Did something ever happen to you that you couldn’t explain? You begin to wonder if it did occur or if your imagination was playing tricks on you.

You reach out to another person who might have seen what you’d experienced. But they leave you even more confused, as you will see in . . .

What Stranger?

     I sat at my large mahogany office desk staring out the window. The trees fluttered in the wind. The autumn leaves escaped their branches and floated, like colorful, small magic carpets, to the ground. The sun cast shadows across the rolling hills surrounding the parking lot.

     I turned back to my iMac. My mind continued to drift. I didn’t get much sleep last night and my body suffered from its absence. I struggled to stay awake. My head started to fall. It began a slow descent toward my computer keyboard.

     The ring a ling, ding a ling of my computer calendar reminder rescued me. I jerked my head up and back to the reality of the day. In the center of my computer screen, a beautiful Hawaiian princess held a card indicating the time and day of the appointment I had across town—a date with my psychiatrist.

     The last thing I wanted to do was see my shrink. He thought I was a real head case who blew the simplest things out of proportion. But I needed this visit as an excuse to get me out of the office and release me from the dullness of my day. Maybe the cold fall wind blowing against my face would awaken me.

     My therapist’s office was eight blocks away—a twenty-minute walk through some pretty upscale, store-lined streets. I liked to gaze in the shop windows, not to look at the goods on display, but to catch a glimpse of the crazy people who frequented the shops.

     I left plenty of time for my excursion, so I could take in these weird sights at my leisure. And weird they were. One had only to look in the window of the Victoria’s Secret store. Wow! Two sixty-something women pranced around in negligees, engaged in a show I’m sure they were not aware could be seen from the street. I wanted to applaud and scream, "Hooray," but didn’t have the guts to do so. And then . . .

     “Uh oh, what the hell’s going on?” I muttered, as I wandered into a huge crowd gathered on the street. I pushed my way through the onlookers to get a glimpse of what was happening.

     A police officer yelled at the mob, ”Please, get back. For your own safety, please.”

     Get back from what? I thought. And then I saw it. “My God, a police barricade. Oh my, the SWAT team’s been called in. What do I do now?” I grumbled.

     A man, pushing back through the crowd, hollered, “It’s an armed robbery in progress. The police think it’s a hostage situation.”

     “Well, I can’t stay here. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” I moaned. Then, I remembered I’d seen an alley a block back. Maybe I can get through the horde that way. I turned and scrambled up the street. Yes, there it is—the alley. It’s clear. I hustled through it. To my good luck, it emptied onto South Madison, around the corner from my doctor’s office. “I’m going to be on time,” I sighed.

     I entered the building and took the elevator to the third floor. I walked down the hall to the fourth door on the right, opened it, and went in. My shrink shared the office complex with five other couch docs, so it was filled with patients.

     After checking in at the front desk, I found a vacant seat in the rear of the waiting room and collapsed into it. The events of my day and a sleepless night had taken its toll on me. My mind began to wander and I drifted into a state of oblivion.

     A male voice penetrated my silent escape. “They’re going get you,” he grumbled.

     “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Who’s going to get me?”

     He gave me the weirdest look and turned away. I composed myself, leaned back in my seat, and didn’t say another word. Picking up a sports magazine, I leafed through the pages. I found an article on my Mets and immersed myself in it.

     Chancing to look up, I saw the man, standing about three feet away, staring at me again. I wondered why he found me so interesting. He seemed anxious, as he stroked his scraggly bearded chin. His eyes squinted. His head slanted to the left. His unkempt hair shot up like spears pointing to the sky. He wore a shabby green jacket; wrinkled black jeans; and dark brown, pockmarked boots. He looked a sight.

     “They’re going to get you,” he mumbled.

     I couldn’t make out the rest of what he said, as his words were jumbled. I tried hard to avoid his squinting eyes, but albeit, with little success. Although I didn’t want to get involved with him, he did pique my curiosity.

     “You have to listen to me, I’m not crazy,” he shrieked.

     My head began to spin. Who was this guy? And what’d he want from me?

     He blurted, “You’re in danger. You must protect yourself.” 

     Man, this freaked me out. He seemed to be nutty as a fruitcake, but his sincerity concerned me. I fidgeted with my hands. I began to sweat. My eyes began to burn. I knew I had to be blowing this all out of proportion. However, it seemed he had information I didn’t have, so I believed I should heed his warnings.

     I began to watch my back. Why not be careful? I thought.

     “They’re coming, they’re coming,” he screeched.

     My head pounded. My heart beat so fast, it felt like it would jump out of my chest.

     The next thing I knew, I was being shaken. My head tossed left and then right. Someone had control over me. I had to get free. I tried with all my might, but my legs shook in fear and my feet seemed cemented to the floor. Two hands grasped my arms. Then, a soft, pleasant voice spoke, “Mr. Wainer. Mr. Wainer, please come with me.”

     Looking up, I saw a pretty woman smiling at me. I tried to comply with her request, but had trouble standing on my shaky legs.

     “What happened? Who are you?” I sputtered.    

     “You appeared to be asleep. I woke you. I’m Dr. McCann’s assistant. You must’ve had a dream, or . . . maybe an hallucination.”

     “A what?” I stammered. “Where’s the stranger who warned me about the danger I was in?”

     “Stranger? What stranger?” she asked.

     “You didn’t see him?”

     “No, I didn’t. You have to come with me, Mr. Wainer. You need to see the doctor. And you need to see him, now.”
     "All right."

     She led me into his office. “Sit over there, on the couch. The doctor will be in shortly.”

     “Okay, but . . .” Before I could finish what I wanted to say, she turned and left the room. I sat there staring at the closed door.

     Then the door behind the doctor’s desk opened. A tall, bearded man entered the room. “Good afternoon, I’m Dr. McCann. And you are?”

     “Huh, you don’t know who I am?”

     “Why should I?”

     “I’ve been seeing you for six months.”

     “I don’t think so. I would’ve remembered that.”

     “Are you kidding me?”

     “No. Absolutely not.”

     “Then I shouldn’t be here.”

     “But you are. And I will take care of you.”

     The next morning I awoke in a strange room. I couldn’t move. My legs and arms were tied to the bed.

     Standing at the foot of the bed was the scraggly bearded man I’d seen in the doctor’s waiting room. He peered at me and mumbled, “I warned you they’d get you.”

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes it’s hard to find our way in life. We seek the answers that open the doors to our future.

Yet these, at times, may elude us. And we are left puzzled, with many unanswered . . .

Questions

Today, all parts of our world are interconnected through commerce and   

     technology.

Little of what we own and use has been made in America.

Has only in America become a concept of the past?

Society’s view of marriage and family has changed, and many families  

     struggle to survive.

Violence in our communities monopolizes our print and electronic media.

Can we count on happy endings or do they just exist in dreams, fictional  

     works, and fantasies?

Ads on television and the Internet push legal drugs and sell products that will 

     change our lives, with no proof of these doing so.

Scandals have been exposed in police and fire departments, schools,   

     government, and religious organizations.

These occurrences, often strange but true, cause us to ask, “How can we 

     return to a better time and more tranquil world?”

Everything in life has not become tainted, for beauty exists in the smile of a 

     child, the pride of a graduate, a blushing bride, and a down and out street  

     dweller extended a helping hand.

Such moments warm our hearts and are the reasons in our lives to awake 

     each morning with a passion to face the day.

So put society’s shortcomings aside and focus on the question, “What really 

     should be unforgettable?”

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Wishing all good health and peace during these difficult times. Being under house arrest can be trying.

We try to keep busy and, when possible, help others to cope during the virus pandemic. However, at times, our efforts can lead to unexpected outcomes, as you will see in . . .

But She’s Our “Daughter”

     We’d been cooped up in our house in Lincoln, in Placer County, California, for over two weeks, because of the virus. However, it seemed like two years. It was Saturday, April 3, 2020, a day that usually meant doing something with our neighbors. But the fear of spreading the dreadful disease kept us confined. We were climbing the walls.

     “What’re your plans for today, Alan?” Barbara asked.

     “Plans? Guess I’ll walk the dogs.”

     “Well, remember to stay six feet away from people.”

     “That’s why the dogs are on six-foot leashes. They can greet the people I meet and still keep me safe.”
     “Sounds good,” she replied. “And what are you going to do the rest of the day?”

     “Work on getting the word out about the 2020 Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest. It starts in April. If I didn’t have that to do, I’d probably go crazy. And what are you going to do?”

     “Well, first I’ll pick up the poop in the backyard. Then, I’ve got an idea.”

     “Idea? Want to share it with me?”

     “Yeah. I’m going to make masks for a number of our friends who don’t have them.”

     “That sounds great. You going to make me one?”

     “I don’t think you’ll like the material I have—a bit too feminine for you.”

     “How do you know?”

     “Come, I’ll show you.”

     I followed her into the laundry room, where the sewing machine was. She pulled the material out from the top drawer and held it up. I looked at it and cringed. “It won’t go with my gray sweats. Don’t you have anything else?”

     “Let me check. Okay, I have black cloth. How does this look?”

     She placed it over her nose and mouth. I grimaced and gulped, “You look like you’re going to rob a bank.”

     “Guess this won’t work for you, either. However, I do have some solid beige masks my doctor gave me a while back, before we even knew there’d be a virus pandemic.” She reached into the bottom drawer. “Wear this one, so you’ll be protected.”

     “Okay. I’m going to hook up the kids and take them for their walk. See you when we return.”

     Both dogs were anxious to go. Abby, our fourteen-year-old schnoodle pushed her nose against my leg. And then, Miss Jealous, Izzy, our six-month-old mini goldendoodle, but twice Abby’s size, jumped over her head, so she could be hooked up first.

     Our youngest daughter was extremely loveable, but she also ruled the roost. She wanted to be in control, and she usually was. After putting the dogs’ leashes on, I left the garage and began our journey. Izzy loved to walk and Abby seemed inspired, as well. We went up one block and down the other, each dog smelling all that was good in nature and “reading” the many messages left by friends and possible future acquaintances.

     When we returned from the walk and entered the house through the garage, Barbara was working on the sewing machine. She stopped and looked up. “Have a nice walk?”

     “Yeah, great. Izzy took the lead and Abby and I followed. How is your project going?”

     “Very good.”

     She held up a flowered red and white mask. “Looks great,” I stated.

     “Try it on,” she urged.

     “I’ll pass. If you need me, I’ll be in my office working on the contest.”

     I headed into the office, collapsed into my chair in front of my computer, and began writing emails to poetry groups, libraries, and other organizations that might help publicize the contest. Then, engrossed in my task, my peaceful world was shaken by a loud scream coming from the laundry room.

     Jumping out of my chair, I ran in there to see what had happened. Barbara stared at me in pain and held up her index finger. What I saw blew me away. The sewing machine needle went in one side of the finger and out the other. She yelled, “I can’t get this out. Help me!”

     I tried as best I could, but I couldn’t remove it. The needle wouldn’t budge. “We need to go to Urgent Care,” I said, emphasizing urgent. We wrapped a tissue around the finger to absorb the blood and she got up to go to the car. “How did this happen?”

     “I shut off the sewing machine, so I could reposition the material to make the mask. My hand was under the needle. Izzy came into the room, ran

under my legs, and stepped on the pedal, starting the machine. The needle went right through my finger.”

     “You’re the one who wanted a puppy,” I said.

     “But she didn’t do it on purpose.”

     “I know. She’s our daughter and we love her. But we better get going.”

     We headed to the Urgent Care in the Safeway Shopping Center, about two miles away. Fortunately, they took Barbara immediately, removed the needle, and gave her a tetanus shot. We were in and out in under a half hour, and Barbara had more pain from the shot than from the penetration of the needle.

     After dinner, we watched a Lifetime Channel movie and played Gin Rummy. Barbara looked over at Izzy and asked me, “What is she chewing on?”

     “I don’t have any idea.”

     “Oh, my god! It’s my dental partial,” she screamed. She got up off the couch and managed to pull it from Izzy’s mouth. Looking at it, she said, “Oh, boy! It’s chewed up and one of the teeth is missing.”

     “How did she get it?” I asked.

     “I took it out when we were eating and put it on my cloth napkin on the table. She must’ve pulled on the napkin and it fell onto the floor.”

     “Well, first she caused a medical emergency and now a dental calamity.”

     “Yeah, but she’s our daughter, and we love her. Don’t we?” Barbara asked.

     “Yes, we do.”

     You might have thought this is where the story ends. But you’re wrong.

Izzy is extremely bright. So, to make amends for what she had done, she agreed to take an online sewing class this spring and to enroll in the dental assisting program at the local community college for the fall semester. She believed this would make us proud.

     Since things are said to happen in threes, Izzy had one more healthcare episode to engage in. Five days ago, on April 9, she was spayed. But she’s still our daughter, and we love her.

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Some artists use brushes; others use words. Both create images that stimulate the senses.

They touch our soul, lift our spirits, and open our eyes to the world around us. The magic of creation is . . .

A Poet's Gift

Putting pen to paper, a poet’s words come alive through the flow of ink.

A painter of pictures through written words, readers and listeners are           

     challenged to think.

Employing expression, both beautiful and lyrical, a flow of energy dances    

     across the page.

Using special powers of imagination, audiences are taken on magical          

     journeys—fascinating places to visit, interesting people to engage.

A poet’s work may be serious, addressing concerns such as politics,           

     religion, and how the economy keeps pace.

Poems also may be humorous, causing laughter and joy and leaving a        

     smile upon one’s face.

A poet may portray the mystical and indulge in fantasies and dreams.

Through a world of make-believe, a poet creates an image of life that is      

     more than it seems.

At times, in poetry, mystery trumps fantasy, pushing the reader to the edge.

A play on words may uncover deeply hidden secrets, one might allege.

Poems are an art form, a gift to share, and one in which poets delight.

Words are brought to life in wonderful ways, entertaining people and           

     motivating them to think, grow, and gain insight.

Copyright © 2010 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

April is National Poetry Month. It is the time to read and listen to the wonderful poetry written by poets around the world.

But how do poets write poems that can put a smile on your face, bring tears to your eyes, and encourage you to think and dream? It is through their dedication and passion that gives birth to their . . .

Creativity, The Essence Of Poetry

Creativity is the product of inspiration.

Inspiration leads to the fulfillment of dreams.

Creativity unleashes a desire for discovery.

It is the essence of poetry.

Poetry excites the spirit.

It ignites passion within the soul.

So dream, create, and grow.

Walk in the clouds.

Dance with the stars.

Play in a magical arena of fascination.

Become the master of your own destiny,

the sculptor of words. 

Treasure the freedom that allows you to create,

what has never been created before. 

Provide the dreamscape that enriches the minds of others,

and touches their hearts.

Welcome them with your words.

Let them share your experiences and aspirations.

Delight them with the creations of your imagination.

Challenge them with the wealth of your dreams.

Copyright © 2015 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.