group while trying hard to control his discomfort with the situation.

     “Please, please, ladies and gentlemen, quiet down.” Finally, having silenced the crowd, his words echoed through the hall. “This state of affairs begins at the top. It is King Barwick’s lavish ways we must curtail. The spending habits of those in control have produced the severe economic drain we are experiencing and they must take responsibility.”

     “Yes, yes,” those gathered yelled out in support.

     “If King Barwick and his advisors will not bear the burden for the state of our economy, we, the masses, must bring an end to his reign.”

     “Let us vote on it,” shouted an attractive woman in a stylish green dress.

     “So be it,” chanted Levi as he called for a vote from the floor to move to present the King with an ultimatum, a directive he must accept.

     Emotions ran wild as the city fathers and attending residents applauded and voted with zest to support the motion. But one had to wonder if a celebration might be premature, for it was too early to know what the King would do. Therefore, the timing did not seem right to break out the champagne.

     Levi calmed the crowd down. He proclaimed, “My fellow citizens, since we are in agreement as to what has to be done, I will lead a party of three on a visit to the palace on the hill—our mission, to obtain support from the King for our directive. We will leave first thing in the morning.”

     The next day, Levi, Aaron Richardson, and Eric Harrison, mounted on statuesque steeds, rode through the countryside and up the hill to the palace to wage their campaign. As they approached the majestic entrance, two palace guards moved in to block their momentum and to ascertain the purpose of their visit.

     The first, a robust looking guard in a prestigious, gold-trimmed uniform, queried the party, “What business do you have with the King? Has he requested your presence?”

     Levi stuttered, “Well, well . . . we have a proposal to present for his consideration.”

     Skeptical and fearful these three did not have good intentions, the first guard turned to his companion and asked, “Should we let them enter the palace grounds?”

     The second guard stared at the men and spoke with restraint. “It is best you remain at the gate for now. I will phone the Director of Security and ask him to meet with you as soon as possible.” He turned and headed toward the guard station. The first guard followed.   

     Not wanting to create a disturbance, which might sink the mission, Levi turned to Aaron and Eric and urged, “Keep calm. Do not do or say anything we might regret.”

     The others shook their heads in agreement.

     Although he believed this was the right thing to do, Levi could not help thinking the second guard’s action was the government’s way of not allowing them access to the King to present their position and demands.

     Hours passed and no Director of Security appeared. Yet the three remained composed until Aaron Richardson had had enough and blurted out in frustration, “Those damn bastards have no intention of letting us in to see the royal asshole.” From out of the shadows, a security force of six grabbed and cuffed the three and whisked them off to a lock-up to be detained.

     Four days passed. The city father’s became worried, for they had heard nothing from the three. Residents wondered why their representatives, who carried their ultimatum to the King, had not tried to contact them. They hoped their efforts had not been in vain.

     Some feared something terrible might have happened. Words of dread spread throughout the capitol, but no one knew what to do. So for now they waited patiently for word of the mission’s success, which they hoped would come soon.

     To the horror of all, one week from the day the mission began, the headline in the “TRUTH BE TOLD” section of the kingdom’s newspaper made everyone shutter. In bold it read, “Heading Home from Meeting with the King, Three Heroes Drown in the Midst of a Storm’s Pouring Rain.”

     The story stated, “Their horses bucked thus causing the three men to lose control of their steeds. All were thrown to their demise and would be remembered as heroes during King Barwick’s reign.”

     Was this the truth? I pondered this thought over and over in my mind. I put the pieces together as best I could from the information provided me by my confidential sources in the palace. These sources, however, had made it clear they did not know many of the specifics and feared if they tried to find out more about the situation, their acts would not be looked upon with favor.

     Weeks passed and no new information surfaced. The position of the King’s spokesperson on the three heroes did not change. However, neither the bodies of the three men nor those of their horses had been recovered. This troubled me. I did not know why, but something did not feel right.

     As the city’s historian, I made several trips to the palace each year. As such, I had been made an ex officio member of the King’s staff, although I performed my services gratis. Therefore, on each visit, the King and his staff had welcomed me with open arms. I believed a visit at this time might be warranted.

     The following week, I phoned the palace to let them know I intended to come. When asked the purpose of my visit, I replied, “The usual. History is a story in the making and I want to stay on top of important palace events and decisions made by the King and his advisors.” This did not arouse suspicion, as I felt it would not. As such, I received a formal invitation to come on Friday of the current week.

     Friday arrived none to soon. It was a beautiful sunny morning. Not a cloud in the sky. I hitched my fine horse, Clyde, to my handsome carriage, its silver trim glowing in the sunshine, got in, and began my journey.

     The ride was pleasurable, the scenery beautiful. Roses and violets blossomed everywhere and nature’s fine smells appealed to me. I began to organize a task list in my mind, an agenda of how to gather information that might shed some light on questions I had about the fate of the three heroes.

     I arrived at the palace’s majestic gates, trimmed with solid gold and marble, at 10:15 a.m. and showed my identification to the guard on duty. He waived me in without hesitation. I entered the opulent courtyard, the signature of the kingdom’s greatness. As I moved toward its center, a blinding light struck my eyes. They began blinking. As I regained my focus, I looked up at three huge, shiny statues poised behind the stage and podium used by the King to address his audiences.

     I did a double take. To my amazement, staring at me were Levi Anderson, Aaron Richardson, and Eric Harrison. An aura surrounded the bronze sculptured replicas of these three brave souls. Then chills shot through my body as I looked into the eyes of Levi Anderson’s statue. They were not the same exquisite bronze as the rest of the figure. And they were not made of glass or rare gems, for they appeared soft and pleading. And they were . . . moving.

     Using caution, I surveyed the other two figures. I could not stop shaking. It became clear to me—they all were alive—imprisoned within the bronze monuments.

     I scanned the courtyard. It appeared no one had noticed I had been studying the statues, not even the guards in the watchtowers. Not a soul knew I had uncovered the secret. I believed I had to do something to free these valiant men, but what? And how could I make it happen?

     Engrossed in my thoughts, I felt someone grab my arm. I tried to jerk loose, but to no avail. “Come with me. Do not protest. Do not make a scene,” the voice spoke in soft, but stern tones. My worst fear had come to be. I had been discovered.

     “We cannot let you leave. You know too much. You will now join the others placed in the courtyard. You, too, will be accorded the rank of “Hero of the State.”

     The following week the headline in the “TRUTH BE TOLD” section of the kingdom’s newspaper read, “Prominent Historian Dies of Sudden Heart Attack.”

     It was not until ten years later, with the death of King Barwick and the subsequent fall of the monarchy, that the “Truth Be Told” of my fate and that of the three heroes. After the collapse of the empire, all four of us were found and released from our “tombs,” alive and well. And, as the city’s historian, . . . this is my story.

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

You love adult your children. They are the center of your world.

However, you want them to live their own lives, so you can live yours. But achieving this becomes somewhat complicated, as you will see in . . .

A Brown Paper Bag

     Gayle and I have been retired for six years. We live in a wonderful gated community at the base of a picturesque mountain in Placer County, California. We’re happy most of the time. We try to stay clear of the politics of our senior community that can cause you to live on Valium, if you get too involved with the idiocy surrounding you. Instead, we play pinochle three times a week, dominoes once a month, and go out to dinner and a play every other month. The dogs, Winkle and Dinkle, take us for a walk twice daily. They’ve become our personal trainers. We have a full, contented life.

     This was the way I’d pictured retirement. But then something I hadn’t anticipated happened— something glorious on the surface, but bubbling with turmoil just below. Our kids, four beautiful daughters, came to live with us.

     Kim, the eldest at thirty-eight, my take-charge redhead, moved her family of five just outside our front door seven months after we moved into our home. Well, maybe not just outside, but only two miles down the road in the housing development called Las Casas Bonitas. Cassie, the second in line, at thirty-six, a mischievous blond, dragged her husband and two boys to Placer County two months later and bought a wonderful four-bedroom home only a stone’s throw from our backyard. Laurie and Katie, our thirty-year old, single and fancy free, brunette, identical twins, followed early the next year.

     Now don’t get me wrong. We love our children. But put our four girls in the same room on a Sunday afternoon and it will drive you absolutely crazy. This had been the main reason we ran from the Bay Area to the lush green countryside in Placer County in search of the peace and quiet we had longed for. However, I guess we didn’t move far enough away.

     Sunday arrived. Gayle called to me from the kitchen, “Kevin, can you come in here? I need help in getting lunch ready for the girls.”

     I made my way to the kitchen. As I entered, Gayle rushed around grabbing frozen goodies off the counter and popping them into the oven. “Just the girls coming over, or the grandkids too?”

     “It’s girls get together time. The little ones are going to the amusement park with the dads.”

     “Why here? You part of this girl thing?”

     “No. They wanted to get out of their homes, so I told them to come here. I said I’d prepare some hors d’oeuvres and they could use the great room. Thought maybe you and I could go for a drive.”

     “ A drive? Where?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “This is our home, not theirs.”

     “But they’re our daughters.”

     “I know. But that’s why we moved here in the first place.”

     Just then the bell rang. Gayle looked at me with a pained expression on her face. “Can I get the door?” she moaned.

     “Yeah. You invited them. Go do it.”

     I followed her into the hall as she opened the door. Our four lovely, but somewhat intrusive, daughters swaggered in. Spotting me, in unison they shouted, “Hello, Daddy.”

     “Hi,” I whined.

     Sensing my less then enthusiastic welcome, Kim asked, “What’s wrong, Dad?”

     “Oh, nothing. Mom wants to go for a drive.”

     “So?”

     “I don’t want to go. Just wanted to kick back.”

     “Then just kick back,” Laurie shouted.

     “I thought you girls wanted to be alone.”

     “Well, you’re not going to get in the way, Dad,” Cassie sighed. “We’ll just act as if you’re not here. Can you handle that?”

     “Do I have a choice?”

     “Nope,” Katie stated whimsically.

     So the girls strolled into the great room. The twins crashed on the tan, leather couch. Cassie slid into the matching loveseat and Kim sat in Grandma’s old rocker. And me? I sat in the corner by the fireplace on our somewhat aged recliner and stared off into space.

     At first, I tried hard to disappear into my own little world, but then the bantering between the “ladies” got louder and louder, so I decided to listen. However, I kept my eyes closed so the girls wouldn’t think I was intruding on their special little “chatfest.” They ignored me. Must’ve thought I’d fallen asleep.

     “Okay, guys, listen up,” Kim directed. “Let’s make this a productive afternoon.”

     “Productive?” Katie grimaced. “I thought the object of this soiree was to have fun.”

     “And we can’t have fun and be productive at the same time?” her identical sibling, Laurie, bellowed.

     This, in itself, was odd, as Katie and Laurie almost never disagreed about anything. But I guess times change.

     “Oh, come on, this isn’t what we came here to do,” Cassie complained. “Let’s share some stories about our neighbors. Some of mine are just a bit different.”

     “What do you mean, different?” The twins questioned in tandem.

     “Well, sort of strange,” Cassie replied.

     I wasn’t sure where this was going, so I let my mind drift, until . . . Cassie cried out, “This one couple had this suspicious brown paper bag.”

     “Brown paper bag?” Kim responded. “We all have brown paper bags.”

     “Not like this one you don’t,” Cassie emphasized.

     “What’s so damn special about this one?” Laurie queried.

     “It was kind of spooky. In big black letters, it read, ‘Watch your back or something will get you,’” Cassie chanted.

     “Oh, come on! You don’t seriously think this is something to be concerned about?” Kim asked.

     Squinting, I noticed Cassie looking my way, so I let my head sink to my chest. After staring for a couple of seconds, she must’ve concluded I’d fallen asleep, so she went on with her discourse.

     “I sure do. I heard the neighbor, a big, scary looking guy, say to the small, chubby guy with him that the bag had a spell cast upon it and anyone who possessed it and chose to look inside would become, uh, cursed.”

     “You’re frightening me,” Katie giggled, as she glanced in my direction. I tried to remain as still as possible. Satisfied I was still sleeping, she looked back at Cassie and winked. Guess that indicated I was out of it.

     Cassie shook her head. “Katie, don’t be so smug when it comes to the eerie brown paper bag. I know I’ll never be tempted to look inside, if it appears on my front porch.”

     “Well that’s you, older sis. Always a chicken.”

     “Okay, this is getting us nowhere and it’s getting late. Any final words before we end what I hope will be the first of many sisterly gatherings, now that we’re all settled in our new homes?” Kim asked.

     “Not exactly what I’d expected, but interesting. I’m up for doing it again,” Laurie said.

     The others nodded in agreement as they packed up their belongings and trudged into the hallway, as Gayle came from the kitchen to meet them. They left me languishing in the corner still “fast asleep.”

     “Did you guys have a good talk?” Gayle inquired.

     “Yeah, great,” Cassie replied, as the others moved their hands as if conducting some imaginary orchestra backing up Cassie’s reply.

     I could see the whole exciting ritual from my seat. Gayle said, “Good-bye,” and let them out. She closed the door behind them and stared in at me. “You weren’t asleep, were you?”

     “No, not at all,” I responded with a slight snicker in my voice.

     Two days later, I opened the door to get the morning newspaper. There to my surprise sat a large, brown paper bag inscribed with the wording, ‘WATCH YOUR BACK OR SOMEONE WILL GET YOU.” It stunned me for a second before I reached for it. Just to be safe, I used caution in opening it. I stuck my hand inside and felt around. My fingers touched something. It felt like an envelope. I pulled it out. Nothing appeared on its face. I pulled the flap from within and saw a letter peeking up at me. I unfolded it carefully and perused its contents. The words flowed forth.

     “Dear Daddy,

         “Beware of what you find in a brown paper bag. It can make you crazy, or we, your loving daughters can. It was obvious to us you hadn’t fallen asleep and were aware of our entire ridiculous afternoon conversation. We couldn’t think of any other way to tell you how much we love you and how much living near you means to us.

         “We know your move was meant to allow us to spread our wings and for you to develop your senior lifestyle, but a life apart from you and Mom is not what we want. Mom understands and now maybe you will too. We didn’t know how to tell you this to your face, because we knew it went against your plans. So we conjured up a scheme to show you.

         “Daddy, we love you more than words can say. And all this comes to you in a ‘brown paper bag.’

         “Love,

         “Your daughters, Kim, Cassie, Laurie, and Katie”

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.