Life’s responsibilities can cause us to misplace our priorities. Doing so can have unexpected consequences.

However, when you least expect it, you may be forced to face the reality of the situation. This is what happens in . . .

Mist Opportunity

     “Dammit, nothing’s going right. No matter what I do, it turns out wrong,” I screamed, not paying attention to the people within earshot in LaMont’s Grocery Store.

     “What’s your problem, sir? You’re upsetting the children,” a chunky, redheaded woman spouted.

     Water from the market’s produce mister dripped down my face. I stared at the kids, a redheaded boy and brunette girl. Both appeared to be under five. They tagged alongside her shopping cart and seemed oblivious to me. “Don’t you see what happened?” I asked.

     “Yeah, there are a lot of artichokes on the floor. You knocked them down. So what? Just put them back and stop whining about it. And wipe your face. It’s dripping all over everything.”

     “Put them back? But they’re all dirty and bruised. That’s not right. And furthermore, this is just a symptom of how my whole day has gone.”

     “Sir, it’s only ten o’clock in the morning. So stop complaining.”

     “But you don’t understand.”

     “Yes, I do. But for now, I want you to shut up and stop making my boss’s children uncomfortable. She’ll have my head if you upset them. Just move on and let me finish my shopping.”

     ”Lady, those kids don’t even know I’m here. They’re too busy taking things off the shelves and putting them into your cart.”

     She spun around and screeched, “Jacob, Polly, cut that out, you little . . .”

     At that point, I’d had it with her. I scrambled to pick up the artichokes and tossed them into an empty box sitting on the floor beside the counter. I ran my shirtsleeve across my face soaking up some of the water, grabbed my cart, and disappeared from “Madam Big Mouth’s” sight.

     The one thing she did get right. It was 10:00 a.m. But that didn’t make me feel any better. I now had the whole day ahead of me and my life was in crisis.

     I pulled my crumpled shopping list from my pants pocket and scanned down the ten items. I’ve got all but one, I thought. And I can get that one on the way to the checkout counter.

     “Ah, there it is, Milano Tomato Sauce,” I muttered. I pulled it off the shelf, placed it into the cart, and shuffled ten feet down the aisle to check out.

     The guy at the register stared at me and sputtered, “Your eyes look all foggy and wet.”

     “I’m living my whole life in one big haze,” I groaned.

     “Huh?” he gasped, as he handed me a rag.

     I ran it over my face and eyes. Life was still a bit fuzzy, but I could see better. I unloaded my ten items from my cart onto the conveyor belt. My mind wandered, and then . . .

     “Cash, check, or card, sir?”

     “What?”

     “How are you going to pay for your groceries?”

     “Credit card.”

     “Please insert it into the machine.”

     “Okay.”

     “Thank you, Mr. Jeffries.”

     He loaded my cart and I pushed it toward the door and out into the parking lot to my 2010 Dodge Charger. I shoved the three small, but expensive, bags of groceries into the trunk. I’d spent $83.00 for almost nothing. It was Saturday morning and the bread, meat, and veggies might not get me through the weekend. I shook my head in dismay.

     “Life isn’t fair. Things cost too much. I’m living alone and shouldn’t be. I don’t deserve this,” I mumbled.

     “Maybe it’s your fault?” a voice chanted.

     “What?” I looked around, but saw nobody.

     “Aren’t you going to respond to my question?” the same voice asked again.

     I scanned my surroundings, but couldn’t make out where the voice had come from. I yelled, “Hey, if you’re there, show yourself.”

     Nothing. No one appeared. So I opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat. I buckled my seat belt, stuck the key into the ignition, and started the car.

     It must be my imagination. I’ve been living in the clouds lately, I mused.

     I rolled out of the parking lot, hung a right onto Collins Avenue, turned left onto Flowers Way, and drove three miles to Lambeau Drive. On the corner of Lambeau and Flowers sat my 1800 square foot ranch style home. I pushed the garage door opener, watched the door jiggle back and forth as it opened, and drove in.

     Once inside, I sat and stared at the walls of the garage. I had trouble getting up the courage to leave the car and go into an empty house. For the past week, I’ve lived alone. July 8, that was the day Marsha left me.

     I slept late that morning and when I awoke, I was alone in bed. I pushed the covers back and made my way to the kitchen. On the round, glass kitchen table, I saw an envelope. Scrawled on the front were the words, “It’s your fault I’m leaving.”

     “God, everything is my fault,” I moaned.

     “Only if you want it to be,” a voice resonated, causing me to jerk my head around to catch the intruder in my garage.

     But I didn’t see anybody. My God, I am going crazy . . . losing my mind, I thought.

     Nothing has changed. I’ve been in a fog since that morning, adrift in a sea of emptiness. Why did she leave me? When I removed the note from the envelope, I thought I would have the answer, but I didn’t understand what it said. Just three words, “You did it.”

     “Did what?” I groaned. I tried to be a good husband. I have a good job as a senior partner in Jordan, Rockwell, and Smith, a prestigious advertising firm. We live in a nice house. Not huge, but comfortable. And the kids are doing great. Kyle is a successful attorney at a large law firm, Grant and Associates, in town. And Mona, a banker at Grace National Bank, acts as the financial advisor to the mayor. But I haven’t heard from them since Marsha left. And I haven’t figured out why.

     I’ve got to go into the house. I can’t stay in the car. I’ve got to get my life back. The tears fell from my eyes. My body quivered. “Am I having a convulsion?” I screamed.

     “No, you’re not. Restrain yourself,” the voice echoed.

     “Okay,” I responded, as I tried to control my trembling body.

     “That’s better, much better,” the voice uttered.

     Confused, I shouted, “Who the hell are you?”

     The response didn’t make sense. “Remember the words.”

     “What words?” I implored.

     “The other words on the note in the envelope.”

     “What other words?”

     “Clear your head. Concentrate. Don’t let this opportunity get away like you did the other.”

     “All right. Yes, I do remember. At the bottom of Marsha’s note, there were words printed. I read them, but they didn’t sink in, since I was so upset she’d left me. I’m having trouble making them out now. Everything’s hazy.”

     “Focus.”

     “But who are you and why are you helping me?”

     “I am the guardian angel of mist opportunities. You know, the fuzzy, blurry ones. It is my role to clear your cloudy mind and open your foggy eyes.”

     “Are you kidding me? Guardian angel? You’re just a figment of my imagination.”

     All of a sudden, the car’s headlights went on. Then the lights on the ceiling of the garage created an aura over the front end of the car. And there stood the chunky, redheaded woman from the grocery store.

     “What the . . .? You followed me home?”

     “Well, yes and no. I am at your home, but I didn’t follow you. I just appear when needed.”

     “But why would I need you? And if I wanted a guardian angel, she’d be beautiful and sexy.”

     “Your vision is more blurry than I’d imagined, for I am beautiful. And your concept of spiritual beings is quite distorted.”

     “Where are your halo and wings?”

     I only wear the halo at night to provide light, so I don’t scare people when I appear. And my wings, they’re here. However, they can’t be seen by the naked eye, unless I want them to be. Look closer and squint.”

     “Oh my, there they are. So what do you want from me?”

     “Think hard about the words you read in the letter, but can’t remember.”

     So I did. At first I saw one word and then more started to appear. The words floated above my angel. I focused and read, “Michael, your work world has overwhelmed you and you pushed me aside. I need some time to think. The kids and I are going to a bed and breakfast in the mountains. Call me when you are ready to talk.”

     “Oh, my God! I did do that—pushed her aside,” I whimpered. “I guess it is my fault. And I haven’t called.” Tears welled up in my eyes.

     I looked around to thank my savior, but she was gone. The garage was dark and I sat alone in the car. Through my tears, I reached for my phone and dialed Marsha’s cell number.

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Have you ever been accused of doing something you didn’t do? And your accuser is a total stranger.

So how do you respond? You’ll find out in . . .

Remembering April Showers

     I sat at my desk in my office on the second floor of the Liberal Arts building on the Templeton University campus. The rain beat against the window. The date on the calendar at the bottom of my iMac screen read, “April 25.” I guess the downpour shouldn’t surprise me, I thought.

     My eyes scanned the document posted in the center of the screen—page one of my lecture for my two o’clock English class. I love teaching creative writing, but, for some reason I couldn’t comprehend, today my lecture seemed neither creative nor inspiring. Guess I’ll just have to pull some interesting facts out of the air to stimulate my class of forty-five, who will be expecting more than I might be able to deliver.

      I started to gather up my things in preparation for the class. The pages of my notes pitter-pattered through my printer, many jumping over the tray meant to hold them onto the floor. “Oh well,” I sighed. “I guess nothing will go ‘write’ today.” Just a little pun I thought about using in class to spice it up.

     I knelt down to retrieve the papers, when I heard a rap on my office door. “Yes, please come in.”

     The door squeaked, as it opened. Colleen, the English Department secretary, stuck her head in and inquired, “What are you doing on the floor. Don’t you have a class in a couple of minutes?”

     I grabbed the papers and stood up straight. “Yeah, I do. Nothing seems to be going my way today. Must be the rainy weather. What can I do for you?”

     “When I returned from lunch, I found an envelop on my desk addressed to you. It says, ‘PERSONAL.’”

     “Let me see it.” Colleen handed it to me. My name, Professor Ira Ansel, appeared in bold letters, written with a felt-tipped, black marking pen. I shook it to make sure it contained only a letter—no poison powders of any kind lurking within. Sensing nothing but paper, I got the letter opener out of my desk drawer and slid it under the envelope flap and flipped it up. Then I hesitated.

     Colleen stared at me. “Well, aren’t you going to take the letter out? If you’re not curious, I am,” she gasped.

     I removed the paper, just a plain white folded sheet. I unfolded it and read aloud, “My Dear Professor Ansel, it was a pleasure to listen to your excellent speech last Thursday night on how to write a creative essay. The points you made will help me in my future writing, since I may want to write a movie script someday. After your presentation, I felt it had been worthwhile coming out on such a stormy April evening. The short chat we had afterward inspired me. And I even found myself somewhat attracted to you, my dear professor. I know that might not be appropriate, but I do hope our paths cross again in the near future.”

     “Well, it sounds like you have an admirer, ‘my dear professor,’” Colleen said with just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

     “I talked to a lot of students and some members of the community that evening after my presentation. I didn’t know most of them and nobody stands out. Just a blur of faces.”

     “But someone sure thinks you’re special. Is the letter signed?”

     “No. Just the words, ‘Remember April Showers,’ scrawled at the bottom of the note.”

     “Guess you must’ve had a weather girl in the audience who wanted to make certain you knew it rained in April. Oh, well, I’ve gotta be going. But you better keep me updated on your love life."

     “What love life?”

     “Oh, just a silly comment. You need to get to class. You’re already five minutes late.”

     She closed the door behind her and left me standing, wondering what the note meant. Since nothing came to mind, I grabbed my papers and hustled off to class.

     When I entered the classroom on the third floor of the building, one floor above my office, I noticed three men in dark blue pinstripe suits and light gray ties standing in the rear of the room. I placed my papers on my desk in front of the room and ambled toward the back to find out what these men were doing in my classroom. They must be in the wrong room, I thought.

     As I approached, the men just stared at me.

     “Hello, I’m Professor Ansel. Can I help you?”

     “My name is Hunter Adams,” the tallest of the men stated in a very rigid manner.

     I thought it weird he didn’t introduce the other two men. “Well, Mr. Adams, how can I be of service to you?”

     “I’m here about my daughter.”

     “Okay. Is she one of my students?”

     “No, she is not.”

     “Well, then, if she is not one of my students, how can I be of assistance to you?” He didn’t respond. “And, by the way, who are the other men with you?”

     “My attorneys.”

     “Your what? Why are you here?” I blurted.

     “It seems you may have behaved inappropriately with my daughter last Thursday night at the lecture you gave in town. She came home raving about how she had met the smartest, most marvelous man. She told me, he—you—made her feel very special. Professor, her comments worry me, as she just turned sixteen. She’s a minor, sir!”

     “Slow down Mr. Adams. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Your daughter may have been in the audience, but she never introduced herself to me. I just remember a sea of faces yelling at me and asking questions after my presentation. I did talk to some people individually, as time permitted. However, these conversations took place in the middle of the crowd. There were no improprieties on my part with anyone. I think you’re jumping to conclusions that are unwarranted.”

     “I don’t think so. She seemed enamored by you. Told me she sent you a note expressing her feelings.”

     “A note.”

     “Yes, a note saying she felt attracted to you.”

     “Well, I did receive a letter. And the writer did say she was attracted to me. But it wasn’t signed. It just ended with a comment about this month’s rainy weather. It didn’t make any sense to me.”

     “My daughter, April, signs her name to everything she writes.”

     “So your daughter’s name is April Adams?”

     “Well, it should be.”

     “Now what does that mean?”

     “April is an aspiring actress. As she has secured a few minor roles, I supported her request to change her name, because there already was a screen actress named April Adams.”

     “Oh, so what did she change it to?”

     “A name she believed nobody would have any trouble remembering—April Showers.” 

     I gulped, as this whole crazy ordeal began to make sense.

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

From the time we are children, we ask ourselves, “What does it mean to be free?”

The answer isn’t easy. But we must invest both time and energy in finding out, as is expressed in . . .

Freedom

Freedom is not a gift bestowed upon us by others. It only becomes a reality through our own efforts.

Hence, the essence of freedom comes from within. Only we can set ourselves free.

A person “under lock and key” may feel free, while one roaming the great outdoors may feel closed in and unable to breathe. 

An individual in a community, surrounded by others, may feel trapped and alone, while one living a solitary life may feel free and at peace with oneself and society. 

We may choose to limit our freedom, but since we make the choice, we are still free.

So what is the true meaning of freedom?

It is the opportunity . . .

 To dream, think, and learn.

              To inquire, look, and see.

                 To talk, sing, and pray.

                      To walk, run, and play.

                           To touch, feel, and care.

                                To want, decide, and do.

                                    To live, love, and be.

                                          Be who we want to be.

                                               And thus . . . be free.

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Is the love of money the root of all evil? Can it drive you to do things you’d be better off not doing?

And what if you were standing on a street corner and saw it falling from the sky? What would you do? You’re about to see in . . .

Free Money

     “Dollar bills! Dollar bills!” someone screamed. They dropped from the sky and floated through the air. Caressed by the wind—wisped in magical patterns. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

     I stared at Calvin. He seemed mesmerized. Neither of us said anything, as we walked down Main Street and watched the people around us. They, too, appeared in awe of what was happening. The sight of millions of bills falling from the heavens was an unbelievable event.

     But then movement—people became crazy. Running and screaming, they grabbed for the falling wealth, knocking each other over in an effort to secure the streaming green falling about us.

     The treasure, appearing from nowhere, created madness. Calvin and I dashed to a safe place beyond the throng of hoarders.

     He screamed to me over the awful din, “Lonnie, what should we do? You want to get into the mix and try to score?”

     “You’re nuts. Somebody will get killed if this continues much longer, and I don’t want it to be me.”

     The crowd grew—a reckless, out of control mob. People fell to the ground—some trampled, others kicked in the face and head.

     “What next?” I muttered. And then the dollar bills started climbing up the bodies, adhering themselves to those who tried to grab them. The bills seemed alive. They appeared to be on a mission—a very deadly mission.

     They all traveled a similar path from feet or out of hands toward the face. People panicked. Loud screaming, then gasping for air could be heard throughout the crowd, as bills covered both the nose and mouth of the foragers, leaving dead bodies everywhere.

     I grabbed Calvin by the arm. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

     “And go where?” he trembled.

     “I don’t have a clue, but we’ve got to go.”

     So we hustled down Main Street, hurdling over bodies and avoiding the falling cash as we ran. Reaching the end of Main, we turned right on Drury Lane, only to see more bodies, hundreds of them, covered in bills, lying face up on the street. And they all appeared to be . . . dead.

     My breathing became labored. This whole thing frightened me. Confused, I didn’t know what to do or where to run. My heart pounded in my chest.

     I looked behind me to find Calvin. His legs seemed rubbery, as he tried to keep up. “What the crap do we do?” I murmured. Overwhelmed by the nightmare in which we had become entangled, I struggled not to succumb to the fear within me.

     Frozen in place, I couldn’t move. Calvin hobbled toward me, falling to the ground about five feet away. I stared at him and cringed. A dollar bill slithered toward his prone body.

     I screeched, “Calvin, get your butt up and out of there.”

     I don’t know if he heard me. The noise of people all around us trying to escape the economic attack had become deafening.

     I pulled myself together and ran to Calvin, sidestepping the bills attempting to climb my legs. As I got to his side, the bill I’d seen approaching him grasped onto his leg. I reached down, grabbing it between my thumb and forefinger, and tried to rip it off.

     Calvin lay motionless, as I tugged at it with all my might. But it seemed to possess elasticity. It came toward me as I pulled, but held on at the same time. Frustrated, I gave it a hard, fast twist. It came loose.

     My jerking motion awakened Calvin from his comatose state. He began to squirm. I took hold of him and propped him up against me.

     “What happened?” he moaned.

     “Don’t know. You went out like a light. Let’s get out of here.”

     I helped him up. He clung to me. “I’m a bit shaky,” he whispered.

     “Can you walk?”

     “Yeah, I think so.”

     With Calvin leaning on me, we made our way down Drury Lane, careful to avoid the bills still floating through the air and, in particular, the more vicious ones on the pavement. Turning onto Amber Way, we confronted the most frightening sight I’d ever seen.

     The street overflowed with people, all covered with one-dollar bills. Some struggled to catch a last breath of air. Others, not moving at all, just lay there. Then my eyes focused on an astonishing phenomenon. Emerging from the Central Valley Savings and Loan on the corner of Drury and Amber were not people, but bills—not ones, but fives, tens, twenties, fifties, and even a couple of hundred dollar bills. All standing upright, they walked like a legion of powerful gods.

     Calvin muttered, ”What do we do now, Lonnie?” 

     “I don’t know,” I stammered.

     We were the only souls standing erect—Calvin and me, amongst a fortune set on destroying us.

     “This can’t be real,” Calvin whimpered. “Must be a dream.”

     “Yeah. And we’re in it together. You have to be kidding,” I replied.

     “Then you explain it,” he screamed.

     The marching bills began to encircle us. My mind raced. There must be a way out. There has to be. Then, scanning my captors, I eyed an opening in this procession of money.

     I reached over and grabbed Calvin. “This way,” I yelled.

     Dragging our fatigued bodies through the opening, we trudged into an alley alongside the bank. For the moment, we had eluded the bills coming after us.

     We huddled together behind a huge dumpster. I mumbled aloud, “If only we could get inside the bank.”

     Why Calvin had the presence of mind to look at his watch, I don’t know.

     “You do know it’s after hours. The bank is closed.” And with a slight laugh, he sputtered, “We’d be breaking in—like bank robbers.”

     At that moment, the side door of the bank opened. I trembled in anticipation of what might emerge. I thought, More money draining out of a financial institution.

     To my amazement, it wasn’t money. Four men dressed in bankers’ three-piece gray suits and striped ties strutted into the alley.

     Calvin and I watched as the men opened the trunk of a late model, jet-black Mercedes-Benz. What they did in the trunk we couldn’t see, but their behavior seemed strange. However, compared to the happenings of the day, it didn’t appear all that odd.

     Then one of the men turned and glanced in our direction. I began to shake, thinking he may have heard us hovering behind the trash bin. His eyes scanned the alley. Turning back to the others still peering into the car’s trunk, he uttered, “All’s clear. We can proceed with the day’s plan.”

     “What plan?” I mumbled. “What do these suits have to do with the money running through the streets and attacking people? What in God’s name is this all about?”

     Calvin shook his head. His body quivered. He said nothing.

     Than a second man, a huge fellow, maybe three hundred pounds, moved away from the group. Pulling a cell phone from his jacket pocket, he ordered, “Send it in.”

     Calvin gasped, “Send what in?”

     “Damned if I know, but I guess we’re going find out,” I groaned.

     Then the largest motor home I’d ever seen came rumbling into the alley, interrupting the relative quiet. Its large side doors slid open and the four men entered. The doors closed behind them. The alley became deathly still—no movement, no sounds.

     Calvin and I got up and stretched our legs, now quite stiff from squatting behind the trash bin. We stood for a brief moment and then retreated to our post behind the large bin to avoid being seen.

     The doors of the motor home slid open again. The shortest of the four suits emerged screaming at the top of his lungs, ”Who were those jerks that ruined the scene? Who let them on the set? We have to shoot the whole blasted thing over again.”

     “Calm down Stanley,” a man, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, implored. “We can work around it. Maybe even use the footage.”

     “How?” Stanley moaned.

     “Well, some people do escape the hold money has on us. ‘Free money’ isn’t an enticement to everybody.”

     “Show me one person who can’t be bought or conned for the purpose of gaining wealth and I’ll hire him on the spot,” Stanley scowled.

     “I did. Two, in fact.”

     “If we use them, we have to find them. If we find them, we have to pay them. If we pay them, I bet it’s going to be a lot,” Stanley bellowed.

     The men climbed back into the motor home and the doors slid closed behind them.

     Calvin laughed hysterically. “They’re making a movie. And we’re in it,” he sighed.

     My body drooped. I was drained, but relieved.

     We never did become movie stars. However, we did go to see “Free Money” when it came to our local theater.

Copyright © 2012 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

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

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

Wishes Do Come True

The little girl never told her mother

or anyone else about what she saw

that day in the park four years ago.

Only five at the time, she observed

a huge man in a dark gray windbreaker

yelling at her grandmother in a way

that sent chills through her young body.

She turned her head, hoping what

she had witnessed would disappear.

She bit down hard on her lip,

trying to keep from screaming.

Unable to endure the shouting,

she turned back once again

to see what was happening.

Her grandmother wept uncontrollably,

tears pouring down her reddened cheeks,

as she watched the awful man

drift off into the distance.

Four years later,

her grandmother entered the room,

decorated with balloons and streamers.

The celebration of her granddaughter’s

ninth birthday warmed her heart.

She watched her smile as her mother

asked her to blow out the candles

on the chocolate cake,

overflowing with whipped cream,

and told her to make a wish

that would surely come true.

The little girl closed her eyes

and wished and wished,

as the air flowed from her mouth.

Opening them, she saw the flames extinguish

and giggled like any nine-year old would.

Thirteen years passed. Now twenty-two,

the young woman stood at the top of the aisle.

Dressed in a beautiful white wedding gown,

a classical music piece played in the background,

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

to take her arm and walk her down the aisle.

She felt a presence come up behind her.

Taking a deep breath, she reached back

for the soft slim hand of the tall friend.

But it was not his hand she grasped.

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

Surprised, she turned and stared

into the strong, penetrating eyes

of a man she had seen only once—

seventeen years ago—in the park.

The wedding march began to play

and the two walked down the aisle

and stood before the preacher.

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

hand of my daughter, Samantha, in marriage,

to Joshua Lawrence.” As she again turned

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

has taken me many years to find the courage

to come back into your life, and with your

blessing, I will never leave again.”

With the broadest smile, Samantha leaned over,

kissed his cheek, and whispered,

“Birthday wishes do come true.”

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

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

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

My Buddy: A True Story

“2014”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

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

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

Just Answer My Question

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “Well, yeah, but—“

     “But what?”

     “Do you love me?”

     “How can you ask such a question?”

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

     “I’m old too. So what?”

     “But do you love me?”

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

     “Okay, we have three wonderful children.”

     “Three? Don’t you mean four?”

     “Guess so—if Sammy ever finds himself.”

     “See, we do have a great life.”

     “But you haven’t answered my question.”

     “What question, Max?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “No, No. You’re much more.”

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

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

     “What?”

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

     “But I asked you a question.”

     “And I asked you one?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

     “Because you love me. Right?”

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

     “Well, do you love me?”

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

     “But . . . I love you, Max.”

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

     “Do you love me?”

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

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

Copyright © 2014 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.