He grew up in a neighborhood composed of Italians and Jews. He had little interaction with people of color.

 

Then something happened that changed his world. He found himself involved in . . .

 

 

A Case Of Black

 

     “Oh, hell! I’m running late for school again,” he screamed. “Where’s my essay on segregation? I thought I left it on the kitchen table last night.”

     “It’s right where you put it, Tony,” Mom said, in a sarcastic manner.

     “Okay, okay. I found it.”

     He grabbed the glass of OJ she left on the table for him and glanced at the first sentence of his essay. He slurped the juice and read aloud from his paper at the same time.

     “The year is 1962. Segregation and racial tension are not confined to the South, although many of us in the North live our lives isolated from these issues. My knowledge on the subject doesn’t come from experience, but from my U.S. History class and newspaper and television coverage.

     “I’m a high school senior who will graduate from Emerson High School in less than two months, on Friday, June 18. Emerson is an all-white public high school on Long Island, twenty miles from New York City. As a student at the school, in a middle class suburb, I’ve been insulated from the tension associated with integration efforts taking place in other towns and cities throughout the country. My only experience with black America occurred a year ago when I competed in a track meet against Benfield High School—the one integrated high school in our school district.”

     “Tony, get a move on,” Dad yelled, interrupting his discourse. “You’re going to be late for school.”

     “Yeah, I’m coming.” He jammed his essay into his school folder, gathered up his books, and hurried out to the car. “Tony Lombardi will make history today with his great exposé on racial tension and segregation,” he chanted as he ran. He jumped into the family’s ’58 Chevy Impala and slammed the door. Dad stepped on the gas pedal and they took off.

     He looked out the window as they drove the three miles to Emerson. The day was sunny and warm. Everything seemed to sparkle. Dad stopped the car at the curb at the front of the school. Tony grabbed his books and school folder, opened the door, and hopped out.

     “Bye, Dad. See you tonight.”

     “Have a great day, Tony.”

     He shut the car door and headed toward the school’s main entrance. As he plodded along the walkway, a bright light blinded him. “What the . . .” he muttered.

     His eyes followed the reflection. They focused on the silver handle of a black attaché case that cast a radiant glow. The brilliance framed the back of the man who clutched the handle of the case, as if to squeeze the life from it.

     He stared at the large, dark left hand of this statuesque figure. He didn’t see a ring. Must be single, he thought. A simple gold watch rested on the man’s wrist. It wouldn’t have caught his attention had his eyes not been drawn to the handle of the case. 

     The stranger pressed his left arm, the one holding the case, close to his massive frame. His size made Tony think he might have been a football player. He wore a brown and tan striped, light cotton sport coat, quite appropriate for the warm spring day. His neck seemed to disappear within the collar of the jacket, causing Tony to focus on the back of his head. His hair, close cropped and jet-black, appeared dull in comparison to the aura surrounding him.

     Tony watched the majestic stranger, as he marched with military precision toward the main entrance of the school. He lifted his right hand and pulled the handle of the large glass door toward him. Tony, with his books tucked under his arm and his school folder in hand, followed him into the building.

     “Hey, Tony,” Mike Clark shouted from the other side of the hallway.

     “Not now,” Tony responded. “I’m in a hurry.”

     As the man disappeared down the corridor, Tony picked up his pace so not to lose him. His precise manner piqued Tony’s curiosity. He had seen his back and a bit of his left side, but not his face. He wondered what the man looked like. Who is this person and what is he doing here? he thought.

     As he caught up to this imposing gentleman, he could see him walking toward a classroom at the end of the corridor. His movements appeared to become a bit strained as he proceeded with some trepidation. He opened the classroom door and entered.

     Tony followed behind him and, to his amazement, realized he was in his first period English classroom. Not wanting to appear conspicuous, he went straight from the door to his desk in the third row and sat down. The man now stood in front of the teacher’s desk, facing toward the blackboard.

     As Tony settled into his chair and awaited the arrival of the rest of the class, his eyes focused on the black case the imposing figure placed to his right on the large, blonde wood desk in front of him. The man lifted the top of the case and removed a white writing tablet from it. The contrast was quite striking—the bright, white tablet and the jet-black case. The man still had his back to Tony. Tony longed to see his face.  

     Boisterous seniors, Tony’s fellow students, entered the classroom and filed through the rows of desks to their seats. His close friend Barry paused at his desk. “What are you staring at?” he asked.

     “The guy at the front of the room,” Tony replied.

     Barry turned to look. The other students, now seated, eyed the man, too. A hush permeated the classroom. The eerie silence lasted but a moment, as the clang of the bell indicated the start of the school day.

     Tony opened his notebook and wrote the date, April 24,1962, at the top of the page. Then his eyes moved from the book and became fixed on the large figure poised in front of the room. The man turned toward the class and smiled. His face was bright and reflected a sense of enthusiasm. He now seemed relaxed and projected a warm demeanor, as he spoke.

     “Your teacher, Mr. Robbins, is ill today. I’m Mr. Jackson, your substitute. Mr. Robbins’s lesson plan for the day centers on the essays he assigned you to write. He asked me to have you read them aloud to the class. While I agree with this approach, I’m going to change his strategy a bit. As such, please give your essays to me at this time. Then I will pass them out so each of you gets someone else’s paper. After you have read the paper you were given to the class, we will discuss its contents and I will ask you to identify which classmate wrote the particular essay read.”

     Nobody uttered a sound in response to Mr. Jackson’s statement or raised a hand to question him about the process outlined. Captivated by his words and energy, the students’ eyes focused on him in anticipation of an activity they all found quite appealing.

     However, before the exercise could begin, Tony became distracted. Sunlight streaming through the classroom window fell upon the open black case’s silver handle reproducing the radiance he’d witnessed earlier. But then this luminescence, which surrounded the case, traveled to the students’ white, smiling faces, producing a glow so bright, the contrast of colors in the room disappeared. The black figure, poised in front of the classroom, blended into the white group he faced, as he distributed the essays to the class.

     Later, after the exercise, as Mr. Jackson dismissed the class, the students smiled and chatted as they exited the classroom. Their unmistakable enthusiasm flowed through the corridors of the school. The following year, as school opened in the fall, a new group of students marched down the corridor and entered “Mr. Jackson’s first period English class,” and nobody thought, Who is this person and what is he doing here?

 

 

Copyright © 2009 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Communication in marriage might not be as easy as we would like it to be. We can have a hard time getting our point across.

 

At times, we say things we may regret. This becomes obvious in . . .

 

 

Sid And Janis—A Love Story?

 

     It was a beautiful morning. Birds singing in the fresh fall air made my heart dance. The sun warmed my back, as I strolled through our wonderful neighborhood. I knew everybody and, for the most part, we all got along.

     Walking toward the Joneses’ house, I spied something rather strange happening. Henry Jones rolled a large wooden box, which looked like a casket, on a dolly down his driveway to his Buick SUV, parked with its rear hatch open. Seeing me approach, he rushed to push the box up a makeshift ramp into the back of the vehicle. Slamming the hatch down, he turned and ran into the house.

     I didn’t know what to make of it. Why was he rolling a casket down his driveway? Why did he appear so upset to see me? Should I call the police? No, not right now, I thought. But I do have to tell Janis.

     I looked around. Seeing nobody else on the block, I started running. I raced down the street and bolted through the front door of my house. “Janis, Janis,” I shouted. “Where are you?”

     “I’m in the kitchen, Sid,” she replied, somewhat annoyed.

     As I entered the room, she sat at the kitchen table with a half-eaten piece of chocolate cake on the plate in front of her and her fork on the floor next to her foot. She looked at me, as if I’d done something wrong. “Your shouting scared me, Sid. What do you want?”

     “You should’ve seen what just happened,” I gasped.

     “All right, what happened?”

     “That neighbor of ours, you know, the guy named Jones. What he did was unbelievable,” I said, panting.

     “Well, what did he do?” she asked.

     I stood there with a blank expression on my face.

     “Are you going to share it with me or what, Sid?” she demanded.

     “Uh, let me catch my breath. I sprinted all the way down the block to tell you the news.”

     “If it’s that important, Sid, out with it already,” she screamed, in a high-pitched voice. “If I have to wait a minute more, I’m going to blow a fuse.”

     I had trouble handling her impatience. I never seemed to do things on her time schedule. “Okay, okay,” I yelled, in frustration.

     “Don’t raise your voice to me, mister,” she screeched. “I’m your wife.”

     “Yeah, yeah, you’re the woman of my dreams, my ‘Mrs. Wonderful.’”

     “Just keep it up, Sid,” she said, in a harsh voice. “You’re trying my patience and I’m not going to take much more of this crap from you.”

     This was my life with Janis, always confrontational. I pulled myself together, collected my thoughts, and tried to tell her what I’d witnessed. However, by this time, she appeared to be at her wits end with me. I wondered what was going on in her mind. She had a glare in her eyes. She seemed so uptight. I wished I knew what to say to help her relax.

     Using caution, I muttered, “Uh, uh, . . .”

     However, before I could get the words out of my mouth, she turned my world upside down.

     “Youuuuu. You’re driving me crazy,” she roared.

     I began to shake. I needed to get out of there. I headed toward the hallway in an effort to remove myself from what I perceived to be the direct line of fire. But . . . I didn’t move fast enough.

     Janis bellowed, “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not leaving before telling me what happened. That’s what you came in here to do and you’re going to do it—now! Sid.”

     So we were back where we started, like every discussion we’d had in the past. I had something to say, important facts to convey, but Janis always turned things upside down causing complete chaos.

     “Janis, I’ve had it with you!” I shrieked, overwhelmed by her harassment. “I’m not going to let you treat me like this any longer. I want a divorce.”

     “Huh? Oh, my God!” she exclaimed.

     I could see the pain on her face. She sat there and stared at me in disbelief. She appeared to be at a loss for words—something not characteristic of Janis. I didn’t like seeing her hurting. After all, she had been my wife for thirty-two years and divorce had to be the last resort.

     “Janis,” I murmured. “I do love you. I don’t want a future without you.”

     She looked at me and breathed a sigh of relief. “I don’t want you to leave me either. I need you,” she said, in a soft voice.

     I thought about beginning our conversation about neighbor Jones again, but caught my tongue before uttering a word. No, this would not be the best time, I concluded.

     Instead, I said, “I’m sorry for starting the argument.” But I thought, I hadn’t started it. However, this had worked in the past to get our life back on track. So why not try it now?

     She responded, “Thank you for admitting you were wrong. I appreciate that you’re taking responsibility.”

     I almost choked on her words. She’d been wrong, not me. However, instead of saying anything I might regret, I whispered, “Let’s just move on with our lives. I don’t want to argue anymore.”

     With a broad smile on her face and joy in her voice she said, “I’ve got some things to do. Then I’ll make us a nice dinner. Let’s eat around six.”

     Dinner was delicious. Janis outdid herself. The pork chops, baked potatoes, and applesauce tasted great.

     “Did you enjoy the dinner,” Janis murmured. “I tried to make everything the way you like it.”

     “Yes, you did, . . . and I loved it.”

     “And me, too?”

     “Yes, you, too.”

     That night we slept cuddled together—capturing the loving past we’d both forgotten. In the morning, we awoke to the sun coming through the bedroom blinds. Our eyes met and my heart pounded, as I awaited her words of love, . . .

 

 

And now, a question I need your help in answering. I am considering three possible endings to the story. Please read them below and let me know, at slolowe@icloud.com, which one of the three would be the best ending. The choice that receives the most “Yes” votes will become the story's ending. Thank you in advance for your help.

 

 

Ending 1

but what poured out of her mouth, was not what I’d expected. In a somewhat condescending tone, she questioned, “So what did neighbor Jones do? You’re not going to leave me hanging, are you?” Well, we were back where we started, and divorce was looking better all the time.

 

Ending 2

 

but not wanting to chance revisiting yesterday’s uncomfortable conversation, I grabbed her, wrapped my arms around her, and kissed her passionately. She was so taken aback, not another word was spoken about what I’d tried to tell her. I never pursued the subject with her again, nor did I ever find out the truth about neighbor Jones’s “casket.”

Ending 3

 

but my world was rocked again by what came pouring out of her mouth. Her uncompromising manner was frightening, as she stated, “You were so right yesterday. You did start the argument, as always. And taking responsibility does not make it all go away. You need help. So, do I call a marriage counselor . . . or do I need a lawyer?”

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Trusting people is not always easy to do. Sometimes a stranger, whose dress and behavior makes you uncomfortable, enters your life.

 

Then a TV news report causes you to wonder about this person and the effect he might have on your . . .

 

 

Weekend Plans

 

     “Ain’t got no weekend plans,” he squealed. The high pitch of his voice rattled me. His name was Tommy True and he’d been doing odd jobs for my wife and me for over three years. Can’t remember how our working relationship began. Somehow, he fell into our lives.

     Tommy stood five feet six inches tall and weighed no more than one hundred and ten pounds. He looked anorexic, but had been known to down two to three Big Macs in one sitting. It would appear his metabolism worked in his favor.

     “Want me to do any more stuff, boss?” 

     “Don’t think so, Tommy.” I thought hard to come up with something. I felt bad for the guy and wanted to make him feel worthwhile. In my eyes, he was a lost soul and I tried to help give his life some meaning.

     In the absence of a quick reply from me, he chanted, “Guess I’ll be goin’ then. Tell the wife, hi. Check in with you next week.”

     “Okay,” I muttered. “Have a nice weekend. Talk to you Monday or Tuesday.”

     I watched as this stringy-haired, little man of about sixty-five sauntered off down the driveway. I turned and went into the house.

     Melissa sat at the kitchen table reading her latest Stephanie Gaither novel. She heard the door slam behind me and looked up.

     “You send Tommy on his way?” she murmured.

     “Yeah. I feel for the guy. It hurts me when I can’t find something else for him to do.”

     “He scares me, Jeremy. He’s been working for us a long time, but I really know nothing about him. I’ve never been able to get him to talk about himself. I want to trust him. And I support your trying to help him, but . . .”

     “I know. He’s a loner. He doesn’t say much to me either. I don’t want you to feel afraid. That’s why I don’t have him come over unless I’m here.”

     “Thank you. I appreciate that. You know, every time I read about something bad or weird happening in the neighborhood, I think maybe Tommy had something to do with it. I know that may not be fair to him, but he frightens the hell out of me.”

     “Why didn’t you tell me how uncomfortable he makes you?”

     “When he started working for us, I thought you’d give him a job or two and he’d disappear. Then you seemed so pleased with your ability to help someone who was down and out, I couldn’t bring myself to tell you I’d rather not have him at our house. And as long as you were home when he worked here, I convinced myself I’d be safe.”

     “If having Tommy help us out makes you feel that bad, Melissa, I’ll ask him not to come around anymore.”

     “Jeremy, I do think it would be for the best if he didn’t.”

     “Then it’s settled. When he comes by next week, I’ll let him know the work has dried up and he’ll have to look elsewhere. I think that will do it.”

     Monday arrived, but there was no sign of Tommy. None on Tuesday, either. The week passed and then the next and still no Tommy. I was tempted to seek him out to see if he was all right, but thought it would be better to leave well enough alone.

     At the end of the second week since Tommy and I parted company, a letter arrived from the president of our community association’s governing board. Because these letters more often than not say nothing of consequence, I placed it on my desk in the den and went about my business.

     That evening, after dinner, I excused myself from the table and went into the den. As I sat down at my desk, I noticed the letter at the corner where I put it. I picked it up, opened it, and began to read, “Dear Hillcrest Homeowners Association Members: It is with deep sadness, I must share some very disturbing news with you.”

     Before I could read any further, Melissa called to me from the kitchen. “Jeremy, can you take the dog for a walk? He seems anxious. When not begging for the food on the kitchen counter, he’s been pawing the sliding glass door. Guess he wants to go out. But I’m in the middle of making the hors d’oeuvres for the party tomorrow evening.”

     “Yeah, I’m coming,” I grunted, not happy I’d been interrupted. I made my way to the kitchen, where Jethro Dog lusted after anything that might drop from the counter. I managed to direct his attention toward me, put a leash on him, and led him out the front door for what I hoped would be a quick evening walk.

     When I returned to the house, I unleashed Jethro, went back into the den, and again picked up the association letter. However, before I could continue reading, the phone rang. I grabbed the receiver and said, “Hello.”

     The voice on the other end exclaimed, “Jeremy, have you heard the news about the break-ins?”

     “What break-ins, Norm?” Norm lives around the corner on Ravens Loop. He and his wife, Helene, have become our good friends.

     He responded with some hesitation, “Uh, there have been four in the last two weeks. In each, someone has forced open the side garage door and entered the house.”

     “That’s pretty scary. What did they take?”

     “Gold and silver pieces of jewelry and some cash. Nothing else. The thief seems to know when the owners are gone. All the thefts occurred during the day. Police are advising us to install a security door or a bar across the side garage door so crooks can’t get in.”

     “Well, thanks for the good news, Norm,” I moaned. “What are you guys going to do?”

     “I think Helene and I will have a security door installed. What about you?”

     “I’ll talk to Melissa and see what she thinks. Thanks again for the heads up.”

     “You’re welcome, Jeremy. This whole thing really frightens Helene and me. We thought we lived in a safe community.”

     “Yeah, I thought so, too. Bye Norm.” I hung up the phone and muttered to myself, “Can it be a coincidence Tommy hasn’t shown up at our house the last couple of weeks, the same weeks the four break-ins took place?” Although I didn’t believe Tommy could be capable of doing this, as he always had been so nice to me, maybe Melissa’s fears were justified.

     I left the den and joined Melissa in the living room to watch the local seven o’clock news on TV.

     “Jeremy, you’re just in time.”

     “In time for what?”

     “The feature news story is about to come on. It’s going to focus on the break-ins in our community,” she explained with concern in her voice. “By the way, who was on the phone?”

     “Norm. He called about the break-ins. I’m anxious to find out more about them.”

     As I watched the report, it became clear that, although police had few leads, they believed someone working for community residents and who knew their habits had committed the crimes. The story focused on local area handymen and, while no names were mentioned, Tommy was one of them.

     Melissa looked at me and, with some authority in her voice, said, “See, I was right to be worried about Tommy working for us.”

     I shook my head and murmured, “I hope not.”

     After the news, Melissa and I watched the movie of the week, “Desperate Measures,” on our local cable network. When it ended, Melissa shut off the TV, got up off the couch, and stretched.

     “You coming to bed?” she sighed.

     “Yeah, I’ll be up in a minute. I want to check on something in the den.”

     “What’s so important, you have to do it at ten o’clock at night, Jeremy?”

     “There’s a letter from the association I’ve been trying to read. But each time I start, something interrupts me.”

     “Oh, all right. See you in a few. I’ll be waiting.”

     I walked into the den, sat down at my desk, and reached for the letter and began to read it again, “Dear Hillcrest Homeowners Association Members: It is with deep sadness, I must share some very disturbing news with you. Nathan Thomas Truman, an eccentric millionaire and philanthropist, died in his sleep on December 6.” 

     That afternoon was the last time I saw Tommy, I thought. “Wow! What a coincidence,” I blurted.

     “Jeremy, what are you yelling about? Are you all right? Come to bed.”

     “No need to worry. I’m fine. After I finish reading the letter from the association, I’ll be there.”

     The letter centered on Nathan Truman’s humanitarian efforts. It indicated he would take jobs as a handyman in many of the housing developments in our city, including ours. He would get to know the property owners and, in so doing, learned about how they served their community. If he believed what they were accomplishing was helping those in need, he would make an anonymous donation, which he sent to the homeowner to give to the organization that provided the service. No return address appeared on the plain white envelope and the enclosed check had an unreadable signature followed by the words, “The True Believer’s Foundation.” Once he did this, he quit working for the homeowner and never made contact again.

     It further stated that at least six checks, in varying amounts, had been received by members of our community. It also indicated that Truman had been a very private person. To the knowledge of our association’s governing board president, no pictures of this wonderful gentleman, who didn’t live or dress as if he had money, existed.

     My eyes started to close. I placed the letter on the desk and made my way upstairs to the bedroom to get ready for bed.

     When I entered the room, Melissa asked, “Did you learn anymore about our suspected criminal, Tommy, from the letter?”

     “No. The letter wasn’t about the break-ins.”

     I was surprised she didn’t press the issue. So I crawled into bed, kissed her, and hoped for a good night’s sleep.

     However, I tossed and turned all night, awakening many times. Thoughts kept running through my mind—Tommy True, Nathan Thomas Truman and “The True Believers Foundation.” No, they don’t go together. It had to be one big coincidence.

     I awoke Saturday morning to bright sunshine peeking through the partially open bedroom blinds. After dressing, I went down to the den and began to work on my favorite weekend project—The West Valley Youth Center—before breakfast.

     This endeavor has been my baby since I retired a little over five years ago. I work on it every weekend, preparing to meet and talk with people during the week about the center and its value to the community, to enlist volunteers, and to secure funding. As chair of next year’s fundraising committee, I determined we needed a little over $250,000 for our programs and to refurbish the center.

     One morning, Tommy overheard me talking to a neighbor about it. To my surprise, he asked me all kinds of questions, especially about the costs to run the center and achieve our goals. I told him $250,000 was what we needed. He didn’t flinch. His reaction, or lack thereof, coming from a man who seemed to need handouts to survive, intrigued me.      

     The ringing of the doorbell broke my concentration. I went down the hall and opened the door. Our mailman, Dexter, dressed in his summer, khaki shorts, in December, smiled at me and drawled, “Morning, Mr. Conners.”

     “Morning, Dext.”

     “Got a letter for you, sir. Sorry it’s a little late. Got lost at the post office. It appears the stamp fell off, so you got some postage due. Five-five cents, to be exact.”

     I handed him a dollar and received my change. “Thanks, Dexter. Have a good day.”        

     “You, too, sir.”

     I closed the door and ambled back toward the den, holding a nondescript, plain white envelope addressed to me. I sat down on the couch across from my desk and tore open the flap uncovering the top of a check. I removed it from the envelope and . . . 

     “Oh, my God!” I shouted, as I stared in amazement at the figure scrawled in the amount box . . . $250,000.

     I tried hard to contain the emotions rumbling within me. My hands trembled. I lost control of the envelope. As it floated to the ground, something fell from it. I leaned down and picked up what appeared to be a photograph.

     To my surprise, it was the photo of Tommy I’d taken almost three years ago. I remember when I showed it to him. He pleaded with me, “I need to have it. I look a sight and nobody should ever see it. Make sure you erase the picture from your camera.”

     On the back of the photo there was a handwritten note, dated December 6. It read, “Now you can make your ‘Weekend Plans’ a reality. In the past, I have not been inclined to share my identity, but you always have treated me with respect. You have been my friend.” It was signed, “Tommy True, aka Nathan Thomas Truman.”

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Even in these difficult times, good things can happen. “Family members” can bond in very special ways.

 

I’d like to share a personal love story with you. Help me celebrate . . .

 

 

Happy Holidays, Sweet Fifteen

 

     She turned fifteen on the November 22, 2020. Then she turned fifteen on December 7. This may be confusing to some, but not to my wife and me. When a senior citizen and young child are blended together under one roof, one doesn’t know what to expect.

     Abby, our fifteen-year-old schnoodle—a centenarian in dog years, calm and relaxed, enjoyed the peace and quiet of the house. Fifteen years ago, Abigail Van Dog Dog of the Long Island Van Dog Dogs, a very aristocratic family, entered our lives.

     Almost a year and a half ago, Isabella, the “Queen of Spain,” a goldendoodle, lovingly referred to as Izzy, came into Abby’s and our life. She entered our world with the gusto of a bucking bronco and adjusted to “her new home,” in a matter of seconds. And the home did become hers.

     She had the energy of a bull in a china shop. Everything in her path became a target, including Abby.

     Poor Abby, looked at her and pleaded, I’ll play for five minutes. Then I have to rest.

     Izzy smiled and replied, Five hours works better for me. So you’ll have to adjust.

     At times, I wondered if Abby would survive the onslaught of her younger sister. She tried to stay out of her way as much as she could. But doing this was close to impossible.

     When Abby lost her sister, Jazzi, a schnauzer, about six months before Izzy entered her life, she became depressed and lonely. I had to drag her down the driveway to get her to walk. The day after we sent Jazzi to heaven, I did get Abby to go out. We walked down Carriage Lane to Del Webb Boulevard and crossed over to the other side of the street. She went to where Jazzi had peed the day before, smelled the grass, jerked me around on the leash and pulled me home, fully believing that she would find Jazzi there. Her life was empty.

     Now, on certain days, with Izzy in her life, Abby looks at me and says, with her eyes, Why me? What did I do to deserve this punishment? This kid even takes the treats out of my mouth.

     However, as we are all aware, love develops in strange ways. Although Izzy is only thirteen pounds heavier than Abby, she is more than twice her size. Yet Abby has learned to deal with this in a way that appears to have the promise of prolonging her life. The old lady and the little girl have become best friends.

     At times this isn’t easy, as Izzy is the “Queen.” But she has learned to let Abby take the treat I give her and go to one side of the room, as she takes hers and goes to the other. They also play and wrestle . . . and sometimes Abby is the victor. Abby has even started playing with toys again—something she hasn’t done in a long time.

     And every day, both fifteens, enjoy the holidays by following me around with tails wagging waiting for me to take them for their daily walk. Izzy is the locomotive, I’m the passenger car carrying the poop bags, and Abby is the caboose.

     A love affair that, hopefully, will go on for years is in full bloom. Happy holidays, sweet fifteen!

 

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

It’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve. Your head hits the pillow and you drift off into a peaceful slumber. Then you begin to dream.

 

When you awake on Christmas morning, a portion of your nighttime fantasy sticks in your mind. Then something strange happens and you wonder if what you dreamt was not an illusion, but reality, with the . . .

 

 

Lights Out Before Christmas

 

     The Christmas Eve party at my girlfriend’s parents’ home was great. However, I think I may have had too much Christmas cheer. I was groggy and a bit disoriented. I lay in my bed, but I wasn’t sure how I got there.

     The evening became a blur, as I drifted off to sleep. But then something weird happened. I found myself lying on the ground behind a large rock in a grassy field. I managed to prop myself up enough to see over it.

     What I saw was beyond my wildest imagination. Devilish, glowing eyes, in the dark of night, pierced my soul. A soft, puffy tissue-like substance surrounded the blackened rings around the eyes. The ears stood at attention—poised like a sentinel in the night.

     “Geeshbatore, amas sabore,” the being enunciated words I didn’t understand. As it moved closer, this hellish creature appeared to sense my presence and emitted a loud, ear-splitting shriek, “Silminduceeeeeeeel!”

     My head throbbed. The creature’s head jerked forward. Its eyes sent a beam of light streaking across the blackness of the night. I wanted to get up and run, but the fear within me held me hostage.

     Not more than twenty feet away, I could see other weird looking beasts staring in my direction. The shrill sound seemed to have alerted them to the existence of prey. These tortured-looking, menacing souls stood in readiness waiting for the signal to approach.

     My stomach began to churn. My throat became parched. Tears welled up in my eyes. I struggled not to black out as my lungs filled with a noxious gas emitted by the creature. My tortured body grew weak—I gasped for breath.

     I closed my eyes hoping to make the nightmare disappear. But the creature’s presence just grew stronger and my anxiety level heightened beyond control.

     Then, five figures in black, hooded robes, with faces covered with blood-red bandanas, encircled me. They appeared to be praying. Were these prayers for me? Would this be my Christmas miracle—freedom?

     Holding black books, they chanted, over and over again, “Bete zu Gott . . . Bete zu Gott . . . Bete zu Gott,” the three words, inscribed in large red print, on the cover of the book.

     Sadness seemed to permeate their mantra. Perplexed, I couldn’t think straight. Was I going to die? Were they praying for the salvation of my soul?

     My spirit, now driven from my body by my captors, left me in a state of limbo. My body became limp. I no longer felt the need to fight. A dark, peaceful calm descended upon me. I became one with the universe. With all lights out, I slipped into a restful sleep.

     Then the clanging of the loudest bells I’d ever heard interrupted my tranquility. I shuddered at the thought of what might come next.

     And then words came out of nowhere, words I could understand. “Good morning, America. WKRUN welcomes you to a bright, sunny Christmas day in our wonderful land. Merry Christmas to all!”     

     I sat up in bed and perused the room. My family picture hung on the wall next to my college diploma. I saw my name, Marshall Wells, in bold black print. “Oh my! I’m home!” I screamed. I had a dream. Nothing more than a nightmarish dream.

     Feeling at ease, I dropped my legs over the side of the bed. My feet touched the floor. The big toe on my right foot banged into something hard. I reached down and picked it up. It was a black book. And the words on the cover, written in bright red letters jumped out at me—Bete zu Gott. “Oh, my God!” I shrieked. Could it be, what I’d experienced wasn’t a dream?

     The words stuck in my mind. I had to find out what they meant. So, with the book in hand, I went down the hall to my den and collapsed into my desk chair in front of the computer. I put the book down and typed Bete zu Gott into Google. What came up made my head spin.

     The words were German and meant “Pray to God.” “Maybe they were praying for the salvation of my soul after all,” I muttered. And now I was certain what I’d experienced wasn’t a dream. But I still couldn’t explain how it happened.

     As I got up from the desk, I reached for the book. A card fell to the ground from inside the front cover. I picked it up and stared at it. It read, “Frohe Weinachten,” and had a beautiful Christmas tree emblazoned below the words. I turned it over and was in awe at what I saw—a handwritten note . . . from my girlfriend.

     “Frohe Weinachten—Merry Christmas, my darling. You had a bit too much eggnog at the party. And you kept ranting about evil spirits coming to get you. So I thought it best to take you home and put you to bed.

     “Hope you enjoy your Christmas gift. I left it, unwrapped, on the floor next to the bed.

     “My dearest book collector, I bought you the 1898 vintage German bible you said you wanted, even though you had no idea what the cover title meant when we saw it online. And, at the time, you didn’t seem to care. However, you did say you knew the inside text was special, since it was written in German with the English translation beside it.

     “I am blessed to have you in my life. May the lights of Christmas brighten your day.

     “All my love, Annelise.” 

 

    

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Spending time with family makes the holidays special. We try our best to accomplish this.

 

Please read and enjoy the holiday experiences shared with me by three friends and blog visitors—Taylor Graham, Anne Constantin Birge, and Eileen Hacker. I’ve also included one of my own (Alan Lowe’s), in . . .

 

 

Memories Are Made Of This

 

 

Christmas On The Grapevine

 

Husband and I, four German Shepherds, antique organ for daughter, emergency camp gear in our VW Kombi—we headed south for San Bernardino, holiday with family. Gassed up in Frazier Park. VW quit on I-5 onramp. Rolled back down, into an old car fixit shop. Needed parts from Bakersfield—shut till after Christmas, but we could camp there. Hiked with dogs down arroyo to Lebec, then up a snowclad mountain. Christmas dinner: Dinty Moore stew. Awake in my mummy bag, I watched and listened—

 

gay lights on distant hills,

angel bells? tinkling with stars

of a frigid sky

 

By Taylor Graham

 

 

 

Daddy’s Christmas Gift

By Any Father’s Child

 

One early December day in the mid-1970s, Daddy’s eight-year-old niece was upset. When asked why, she said, “My birthday is on December 21^st and I don’t get the same number of presents as my brothers.” Daddy said, “My birthday is June 15^th. How would you like to have a birthday in June?” Her eyes lit like Christmas lights and she quickly agreed. There was one caveat: When she got “old enough,” she’d give her birthday to someone else in need.

 

Daddy’s been gone since Christmas 1991. For 45 years, a few children’s June 15^th birthdays helped his memory live forever.

 

By Anne Constantin Birge

 

 

 

The Christmas Surprise

Dedicated: To My Twin Daughters

 

 

“We’re getting a baby for Christmas!”

we told our three-year-old son.

“You’ll like a sibling. Won’t you?

That’d be lots of fun.”

The doctor wasn’t suspect,

(Ultrasounds rarely done).

The nurse was much the wiser.

“There’s probably more than one.”

The first was born quickly.

Too small, the doctor thought.

The nurse gave a smile.

(While I was quite distraught).

The second came easily.

In three minutes, she was born.

Two Christmas miracles,

on a cold, December morn.

Papa in the waiting room,

stood by with just his prayers.

“I’m glad you’re sitting, Sir.

Your babies come in pairs!”

 

By Eileen Hacker

 Where Were The Men?

 

It was mid-December. Sitting at the dining room table for our annual holiday dinner were my mother’s three aunts and uncles, my grandfather, my father, my seven-year-old sister, and nine-year-old me. My mother and grandmother placed a huge turkey, stuffing, veggies, and potatoes before us. The food smelled great. When they sat down, we gabbed and enjoyed dinner. After the meal, the ladies removed the dishes and food from the table. But where were the men? Why weren’t they helping? The answer—all five reclined on the living room couches, snoring like freight trains, with full stomachs moving up and down like giant waves.

 

By Alan Lowe

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

Wishing You Good Health And Peace 

And A Wonderful Holiday Season

 

 

During the holiday season, I look forward to spending time with my family. However, because of COVID-19, our family chose to enjoy this year’s Thanksgiving holiday through a Zoom meeting.

 

As I think of past holidays, I reflect on the moments to remember when shopping, traveling, and getting together. Below are two special experiences I would like to share with you . . .

 

 

I Didn’t Know That

 

On Thanksgiving morning, I sat in my sister’s living room. Standing across from me, my ten-year-old niece seemed quite uncomfortable. My sister asked her what was wrong. She pointed to her chest. It became obvious her early breast development, pushing her pajama top out, unnerved her. My sister asked if she would like to start wearing a bra. She responded, “Do they make them this small?” My sister replied, “We could buy you a training bra.” She seemed puzzled by her mother’s suggestion, and stated, “I didn’t know they had to be trained.”

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

 

But What If They See Me?

 

With Hanukkah and Christmas approaching, I drove with my eleven-year-old son, sitting in the passenger seat, and my nine–year-old daughter, sitting behind me, to Kmart to do some holiday shopping. As I pulled into a parking space, my daughter took one look at the store, ducked her head below the car window, and said, “I’m not going in there.” I asked her, “Why not?” She responded, “If my friends see me in that place, my reputation will be ruined.” “But won’t they have to be in the store to see you?” I inquired. She didn’t reply.

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

 

A Special Invitation—Please Read

 

I am planning to develop a blog post in mid-December, titled “Memories Are Made Of This.” I am inviting you to share one (1) holiday memory—sweet, funny, or enlightening. Please write a story or poem about the memory in 100 words or less in a word document and send it to me, as an email attachment, at slolowe@icloud.com, by December 10, 2020. All memories received, which are in good taste, will be posted. Please include a title for your story (not included in the word count) and refer to the family member(s) included in the written submission as son, daughter, niece, nephew, aunt, uncle, etc. Do not use names. Include your name, as you would like it to be printed, as the author, and your email address (which will not be included). Depending upon the number of memories received, yours may be included in the first post or in a later post during December.

 

Note: I will use your submission only on my blog. Copyright for all stories and poems submitted remains with the author.

 

I look forward to receiving your special memory.