Sleep should be restful and peaceful. But sometimes it doesn’t work out that way.

Do creatures from outer space really exist? Or are you just having a nightmarish dream? You’ll soon find out in . . .

A Night To Remember

A loud noise interrupted my deep sleep—a weird shrieking sound. I thrashed around in my bed trying to free myself from the maze of tangled blankets. I rubbed my crusted eyes and managed to force them open. I scanned the room for the source of the din.

And then, what I saw blew me away. It was beyond my comprehension. As it moved forward, its eyes gawked at me. They glowed in the dark, projecting an eerie light. The blackened rings around them, surrounded by a soft, puffy tissue-like substance made me queasy.

My stomach began to churn. I could feel a burning sensation in my throat, as the acid sought an escape route. “God, I have to puke,” I muttered. Tears welled up in my eyes. I tried to move my legs, but they were frozen in place. I attempted to roll over, but nothing happened.

Then the creature’s ears stood at attention—poised as a sentinel in the night. Its head jerked forward. Its eyes sent a beam of light streaking across the blackness of the room. More eyes looked at me, now aroused by what appeared to be a signal for them to approach.

They lumbered toward me. I wanted to run, but couldn’t feel my legs. Paralyzed, I fought with the covers. But it was no use. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I gagged on the continuing flow of acid. Experiencing fright beyond my wildest imagination, I screamed for help, but only I seemed to hear it.

I began to wheeze—breathing became difficult. I struggled not to black out. What did this being want? I thought. What had I done to deserve this? The fear within me became overwhelming. I didn’t want to die. I gasped for air, but . . .

I closed my eyes hoping to make the nightmare disappear. Although I saw nothing, the demon’s presence grew stronger. I felt it touching my body. The others seemed to leap from across the room up onto the bed. Certain, death was imminent, I began to pray for forgiveness.

“I’m not a bad person. I do lie a little. And I stole a package of gum when I was twelve. But hasn’t everybody, at one time or another?” I moaned in desperation. Let it be over quickly. I can’t take much more of this. “Just let me go in peace,” I whimpered.

The alien being’s grip tightened on me. The other creatures seemed to be poking something cold and wet into my nose and cheeks. “Stop it!” I cried out, but I didn’t have a clue if anybody heard me. Where was my wife? Had she escaped? Or did they get her? Was she dead?

I trembled. Sweat poured out of every pore in my body. The monster began shaking me. I swayed back and forth. The nails of the predator dug into my arms. I thought I heard words, but I couldn’t understand a thing. I had to beat my fears and open my eyes to see what was happening. With every ounce of courage I could muster, I looked the creature straight in the eyes, surrounded by black rings, and bellowed, “Get that flashlight out of my eyes.”

The dogs jumped away from my face and the ugliest woman I’d ever seen—hair in curlers with black goop around her eyes and a brownish cream all over her face—stared at me and yelled, “You’ve kept me up the whole night with all your moaning and groaning. Now you’re up, too. Enjoy the moment.”

“Yes, darling,” I murmured, and buried my head in the pillow.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes things go unsaid. Feelings aren’t shared.

And then a very special birthday occurs, which nudges open a door, allowing these unsaid words to flow and hidden feelings to surface, in . . .

A Letter To Dad

“Given To Him On His 80^th Birthday”

I had been meaning to write this letter to my father for a long time. But life seemed to get in the way, and I put it aside. However, today, with the rain beating on the window, I had no desire to be out in it. So I sat at my desk facing a new blank word document on my computer screen. And I reflected on my life—a life with him and the things that remained unsaid. So I

began . . .

Dear Dad, when I look in the mirror, I see a lot of you in me. I am your son and it makes me proud. But I am fifty-four and that seems strange. For that is how old you should be. It is the age of a father, not a son. However, I, too, am a father, and my son is the age I should be. This all seems so confusing.

You are now eighty and have completed a large part of your life. The tire tracks of time have been etched into your body and mind. I know you have many memories of our journeys together—some now faded, others still bright. They are part of our mutual history.

Although we have had our disagreements, I never doubted your love for me. As the years have passed, so have the differences between us. Some we have worked out. Others have drifted off into a sunset of peace.

From the times you umpired my Little League baseball games to the trip you made to my college in upstate New York to bolster my spirits when I was ill, I knew you would be there when I needed you. Your support always has been very important to me.

However, there were occasions when I thought you were too hard on me—pushing me to meet unreasonable standards. But then you relaxed and let me do my own thing, at my own pace, and stayed off my back. The lessons from these experiences became the essence of the man I am today.

Over the years, I may not have expressed in words the love and respect I have for you. I love you for everything you are and for everything you have given me. The seeds you have sown have made me both strong and understanding. You have taught me compassion and that grown men are allowed to cry.

From the example you set, I have embraced being frugal and not squandering either time or money. You have provided me with the tools to get through hard times and to enjoy the fruits of my success. The work ethic I have embodies your teachings. You have been my role model. I deeply respect your business knowledge and the dedication you had for your craft.

I hope you count me as one of your successes, that I have made you proud, and not let you down too often. As the seasons change, I want to be not only your son, but also your friend. As you have supported me all these years, I am here for you. For Dad, eighty is not old. It is just the beginning of a new decade of life. May you enjoy it to the fullest . . . with love, your son, Alan.

Dad passed away on January 28, 2003, a little more than four years after receiving this letter. Two months before his death, he and my mother traveled to my home outside Sacramento, where I had been living for three months. He wanted to see it and the college where I worked. At the time, I had no idea why he felt the urgency to visit me so soon after my move. However, as I found out later, his cancer, in remission for nine years, had returned—a fact he shared only with my mother.

The visit turned out to be one of the most significant experiences of my life. For the first time, he put into words his feelings about me, the man. As he exited my home to get into the car to go to the airport, he hugged me and whispered, “I am so proud of everything you have done and of the man you have become.”

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

I’ve never been good at choosing gifts to give on holidays and special occasions. So I write a check.

But is this appropriate for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day? This question puzzled me. And then, it dawned on me that the most precious gift to be given on these days is one we’ve already received. This becomes clear in . . . 

My Son, My Daughter

As I age,

I reflect on the things most important to me.

My son, my daughter,

you play a crucial role in my life.

Each day,

I think a lot about what you mean to me.

It is hard to choose the words

to describe my feelings.

You are my treasures—

special in every way.

Not many gifts can a father appreciate,

as I do you.

Our phone calls each week

bring us closer together and keep our lives intertwined.

To laugh with you, to cry with you, to hear the stories

of your adventures have been my good fortune.

It pleases me

you entered beautiful relationships and found fulfilling jobs.

I admire the life choices you made

and delight in your accomplishments.

Although we are separated by distance,

I will always be there for you.

Forever, I pray you achieve

the successes you so deserve.

You have given me more to be proud of

than I can describe in words.

It is my wish our love will continue to grow

and our bond will be everlasting.

My son, my daughter,

you are the world to me.

I am blessed

to have you in my life.


Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Aging causes life changes. Activities we were proficient in, such as sports, may no longer be reasonable options in our sixties, seventies, and beyond.

But we should never give up the search for physical activities that keep us going and growing. Sometimes future “athletic” challenges are right in front of us, as we will see in . . .

Mutt Mitt

     You’ve heard of gloves for skiing, football, boxing, weight lifting, and even billiards. And baseball has gloves for first basemen, outfielders, infielders, and catchers. All of these are well known. 

     But when you reach your seventies, for many of us these are just a reminder of a past to which we are unable to return. So as I sat on the sofa in front of the large picture window in my living room, I thought about a sport I might be able to excel in at my advanced age.  My best friend, Rodney, sat beside me pondering what he might get for dinner.

     As my mind drifted, the phone rang. I heard it, but I’ll be damned if I could find it. It was about to go to voice mail, when the light bulb went on in my balding dome. Flash! Flash! “Under blanket on the ottoman,” lit up in my mind.

     I kicked the blanket off and grabbed the phone. “Hello,” I gasped.

     “Hey, Mike, have you given any thought to what we discussed yesterday morning when we were walking the dogs?”

     “You mean joining a bowling league?”

     “Yeah, man. I think I know three other guys who might be interested.”

     Well, that is another sport that you could use a glove for. In fact, I did, when I was a young man. “Don’t know, Max. I know I told you I was an avid bowler when I was younger, but . . .”

     “No buts Mike. This is an opportunity we can’t pass up.”

     “You also know I told you I switched from bowling right-handed to left because I developed bursitis in my right shoulder.”

     “So, bowl left-handed, my friend.”

     “Well, after bowling left-handed for over fifteen years, I developed degenerative arthritis in my left arm.”

     “Did you see a doctor about it?”

     “Yes.”

     “So what’d he say?”

     “Said if I could stand the pain, I couldn’t injure it any more than it is.”

     “Good. So it’s settled. I’ll call Larry, Ben, and Ozzie and let them know it’s a go. League play starts in two weeks. This will be a blast.”

     “Hold on! Not so fast Max. I don’t think the degenerative disks in my upper and lower back will let me do it, even if I believed I could withstand the pain from the arthritis.”

     “You know, man, you have an excuse for everything. There’s an assisted living place about a mile from here. I heard they have a sport that might suit you.”

     “I’m not ready for assisted living. But what is the sport?”

     “Bubble gum chewing and blowing.”

     “Can’t do that. The gum will get caught in my dentures. And sometimes I’m short of breath. Don’t know if I could blow the bubbles.”

     “My, God! When’s your funereal?”

     “For God’s sake, I’m not dead!”

     “How do you know? If not, you’re sure close to kicking the bucket.”

     “Cut the crap, Max. Maybe there’s another sport that requires a glove that we can get involved in.”

     “Why’s a glove so important.”

     “I don’t know. Just feels good to wear one. Let’s sleep on it tonight. We can talk about it tomorrow. Take the dog’s on a walk about nine?”

     “Sure you can hold the leash? Didn’t you say you had carpal tunnel?”

     “No, I didn’t.”

     “Okay, nine’s fine. Meet you on the corner of East Lake and Hummingbird Loop. Bye.”

     I got up off the couch and stretched. Oh, boy, I think I threw my back out. The pain’s a nine. I gritted my teeth and wobbled into the kitchen to prepare Rodney’s dinner, a canned mixture of mushy gunk, called “Doggy Delight,” and some solid, square stuff, named “Chew Chew Crumbles.” As he gobbled it down, I timed him—exactly twenty-six seconds. “Boy! That’s a record,” I yelled.

     Used to walk Rodney twice a day, but my body ain’t up to it anymore. So, since I wasn’t going anywhere this evening, I warmed up some leftovers from last night, put them in a bowl, grabbed a napkin and fork, and shuffled into the living room. I slid onto the couch and began to consume my feast. As I ate, I thought about a sport I could get involved in—one involving minimal physical exertion and preferably one that used a glove—a mitt. Why this was a condition for participation, I had absolutely no idea.

     After dinner, with all my energy zapped, Rodney and I crashed on the couch. Around eleven, I awoke from my nap, let my friend out to do his business, and got ready for bed.

     I pulled back the covers and crawled in. Then I heard Rodney bolt through the doggie door. He came romping into the bedroom and leaped onto the bed with great finesse. We both settled in. As I began to doze off, sport gloves and mitts twirled like a halo around my head.

     The morning arrived all too soon. When I looked at the clock, it was almost eight-thirty. Wow! I’ve got to meet Max and his close companion, Boomer, at nine. “Guess we’ll eat when we come back, boy.”

     I put on my sweats and tennis shoes, hooked up Rodney, and bolted out the door and up the street to meet Max on the corner. He stood there staring off into space. As I approached, Rodney let out a major league, Hello. It startled Max to such a degree I thought he was going to fall over. However, he regained his balance and . . .

     “Morning, Mike. Beautiful day for a walk, isn’t it?”

     “Yeah, if I was awake, it would be.”

     “Well, the kids are. So just let Rod drag you.”

     And drag me, he did. Up one street and down another, periodically smelling the bottom of trees, stop signs, and fire hydrants, seeking the messages left by both intimate friends and strangers. And then he began his dance, circling in one direction and then the other, on the lawn in front of one of the community fountains.

     “Look at him go. Thinks he’s on stage,” Max chanted.

     But then he stopped and began to drop his doggie presents, not once, but three times. Fully relieved, he started to pull me off the lawn. As I tried to get him under control, I felt Max grab my arm and then Rodney’s leash.

     “I got him. You go get them.”

     So I pulled out a doggie bag from the public dispenser, opened it, and slid my hand into it. Then, with the expertise of a professional, I grabbed all three poop piles, securely tied a knot in the top of the bag, and tossed it up and into the trash bin. “A three pointer,” I screamed. “I’m the man!”

     “You certainly are,” Max stated enthusiastically. “I think you’ve found your sport.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “Poop pickin’ and tossin.’ And you used a glove.”

     “I used a what?”

     “A glove,” he said with a grin on his face.

     “A glove? What glove?”

     He went over to the dispenser and pulled out a bag and held it up in full view. I saw a picture of dog tossing a bag of poop into the garbage bin. The inscription on top of the bag read, “Mutt Mitt—The Pet Pollution Solution.”

     Max cried out, “As I said, you’ve finally found the sport at which you can excel.”

     And I couldn’t disagree.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

The outcome of the 2016 presidential election is still being questioned. Did Russia really play a role in who won?

 

Could Russia or another entity influence the vote in future elections? Some believe an investment in time, energy, and money, along with the appropriate technology, could lead to an . . .

 

 

Election Correction

 

         “Jordan, I’m sick and tired of hearing the candidates bash each other. They don’t talk about what they can do, but only about what their opponents can’t do.”

         “And the name calling by candidates from both major parties is inappropriate, Denise.” 

         “I don’t trust any of them. The logic of their statements eludes most people—even some of the brightest minds.”

         “I suppose you consider yourself one of those intellectuals who does get it, Denise?”

         “Well, some people might place me in that category.”

         “Maybe so. And you know, Denise, the ethics of all the candidates are at best questionable.”

         “Yeah, using a personal computer to transmit highly confidential information. Can you believe that? There is no way I could back that candidate for the highest office in the land.”

         “Denise, Jordan, you can stop now. Thank you. You’ve done as I asked in your opening statements about the election, without mentioning names or making unsubstantiated accusations to support your remarks,” Dr. Winkler stated. “Class, let’s give them a hand.”

         Applause resonated throughout the room that day in 2016, just seven months away from the November general election. I admired Dr. Winkler. He was a talented Political Science professor and I enjoyed all the classes I’d taken with him at Boston Proper University—three to be exact. 

         As Jordan Rush, the soon to be graduate student at Washington D.C. University, I sat at a desk in the outer office adjoining the plush offices of Senator Warren Bradshaw, and reflected on my undergraduate college years, which culminated with my graduation two months ago, in June. I did well, and my academic success landed me a summer internship in the District of Columbia, where I worked closely with Senator Bradshaw, one of the most respected politicians in the nation’s capital. 

         In my short time in this position, my on-the-job experience had been both eye opening and mind-boggling. I learned the ins-and-outs of what I concluded to be a somewhat corrupt political system. Many did not tell the truth. They seemed to care only about themselves. Determined to be better than what I’d witnessed, I began to craft my political future in a way that just might change the outcome of this and future general elections, in a positive way.

         As such, I placed a phone call to Denise, my college “power partner.” The phone rang and rang. Dammit, I thought. She’s not picking up. My mind drifted. But then . . .

         “Hello,” a pleasing, high-pitched voice brought me back to reality.

         “Denise, it’s Jordan.”

         “Well, Jordan, my man, why have you taken so long to call?”

         “Hey, it’s only been two months.”

         “That’s a long time. My hair’s starting to turn gray.”

         “Yeah, you’re becoming an old woman.”

         “You better believe it. I’ll be twenty-two in six months.”

         “See, you are old.”

         “Okay, Jordan, cut it out. To what do I owe your gracing my ears with your melodic tones.”

         “Denise, my sweet, I have a proposition for you.”

         “I don’t do sex with someone who hasn’t called me in two months.”

         “That would be nice, but that’s not the proposal I had in mind.”

         “Then what?”

         “How would you like to determine the outcome of the November election?”

         “You’re dreaming, Jordan. Two soon to-be graduate students have no control over the political machinery running awry in these screwed up candidates’ bids for office.”

         “But maybe we do.”

         “All right, prove it to me.”

         “Meet me at eight o’clock Wednesday evening at the Celebration Café. I’ve reserved the back room.”

         “But I’m not in Washington, I’m in Boston.” 

         “The plane ticket you’ll receive in the mail will get you here in time for the meeting. And I’ve made a hotel reservation for you, as well.

         “Gee, a whole meeting room just for the two of us. And a hotel reservation, too. Very flattering. So you are making a move on me.”

         “You can fantasize all you want. But no, my dear Denise, we will not be alone at the café and you will be alone in your hotel room and I will be in mine. I thought we might need some chaperones for our rendezvous, so I invited two to join us.”

         “Oh, that’s nice . . . a double date.”

         “Yes, in a matter of speaking.”

         “Who are these people?”

         “Let’s just say, if we have any chance of affecting the outcome of the election, we need these two on our side.”

         “Where’d you find them?”

         “Interns see and hear a lot. I’m a looker and listener and data flows into my magnificent brain. However, these two just dropped into my life one day. Seemed to know I came from Boston. And we have a common interest. In my brief conversations with them, they appeared to be as dissatisfied with upcoming election as you and I are.”

         “Magnificent brain. That’s what I love about you, Jordan. And you’re so humble.”

         “You don’t get anywhere in Washington by being humble.”

         “Then okay, I’ll see you Wednesday evening. Oh, will you pick me up at the airport?”

         “I can’t, but a driver will meet you outside the baggage claim area. Look for a tall, sexy blonde holding a sign with your name. He’ll drive you to the hotel. See you soon. Bye.”

         I couldn’t wait to see Denise. Throughout my college years, she was like the other half of me, in an intellectual way. We made things happen. Not quite on the scale of what I was contemplating, but still impressive. We orchestrated most college elections—tried our best to make them fair.

         Wednesday evening arrived. When I entered the door of the café, Christian Robinson and Angela Walker were waiting for me. Christian, a tall, brown-haired man of about thirty-five, paced back and forth in the lobby of the restaurant. Sitting on the padded bench beside the door, the redheaded Angela, a few years his senior, rapidly moved her fingers to the music playing over the café’s sound system.

         Before I could speak, Angela moaned, “It’s about time. We’ve been here for fifteen minutes.” 

         I looked at the clock on the wall. It was only two minutes after eight. Rather than engage in a battle with a woman I wanted to be a part of my team, I kept my reply to myself. “Nice to see you again, Angela. How are you doing Christian?”

         He nodded his head and muttered, “Good, very good.”

         “Where’s the girl?” Angela inquired.

         “I sent a car for her. She should be here any minute.”

         “You’ve kept your mouth shut about your plan, haven’t you?” Angela queried. “I have too much invested in the world I’ve created here in Washington to have it blown up by a scheme wandering around in your young mind, no matter how good you think it is.”

         “Yes, I’ve kept quiet. Just the three of us—and Denise—know it exists and only I know the details. I haven’t even discussed them with her. I’m getting a bit worried. She should have been here by now.”

         Christian gave me a weird look. “I’m not going to wait much longer,” he stated. “My time is valuable.”

         “Yes, mine, too,” Angela said, shaking her head. “Why don’t we get on with our discussion without your young lady? You said she doesn’t know the details. So why wait?”

         “Because she has the technical expertise to make the plan work. I’m only one piece of this puzzle,” I asserted.

         Both Angela and Christian nodded to one another. Christian turned and started toward the door. Angela got up from the bench and followed him. Then something strange happened. Angela looked over her shoulder and murmured just loud enough for me to hear. “Was your plan to murder one or more of the prospective candidates?”

         This question blew my mind. What was she thinking? I stood there in silence. The next thing I knew, I found my face pressed against the wall. I couldn’t see anything. Then someone grabbed my hands and handcuffed them behind my back and read me my rights.

         “You’ve got the recording of his unwillingness to answer the question, Angela?” a voice echoed behind me. 

         “Sure do. He’s been planning this for months. Said he had to change the outcome of the election and he knew how to get it done.”

         “But . . . but, you don’t understand!" I yelled.

         “Turn him around. I want to see his face,” a male voice ordered.

         And when they did, I was staring at two men in suits. One, a large gray-haired man, in his fifties, shouted, “What don’t we understand?”

         Trembling, I screamed, “That I never planned to murder anyone.”

         At that moment, a figure wearing a hoody and a mask came through the café door and stood before me, with what looked like a knife in its hand. This scared the hell out of me. I began to sweat profusely. “What do you want from me?” I whimpered.

         The masked intruder ran its fingers over my cheek. And then a soft woman’s voice murmured, “Now aren’t you sorry you waited two months to call me?”

         “Huh? Denise?” 

         No response. She just ignored me. But then what came out of her mouth left me dumbfounded. 

         “Hello, cousin Angela. And nice to see you again, Christian.” 

         “You know them, Denise?”

         “Yes, I do.”

         “But why am I being arrested?”

         “Arrested, . . . no. Accosted, maybe. But not arrested.”

         “But these federal agents—the handcuffs?”

         “Federal agents? Not really. Hello, Daddy. And how are you, my wonderful brother, Doug?”

         “What’s this all about?”

         “I decided, if you met my family, I might be able to push our relationship to the next level.”

         “Next level?”

         “And, by the way, I cancelled your room reservation. The bed in mine is big enough for two.”

 

 

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

What if you can’t find a date on the food package you purchased at the market—the one that indicates it could be bad for you if you eat the package’s contents after the date has passed?

Should you take a chance and eat it? This is the question in . . .

Expiration Date

     It was a gorgeous, sunshiny August day in the beautiful, active adult community of Leisure Ranch, about thirty minutes from Sacramento. June Moses, seventy-two, sat at the kitchen table of her sprawling ranch house, engrossed in preparing a grocery list. George Moses, seventy, sauntered into the kitchen and moved to the large, white GE refrigerator across the room from her and opened the door. Grabbing a bag of salad from the vegetable tray, he flipped it over and then back again. Confused he didn’t find what he was looking for, he called out to June . . .

     “Hey, June. What’s the expiration date on this Asian salad mix you bought last week?”

     “Just look on the bag.”

     “I did, but I can’t find it.”

     “George, can’t you do anything for yourself?”

     “Come on! I’m just asking you to help me find the date. I’m not asking you to cook a full seven-course meal for me.”

     “Oh, about that. What do you want for dinner?”

     “Dinner? All I want is a salad for lunch. Dinner’s six hours away.”

     “Well, I’m going to the store and if you want something, you’ve got to tell me.”

     “First, you tell me where the expiration date is on this salad bag, so I know I won’t die if I eat it.”

     “George, George, my sweet, dear George. Nobody ever died from eating an expired bag of salad.”

     “There, you said it. It’s expired.”

     “No, I didn’t. You did.”

     “You wouldn’t care if I died, would you?”

     “Just don’t do it now. I’ve got to go to the store to get the things I need to make dinner.”

     “That’s all you care about . . . dinner, dinner, dinner. What if walk to the mailbox this afternoon and get run over by a car and die?”

     “That’s not going to happen.”

     “How do you know? We live in a senior community. Those crotchety old folks can’t see or hear. They don’t even slow down at stop signs. My demise could be at any time.”

     “Is your insurance policy paid up? And, more important, am I the beneficiary?”

     “Oh, don’t be cute, June. You’re making me angry.”

     “Then, maybe you’ll just have a heart attack from the stress and drop dead in front of me. Then I won’t have to worry about your dinner. I’ll just open a can of soup for me.”

     “There you go again. Just thinking about yourself. I don’t matter. Do I?”

     “Well, you did. But keep going on like this and you won’t.”

     “Are you threatening me again?”

     “Again? When have I ever threatened you?”

     “At the Wertheimer’s party two weeks ago.”

     “What do you mean? I don’t remember threatening you.”

     “When it’s convenient, you just forget.”

     “Right now, I want to forget you.”

     “See, another threat.”

     “That’s not a threat. That’s a comment.”

     “Threat, comment . . . whatever. You want me to die so you won’t have to be bothered by me ever again.”

     “Now that’s a thought. What is the value of your American Life Insurance policy?”

     “What?”

     “If I’m going to get rid of you, I need to know if it’s worth the effort.”

     “So get rid of me. I’m going to starve to death anyway.”

     “George, you’re thirty pounds overweight. It’ll take years before you starve to death.”

     “I can’t handle this anymore. I’m going to McDonald's for a burger and fries.”

     “Well, that’ll certainly kill you. What happened to the healthy salad you were going to eat for lunch?”

     “It expired.”

     “So you did find the expiration date on the package?”

     “Huh, no. That’s why I asked for your help in the first place.”

     “I’ve had it. I’m going to the store. Do you want anything?”

     “Yeah, a new bag of salad. And make sure it has an expiration date I can find.”

     “My, oh my. You certainly are a prize, George.”

     “What?”

     “Never mind.” I’ve got my shopping list. Now where are my car keys? “George, have you seen my car keys?”

     “They’re just where you left them. On the third hook from the right on the cabinet by the door to the garage. I have to remember everything for you. And you can’t even help me find the expiration date on a bag of salad.”

     “You don’t know when to quit, George. Do you?”

     “What are you talking about?”

     She shook her head in dismay, grabbed the keys from the hook and reached for the doorknob of the door to the garage. Grasping the knob, she looked back at George and 
blurted . . .

     “Go check our marriage license.”

     George seemed baffled. “Huh. What for?”

     “The expiration date.”

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Sometimes we wander down the highway of life, not knowing where we are going. Feeling alone, we reach out to others for help.

We fear our future is mapped out for failure. But then, out of nowhere, comes a sign that suggests—we may no longer be . . .

Directionless

The wind whipped through his hair as he stood on the beach, his eyes transfixed on the ocean waves beating against the rocks. It reminded him of what his existence had been like before he met her—the girl who mysteriously entered his life and changed his world.

He had been raised by a mother who had no clue how to rear a child and a father who could care less. He was not beaten by either, but received just the very basics in food, clothing, and housing—all other aspects of growing up were neglected.

Intelligent and very much aware of what he did not have, he searched for adults who might fill the gaps in his life as he matured. At times, he felt like an intruder in the lives of these people and, at other times, like a lost soul for whom others provided handouts.

His strange existence frightened him, as he meandered through the dark woods of life trying to find his way. Yet deep within, he knew he was capable of becoming more than just one of the dregs of society—someone to be pitied.

Severely beaten one afternoon, after school, by a gang of thugs—just for the fun of it—he dragged his aching body home. When he arrived there, with blood dripping from his nose and scratches on his face and arms, he sought help from his mother.

She scrutinized him, tossed him a wet washcloth, mumbled something unintelligible, and left the room. He had long passed the time when tears would flow from his eyes over such treatment. So he grit his teeth, washed his wounds, and crawled onto the cot in his bedroom.

Trembling, a cold sweat drenched his limp body, as he lay staring up at the ceiling pondering what might become of him. And then a light shined through the filthy bedroom window creating a picture on the wall across from the bed. He focused on it, trying to figure out if it had meaning beyond just an image emerging from the dirt and grime that characterized his life. It appeared to take the form of an arrow pointing towards the west, but he could not fathom what this meant.

He started to drift off into an uneasy sleep, but the thought of the arrow remained ever-present, as it seemed to be showing him where he needed to go. He tossed and turned, as clouded visions of his past flowed through his mind—visions he wished to erase.

As his past and present collided, he knew he had to confront who he was, so he could determine who he wanted to be. He quivered at the thought of this undertaking, as he believed he was unprepared to do this.

Five more weeks to graduation and then the doors to a different life would open. But would he have the courage to go through them? He winced at the thought of doing this by himself. However, had he ever had someone in his corner?

Those five short weeks seemed like an eternity. They dragged on and on, as if he was plodding through a tunnel to nowhere. Nowhere was where he had been, not where he needed to go, and the arrow may be pointing the way to freedom. He needed to believe this, as it was the only way he would exit a past in which he had served an eighteen-year term in the darkest prison.

Then graduation day arrived—the ceremony scheduled at two o’clock. Although he had hoped to have someone to go with him, he had to go alone. His mother, living in a world of her own, hid under the covers in her bedroom, and his father was nowhere to be found.

Grabbing the white shirt from his closet that he would not wear for anything other than this occasion, he added a pair of old black pants and a soiled red tie to the package. He took the cap and gown from the plastic wrap in which he had received them at school, slipped into the gown, zippered it, and placed the hat on his head. He looked in the bathroom mirror and the reflection was one he had never seen before—strong and hopeful.

As he walked the three long blocks to Emerson Valley High, he started to turn left onto the campus, only to see an arrow with the words “graduation ceremony” pointing right—west. Entering the football stadium where the ceremony would take place, he shuffled down the aisle on the west side of the field to his assigned seat. It was not hot, but sweat beaded up on his forehead. He wanted this so much, but the fear of what comes next—becoming a free man—frightened him.

As he fidgeted in his seat, Principal Monroe moved to the podium and bellowed, “Welcome graduates and friends to a day you will remember for the rest of your life. This is a very special event, to be made even more so with the awarding of three full scholarships to three prestigious universities—Yale, Notre Dame, and Stanford. To make these awards even more significant is the fact the recipients have no idea they have been selected to receive them. So graduates, sit back and try to relax. When I call your name, please come up to the stage from the west side of the stadium, my right, to receive your diploma.”

He sat and stared as the principal began to call the names of the graduates in alphabetical order and each danced, plodded, or strutted up to the front to receive recognition. About twenty students into the day’s ceremony, the scholarship to Yale was presented and then seventeen students later, the recipient of the Notre Dame scholarship pranced to the stage. He would be the one hundred tenth student called, with just six more to come after him. The wait became agonizing.

Twisting and turning in his seat to try to endure the suspense, there seemed to be nothing he could do to make the time pass more quickly. His mind drifted off into space as he watched the clouds float by and he forgot where he was and what he was here for. But then, hearing his name, Andrew Zimmer, resonate through the stadium broke his trance. He pulled himself together and approached the stage with the caution of a firefighter fighting a blaze.

As he climbed the steps, he noticed a gorgeous young woman, with a smile that ignited a fire in his gut, moving to the podium. Reaching the platform, he stood about six feet from her—stunned by her presence and confused as to why she was there.

Then she spoke. “Ladies and gentleman and esteemed graduates. My name is Jessica Carr, the Emerson Valley High student from last year’s graduating class who received the Stanford University scholarship. I traveled west from New York and enjoyed a fantastic freshmen year at Stanford. I am honored to have been invited to today’s graduation ceremony to present this year’s full-ride Stanford scholarship to . . .”

He stood there in amazement, staring at the lovely creature who held the key that would open the door to the rest of his life. With his future now ahead of him, he moved toward her, bowed his head, and muttered, “Thank you.” Elated to receive the gift that would give him the opportunity to escape his hellish existence, he raised his head and walked proudly from the stage, and followed the arrow—west.

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.