The Visitor

            The doorbell rang. And rang. And rang.

            Norah attempted to ignore the sound, sure that it was some type of door-to-door salesperson. She hated them. Well, felt sorry for them as they were just trying to earn enough money to pay rent. Or buy a car. Or get something to eat. She believed that most were being taken advantage of, were being used, or abused and no way would she support the company behind the racket.

            The ringing turned to knocking. Then pounding.

            With a huff, Norah tossed her knitting on the table next to her chair and strode to the door. Yanked it open, prepared to lecture the knocker.

            When she saw the smiling faces, Norah’s lit up in return. Her arms, of their own accord, spread wide open and her words called them to snuggle inside.

            “Happy birthday, Grandma!”

Naming Tree

            Gerald approached the tall oak in the center of town. It was so old that even the elders recalled it standing proudly in front of the cathedral. Its leaves sounded like fragile paper in the wind, its branches danced to the soft music of voices far away.

            He was required to register his name in the book embedded in a hollow at the base of the tree. This wasn’t the original book, for his people had been recording names since time began. Since people learned to write. As each book filled, one of the town’s ministers replaced it with a new one, one with clean pages, ready for continuing the ritual.

            Gerald bowed, tossed a coin into a basket for that purpose, took one, two steps forward. He placed his right hand on the trunk, bowed his head and asked for forgiveness. Hope. Success in life. Blessings for his family.

            He’d brought the family pen. His grandfather had inscribed his name using it, as had his father and his father, going back generations. No matter how old, it never ran out of ink, never lost the ability to record another name.

            Which name should he write? His birth name or his preferred name?

            Gerald hesitated as his mind dwelled over the dilemma. Birth or preferred? Preferred or birth?

            With lightness filling his mind, Gerald leaned over the book, placed the tip of the pen on the page, and wrote.

            Gerald. Peggy.

Photos

            When my dad brought home a box-shaped camera around my eighth birthday, I was hooked. Granted I didn’t get to use it as film and processing were expensive and our family had little money to spare, but I loved the black and white images. It didn’t matter if the top of someone’s head was missing or the feet or an arm. It didn’t matter if the image was too dark or bleached out or if it was a bit fuzzy.

            There was an intrigue about immortalizing that moment, that brief glimpse into someone’s life that thrilled me.

            Polaroid cameras granted instant gratification. You had to be patient as the image processed, right before your eyes! It was a small miracle, taking place in color.

            I don’t remember my first camera. Most likely it came from a thrift store or bargain basement warehouse as the only money I had was from picking and selling fruit from our neighbor’s trees.

            I don’t recall what I attempted to immortalize or what happened to that camera.

            In college I enrolled in an art class, not because I was interested in art, but to fulfill a graduation requirement. I hated columns: Greek, revival, whatever. I hated cornices but found gargoyles interesting.

            When the course turned to paintings, my interest was tickled. Scenes a happy people lounging in a meadow or leaning over a fence or watching horses race touched me deep, deep inside. They calmed me. Snuggled into my heart and brought a peace I’d never known.

            The abstracts confused me, but I relished every slide of a real-life image.

            Next came photography. My brain lit up, reminding me of my futile attempts to freeze a moment in time. The images before the class had a depth and clarity beyond my comprehension.

            With my little camera I began taking photos of trees and flowers and people from afar. None of my products were good, or even acceptable, but I saw them as learning opportunities.

            I joined the Catholic group on a retreat. I had no idea what a retreat entailed except that it was in a forest. Somewhere.

            When I got off the bus in a quiet place surrounded by humongous trees, my first instinct was to capture that image. Little cameras are incapable of taking photos of giant trees, so all my attempts were failures.

            Inside the cabin, I was assigned a top bunk. I climbed up, to see what it would be like, while someone began playing the guitar. I’d recently rekindled my love of music, so sang along quietly, a smile, I’m sure, on my face. The woman across from me asked to see my camera. She took a photo of me when I was distracted.

            Imagine my surprise when the developed images included one of me! Light hair, shoulder-length. Wired rimmed glasses sparkling in the flickering overhead light.

            I dabbled with photography off and on, as time allowed. After marriage, a trip to Yosemite introduced me to the great Ansel Adams. I studied his books, joined an Ansel Adams photography club and took classes at the community college. My husband set up a developing lab in a bathroom and we experimented with exposure, highlights, different techniques.

            We entered photos at the county fair. I never got a prize, but my husband did for a picture I took, but he processed. I was given a small show at a downtown photography store. I never grew tired of seeing my work in the front windows that faced the street.

            I bought better and better cameras as the ‘bug’ continued to intrigue me. I created albums for our kids. Each got several when they turned into adults.

            I learned how to frame a scene, how to choose contrast, when needed. How to look for an interesting something in the foreground. How to edit on my computer.

            Photography still intrigues me. When we travel I always have my camera plus my cell phone. I take shot after shot hoping to catch one that fulfills my expectations. And then, back home, I assemble those images into albums that capture the memories we created.

            Photography fulfills me in the same way that singing in the choir does, that writing a story does, that spending time with friends does.

In Charge

            The blitzel stopped working. It started just fine: the engine whirred and the tumbler tumbled. But then, with a screech and a shudder, the machine gave up.

            The chief machbelly ran into the engine room, shouting, “The blitzel isn’t processing the data! The entire project will be ruined.” She glowered at the engineering staff, her face glowing redder than usual in the operating room’s lights.

            Stan, the operator, shrugged, shook his bald head, and flipped an entire row of switches, one by one. “Nothing’s working.” His deep voice reverberated around the room, echoing over and over, slowly fading into gibberish.

            “Try harder.” The chief machbelly placed her heavy hand on Stan’s shoulder.

            “I’m ding the best I can.” Stan’s voice dropped to a whimper.

            “Well, it’s not good enough. Fix it, or you’re fired.”

            Stan rolled his desk chair back two feet and stood, crossing his beefy arms over his huge belly.  “If you’re so velitious, you do it.”

            The chief machbelly crossed her arms over her chest, matching the engineer’s stance. Clearly a showdown was in place and she was determined to win. “You’re the operator, no, I mean engineer. I’m the boss.”

            Stan chuckled, shook his head, and said, “I’m out of here.”

            “If you leave, don’t comeback.”

            The door slowly shut, leaving the chief machbelly alone in the air-conditioned room, surrounded by numerous gauges and dials. She had never run the blitzel and knew nothing about how it worked, but she was determined to succeed.

            She rubbed her hands together, leaned over the console, located the compression dial and turned. One notch. Then two. She rotated the power knob to the left, the one click more.

            The blitzel remained silent.

            She tapped each of the ten gauges, saying through gritted teeth, “You must work. You must work.”

            The chief machbelly jumped back when the console shivered, groaned, squealed then emitted a blood-curdling yeow.

            Pressure increased, slowly, slowly, slowly. The power gauge moved upward. The voltage likewise increased.

            And then…and then, the blitzel roared to life.

            The chief machbelly rubbed her palms together. “I don’t need Stan or anyone else,” she said. And then smoke streamed out from under the desk. A nose-twitching stench that slowly filled the operating room.

            Flames reached toward the ceiling as the chief machbelly ran out of the room.

            Stan laughed at her smudged face.

            “I guess you do need me afterall.”

            The chief machbelly waved her right hand at the door. “Get in there and fix it. Now!”

            “Only if you give me a substantial raise.”

            The stench began filling the outer office.

After receiving a written promise, Stan returned to the operating room, a smug smile lighting up his face.

What the Heck?

            Suzanne Pelletier stomped into the classroom, smelling like cigarettes and violence. Her legs, encased in a blue pencil skirt, moved in short, choppy waves of anger. A matching blue blazer, all three buttons done up, strained against her bulging chest. A falling-apart bun dripped off the back of her head, and when combined with the smear of blood-red lipstick running across her cheeks, she presented herself more as a monster than a mother.

            At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Stevenson stood abruptly, her purple grading pen slowly rolling off the edge of her desk. It landed on the linoleum floor with a resounding plink.

Her calm confidence was strengthened by her attire: a pretty butterfly blouse with matching black slacks. Whereas Mrs. Pelletier towered over her, thanks to stiletto heels, the teacher’s feet were ensconced in a comfortable pair of Hoka tennis shoes.

            “Mrs. Pelletier,” Stevenson said, “I wasn’t expecting you.” She leaned forward, a welcoming smile on her face. “How can I help you?”

            Pelletier marched up to the desk, slammed her bulky purse on top, sending student papers flying, intermixing with dust motes the angry woman had stirred up.

            “You. Should. Be. Ashamed,” Pelletier said. Spittle flew, splatting against the teacher’s face. Globs dripped down, creating a Halloween-like mask. “No, you should be fired and chased out of town.”

            Stevenson wiped her face with tissues she’d pulled from a box. She dropped them unceremoniously into a trash can. She indicated they sit at a student table. “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Please, let’s talk.”

            Pelletier planted her hands on her ample hips. Her glower extended from eyebrows to hairline. “You should be fired! You should be chased out of town.”

            “Perhaps once you explain, I’ll be able to answer your concerns.” The teacher sat in one of the metal folding chairs that her student’s used. She pointed to the chair opposite her.

            The angry woman plopped into the chair, sending it’s neighbor skittering to the left. She wrapped her arms around what the teacher realized was a Louis Vuitton bag. The handles folded in on themselves, now looking more like a wet noodle than an expensive hunk of whatever.

            “Uh, why don’t we talk about your concerns?”

            Mrs. Pelletier clutched her bag even tighter to her chest, flattening it so nearly that it appeared to be empty. “You are a heathen, plain and simple. You are corrupting my son with your liberal thinking.” She sat back so forcefully that the front legs of the chair lifted, just a tad, off the floor.

            “Please don’t lean back like that,” Ms. Stevens said. “Many students have found out that these chairs tip quite easily.”

            “Don’t distract me!” Pelletier’s face crimsoned, her eyes narrowed and her lips turned into harsh lines.

            Ms. Stevens drew in a slow breath, then fought off the cigarette-induced coughs that threatened to burst forth. The son, Christopher, had said that his mother chained-smoked despite it triggering repeated asthma attacks.

            “I’m interested in specifics, Mrs. Pelletier. Can you give me a concrete example so I can understand your concerns?”

            Pelletier pulled a tattered copy of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men from her purse. Held it aloft. Waved it as if a wind was ripping through the classroom. “Heresy. Murder. Racial mixing. Denigrating stereotypes of white men.” She ruffled the pages. “It’s all in here. And you expect my son to read this.” She slammed the book down on the table.

            Ms. Stevens gave a little twitch to her shoulders to release the tension developing there. Plus to buy time to think. It didn’t work. The tightness spread down her spine, all the way to her now-curling toes.

            “The novel is required reading for all ninth graders in the state.” She nodded to reinforce the truth of her statement. When the woman’s face didn’t lose its vibrant red coloration, she said, “but if you don’t want Chrostopher to read it, he can choose an alternate novel.”

            This was true, and if the parent had read the Student Handbook that the district gave to every family, or bothered to read the course syllabus that Ms. Stevens handed out on the first day of school, Mrs. Pelletier would have known this.

            Shock registered in the parent’s eyes: the widening pupils was a dead giveaway. Stevens allowed herself a moment of self-satisfaction. She’d outwitted the woman. She’d crushed her anger into smithereens.

            “Mrs. Pelletier, did you have an alternate in mind?”

            The woman shook her head slightly. Her cheeks puffed out, her lips pursed and her breathing became ragged. “Well, no. That’s your job.”

            Ms. Stevens walked over to a bookcase at the back of the classroom. She pulled out two hard-bound novels and placed them in front of Mrs. Pelletier before returning to her seat. “Are either of these okay?”

            “I…I’m not familiar with them, so I don’t know.”

            Stevens held out her hand, smiled when the parent placed both in her open palm. “This one, Mikey, covers a trial in which a young boy is accused of assisting in the murder of a storeowner. My students enjoy the novel.” She opened the book, turned it around so the parent could see. “Parts are written in screenplay format. While most of my students aren’t familiar with this style, once they understand, they can’t stop reading.”

            Pelletier shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s till murder, right? How is that different from this book?” She pointed to the Steinbeck novel.

            “There’s a big difference.” The teacher sat back in her chair as her face lit up with satisfaction. “The time period, for one. The book I assigned took place in the 1930s, while this one,” she touched Mikey, is contemporary. The first one is set on a ranch in the Salinas Valley, while the other happens in Manhattan.”

            “How about the other one?” Mrs. Pelletier was visibly deflating as time passed. Her shoulders slumped, causing her head to dip toward her chin.

            “Dragon Fire” is set in a fantasy world. My students seem to watch a lot of movies in the genre, so find it quite fascinating.”

            Pelletier sighed. Shook her head. “Don’t tell me there’s a murder in this one as well?”

            “It’s fantasy, as I said.” Mrs. Stevens forced a smile on her face. A flimsy attempt, to be sure, but with any luck, the parent might not notice. “You’ve seen fantasy movies?”

            “Oh, of course. Our family loved the Generations series.” A light of amusement seemed to fill her eyes.

            Stevens shrugged. Tilted her head slightly. “Then you know what they’re about. Domination. Subjugation. Fight over mineral elements. Rallying the troops.”

            The parent sat back in the chair. Her chest seemed to cave inward. “I can’t win this argument, can I.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of defeat.

            “Oh, yes you can.” Stevens’ eyes lit up. “You have the right to an alternate curriculum if you so demand. All you have to do is put your concerns in writing which you submit to the district office.”

            Pelletier’s hands trembled. “You want me to write a letter?”

            The teacher nodded. Leaned forward. Smiled. “Of course. The procedures are outlined in the Student Handbook.”

            Mrs. Pelletier checked her shiny gold watch. “I have an appointment across town.” She pushed back her chair, stood, smiled. “For now, Christopher can read that book.” She tucked it inside her purse.

            She spun around and slinked to the door.

            Mrs. Stevens returned to her desk and resumed correcting student papers.

Help from on High

            The only prayer I knew before first grade was; “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”

            Pretty dismal. Imagine being three or four and thinking about dying in bed. I was terrified to close my eyes and drift off, certain that I’d be dead before sunrise. In my mind, God was not a friend and not someone I wanted in my life.

            To enroll my brother in the Catholic elementary in Dayton, Ohio, we had to prove that we attended Mass and gave money to the church. We drove into town, sat through a boring service conducted in Latin, a language I didn’t know, then hurried home to watch football or bowling.

            The next year I enrolled in the same school. Now my days began with prayer, ended with prayer, included instruction in religion, and had prayer time all day long. Lots of praise God and Alleluia. Threats of eternal damnation and black spots on your soul. Displeasing God so badly that he’d turn his back on us.

            At home I had to get on my knees every night and pray next to my brother. I’d learned new prayers: Our Father and Hail Mary. At least now I didn’t go to bed thinking about my death. But I had new things to worry about.

            Did I talk back to my mother? Did I have awful thoughts about my brother or sister? Did I hate my teacher? Classmates? Did I waste food that could feed kids in China?

            God took, terrified me, and shook His finger. He offered nothing positive. No hope. No escape from my dysfunctional family.

            While part of me didn’t believe God cared about me, I prayed to Him anyway. I prayed for relief from the constant torment from my siblings, from the anger directed toward me from both parents, from the overwhelming sense of despair that surrounded me.

            Even as young as eight, I hoped, prayed, that God would lift me out of my living situation and drop me into a happier one. By twelve I was planning on running away. By fourteen, when we moved to California, I studied so as to go to college, another escape. In fact, it was the only way out, other than marriage, something I was opposed to given the poor relationship between my parents.

            Considering years of prayer, with little change, I thought about giving up. Why pray if no one was listening? It seemed like a fruitless activity.

            But when things worsen, when life becomes unbearable, you must do something. I was too young to move out plus I had no means of supporting myself. No relatives lived nearby, so I couldn’t change residences. The one hope; having good enough grades to earn a scholarship.

I prayed constantly. In between classes? A prayer. Eating lunch? Pray. Riding the school bus? Another opportunity to pray.

I refused to give up, to think that God had abandoned me when I hadn’t done anything seriously wrong.

Toward the end my junior year of high school, a letter came addressed to me. I was a recipient of a scholarship from the State of California! It could be applied to any college, whether public or private. I had done my research and knew what colleges were at the top of my list.

San Francisco State University and College of the Redwoods had excellent teacher education programs. SF State was also strong in math, my top subject. My parents wouldn’t let me go to either. They laughed at the idea of me being a teacher. Good, old, shy me. The girl who could sit among others and say nothing.

I prayed.

I applied to the University of Southern California, in the math department. I got accepted! My scholarship would cover the tuition. I borrowed to pay room and board.

It wasn’t at the top of my list, but because my brother has been accepted there, my parents let me go, only after telling him to keep an eye on me.

I thanked God.

While at college, I was walking back to my dorm when I heard this amazing music coming from a one-story white brick building. I stuck my head in, to discover Mass with drums, guitar, tambourine, and folk music that I knew and loved.

That discovery led me back to God. Not the fire and brimstone version in my younger life, but a God who loved me and cared for me. I went on a retreat with the Neumann Center. When I got off the bus somewhere in the mountains, and smelled the pine needles, walked among the debris on the forest floor, touched the bark of a redwood and looked up, up, up so high that it hurt my neck, I knew there was a god.

That experience changed me. Things still went wrong when I had to go home. After all, my parents were the same, my siblings were the same, so why would I expect something new?

I’d like to think I grew a spine, thanks to Divine Intervention. God infused my soul with grit. He empowered me to take risks, to stand up for myself. To create goals that I wanted to accomplish and strive toward them.

That was fifty-four years ago. God is still in my life. I believe He watches over me, helps me make decisions and guides me in many, many ways.

Sometimes we need a little help.

Walk in the Park

            Earlier in the day, a gentle rain had fallen, leaving the air fresh and the sky a beautiful blue. Jessie and her friend Bethany had met in the parking lot of a nearby park, their favorite due to its rolling hills and tree-covered trails.

            A great number of pine needles had fallen when the winds blew through overnight. With each step, that sweet smell greeted the friends’ noses. They’d set off, as before, by first climbing a rather steep hill, one deeply rutted from previous rains.

            Talking was virtually impossible on the narrow trail, so it wasn’t until they’d reached the place where the ground leveled out that the two could share thoughts.

“How are your classes going?” Bethany asked as she avoided a pile of doggie doo.

“Pretty good. I love my Botany class.” Jessie popped open the top of her water bottle and took a small sip. “I knew nothing about plants, but the professor had a good reputation.”

“So, are the rumors correct?”

Jessie nodded. “Dr. Anderson explains everything so clearly that it makes sense.”

“That’s interesting.” Bethany stopped to look up when the trill of a blue jay sounded overhead. “It’s right there,” she said as she pointed to a high branch. The friends smiled when the jay titled its head, seeming to be looking at them.

“I’m learning lots about plants, like how to take care of them,” Jessie said, “but I’m not sure I’d take more Botany classes.”

“If I recall correctly, you’ve got a brown thumb.”

“Exactly.” The two resumed walking, the trail leading up one of the ten hills for which the walk was named. “I wish I could grow the kinds of plants that the Monarch butterflies like. I’d plants several on my patio.”

“My friend Peter has a huge backyard,” Bethany said. She pointed toward a meadow that had appeared on the right side of the trail. “It has lots of green grass, like over there, but he keeps it trimmed. The best part, however, are his gardens.”

Jessie spotted a doe and fawn grazing under a tree. “Look how cute they are!”

“Deer come into Peter’s yard and eat his plants. He’s built fences around some, but the deer, so far, have been able to jump right over.”

“Do you help him garden?”

Bethany laughed. “Not me. Too much work. I tried once, but my back killed me for days.”

Jessie stopped to examine a small green shoot poking up through the pine-needle covered trail. “What kind of plant is that?”

Bethany snickered. “Shouldn’t you know? You’re the one taking Botany.”

“Not this one. It’s so tiny. And brave. Imagine popping up here, where a bicyclist is likely to smash you to bits.”

Jessie touched a leaf. “It’s fuzzy. And soft.”

Bethany smiled after she did the same. “Just like a baby’s butt.”

By the time Bethany stood up, Jessie had stepped off the trail, and seemed to be searching for something. “What are you doing?”

“There should be more. My professor said plants grow in clusters. To enhance reproduction. Plus to not overload a particular area.”

Bethany took out her phone and snapped a few pictures. “When I get back home, I’ll upload the photos and do a search. Within seconds I’ll know what this is.”

The two resumed walking when their search proved fruitless.

“I just can’t get that plant out of my mind,” Jessie said. “So tiny, so alone. It makes me think of stories I’ve read about homeless kids. Imagine living on the street, no adult to shelter you.”

Bethany laid an arm across her friend’s shoulder. “That’s what I like about you, my friend. You relate everything you see to something happening in the world.”

They continued along the trail, and after reaching the top of a particularly steep hill, they stopped under the huge tree to enjoy the shade.

“I have to,” Jessie said. “If I don’t think about others, if I don’t worry about that tiny plant, then who will?’

Patience

Tell me everything.

Don’t leave out the tiniest details

I want to hear your story, my dear.

Oh, mother, it’s so boring

And you’d never believe me anyway.

Yes, yes, I would.

I promise I’ll listen carefully

Memorizing every little description

Every thought, my dear.

Okay. Hear goes.

Mother, you know I’ve been interested

In Daniel Peters for a long, long time.

Oh, I remember!

You met in kindergarten.

Didn’t he build you a sandcastle?

Please, Mother, don’t distract me

So, the Sadie Hawkins dance is in two weeks.

You asked him, didn’t you?

Mother, just listen for once.

I wanted to ask Daniel

But he’s been dating Sharon Yeats

She’s not half as pretty as you.

Or not even close to as smart as you.

Mother, let me explain.

Anyway, I kept my eye on Daniel,

Looking for clues.

Sharon never ate lunch with him.

He never walked her to class

Or carried her books

.

So, did you ask him?

Please, please, Mother, listen, will you?

Everyone makes a big production

Standing up in the cafeteria

Holding signs and asking…hoping

I got brave

Made a huge sign

Walked up to the microphone

And said, “Daniel Peters,

Will you be my date?”

He said yes, I just know it!

Mother, you’re so wrong.

Everyone started laughing.

My cheeks got hot.

Tears formed in my eyes

Where does he live?

I’m going to go talk to him

.

No, mother, don’t do that.

Let me finish my story.

As I was walking away,

Just before I left the building,

Someone grabbed my arm.

I turned around, angry,

Ready to say something snarky,

But it was Daniel

.

I knew he’d come through!

Mother, no you didn’t

Because I didn’t.

He smiled, then whispered

His feelings in my ear.

So now I need a new dress

And a boutonniere

Let’s go, right now.

Where, Mother?

Shopping.

Fire!

We knew we would soon be moving from Ohio to California.

Our dad was an avid Cincinnati Reds fan, but had never attended a game in person. My brother played on a team, the worst team in the league. I was the better player, but back in the 60’s, girls weren’t permitted on boys’ teams, and there were no teams for girls. This irked me, to say the least.

Since my brother and I loved the sport, and we knew this was our last chance to see our beloved Reds play, we decided to earn enough money to take our family to a game.

Our neighbor, Mrs. Riddenhoure, had several fruit trees in her backyard that were overloaded with fruit. With our parent’s permission, Mrs. Riddenhoure allowed us to pick as much fruit as we could, knowing we intended to sell everything.

Our mother gave us a basket of tomatoes and another of green bell peppers.

We put everything in our rusty wagon and headed up the gravel road, knocking on doors. Each time we’d sold our load, we’d return home, pick more fruit, then head out once again.

This was hard work. Pulling a full wagon up hill was not easy. It bumped and rattled along, frequently coming to an abrupt halt when stones blocked the wheels. After we’d visited all the neighbors’ homes uphill, we headed downhill.

If you think going down was easy, you’re wrong. Imagine trying to keep a heavy load from crashing into the backs of your legs, or walking while bent over, gripping the and of the wagon, attempting to keep it from breaking loose and taking off, on its own.

We had no concept of how much tickets would cost, but after selling out, we’d return home and count the proceeds. After a couple of days doing this, our dad declared that there was enough to pay for both of my parents, plus my brother and I. Our sister stayed with another family, probably a good decision as she was only seven and held no interest in any sport.

Off we went to Cincinnati, a long drive from our rural home in Beavercreek. At first, we took single-lane country roads, then two-lane roads, then eventually a highway. (This was before freeways had been built.)

Since it took so long, I worried that we would miss the game, but, no, we arrived in plenty of time.

Our seats were on the second deck, along the third base side. I was in awe of the stadium. The lights, the signs, the excitement in the air stimulated me so much that I was trembling from joy.

I was intrigued by the perfectly mowed grass, the smooth infield dirt, the seemingly huge pitchers’ mound, and the umpires in their black uniforms.

On the ride home, my dad talked about our team, how well they played, the fact that they won. I couldn’t recall a single detail, other than the colors of the uniforms.

After we finally got back home, I went straight to bed. I couldn’t sleep because I was over stimulated.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened as I was only a naive fourteen-year-old, but a storm moved in. Later my mom told me that the weather person on the radio (which she had on in the car) had predicted a massive thunderstorm coming our way.

Anyway, as I was comfortable under my covers, a loud crack of thunder shook the house. I was used to thunderstorms as they happened frequently, but nevertheless, each one terrified me. Well, having this one so close, shook me to the core.

Minutes after the crack, my mom opened the bedroom door and told me to get up, get dressed, in that no-nonsense tone of voice. I changed quickly, for I sensed something had gone terribly wrong.

As I entered the front room, my mom handed me the leash, and told me to take the dog to Mrs. Riddenhoure’s house. The neighbor didn’t allow dogs inside, so I sat on the step to her kitchen, unaware of what was happening outside, until daybreak.

I smelled smoke, heard additional bursts of thunder and rain beating the roof of the garage.

My brother came for me, telling me it was okay to come outside.

By that time the excitement was nearly over. Later I learned that the volunteer firemen had arrived within minutes of my dad’s call. Hoses still snaked across our front lawn, now empty and useless. Steam arose from the ashes of our garage and across the fragments of roof still standing.

Before we’d gone to the game, my dad was in the process of installing a new, more powerful, TV antenna. It looked finished to me, but apparently, he had yet to complete the last step, the most important one in a thunderstorm-prone area: grounding the antenna.

Well after the firemen had left, a man from down the hill arrived with a photo he’d taken: an image of a ball of fire descending from the sky/

That’s what had hit the antenna. The firemen, when they saw this, returned. They attempted to follow the path the lightning had taken, as it traveled inside our house.

Every window had aluminum siding. The lightning was attracted to the metal, finding it in every room on the east side of the house. After setting the garage on fire, the lighting had erupted from one side of each window, then created a hole on the opposite side, so as to continue its journey north.

It burst free out of the north side of the house, sending the boards flying and leaving behind a gaping hole.

Now my bedroom was on the east side. If I had gotten out of bed to look out the window, the lightning would have hit me, setting me on fire. It was thanks to my mother that the four of us made it safely out of the house.

What remained was piles of ash and molten remnants of bicycles, tools, and all kinds of detritus stored there. Sifting through the ash, my mom discovered that most of her canned foods had survived. We depended upon them to get us through the winter, so that was a blessing.

The only other salvageable item was the manger from the nativity set.

How did that ceramic Jesus survive, intact, with no scorch marks?

When we moved to California, Baby Jesus rode with us in the car, wrapped carefully so as not to be damaged. Once we had a place to live (we were homeless for a bit), every Christmas, it was with awe that we held that manger, placed it inside the creche, and then told everyone why it was so precious to us.

I had two regrets: one, that I had missed all the excitement dur to my confinement in the garage, with the dog, and, two, that many years later, when my parents were both deceased, that my dad’s second wife disposed of the manger without consulting me.

Finding Peace

Northern California is a fairly remote part of the state. One major highway leads from the San Francisco Bay Area through towns nestled along the coast. There are no big shopping centers, some small-business manufacturing, and almost no traffic.

When her husband of five years, Victor, abandoned the family, Sandra Monroe moved up north to give herself and her two kids a fresh start. Plus she’d be far away from the cooperative farming community he’d bragged about, somewhere in state of Wyoming.

When she was preparing to move, Sandra went online looking for reasonably priced homes to rent. There was an old cabin in Fortuna that seemed to need a ton of work. The walls were covered with peeling, faded wall paper that spoke of the 1970s.

A rancher had a trailer for rent situated somewhere behind the barn. Its sides were dented, so the insides were probably dented as well.

When she found a small bungalow-style home for rent in the older part of Eureka, Sandra called the realtor. Thankfully Victor hadn’t emptied the bank account, so she had enough for the deposit and first month’s rent. Signing a contract without walking through the home was risky, but since school was starting in a week, she had to get Emma and Jake enrolled as soon as possible.

The drive north, once they got away from San Rafael, was gorgeous.  Forests lined both sides of the highway, whenever there was an open field, elk could be spotted, and a meandering river paralleled the road for a good chunk of the way.

Emma and Jake kept themselves entertained in the back seat watching movies on their iPads and playing games. Since the kids wore headphones, Sandra could listen to an audiobook she’d been wanting to read. Everyone was happy, occupied, and hopefully excited about moving someplace that none of them had seen.

Sandra hated leaving her job, teaching third grade, but thanks to glowing letters of recommendation, she quickly found a job working at a small public school, teaching fifth grade to a grand total of twelve kids.

The principal interviewed her on Zoom. He seemed professional, and stressed open communication. He believed in team-building, something Sandra wasn’t so sure about. Every time she’d been placed in a team, members either stole her ideas or discounted her suggestions.

When you stand just a tad over five feet tall, people treat you like a little kid. Sandra worked to change those perceptions, but only in her last school was she able to be treated as a valuable member of the team.

Thank goodness the home was move-in ready. They’d unpacked, then driven to the school so Sandra could meet the principal in person, look at her classroom, and get Emma and Jake enrolled.

School began two days later. Emma loved her first-grade teacher and Jake, who hated school, enjoyed his time in the computer lab. He’d joined the school’s soccer team and even though he’d never played the sport, quickly became the top scorer.

After school Emma went to the day care on campus. The way she described it, Sandra wondered if it was more like day camp than a tutorial.

Sandra had packed all easy-to-fix cookbooks, which helped her prepare meals that her kids mostly accepted.

She loved her students. They ranged in ability from well-below grade level to highly proficient, a nightmare when trying to meet all their needs. Sandra was used to adapting curriculum, but it took lots of planning.

Every night after dinner, she balanced grading papers with doing laundry, helping her kids with homework while working on next week’s lesson plans, and fretting over keeping the lights and water on, with only her salary as income.

She’d found an attorney who specialized in going after dead-beat dads, so she’d already filed for alimony and child support. Considering that Victor was working for free on that commune, unless he got bored, which was a huge possibility, there wouldn’t be any help from him any time soon.

Sandra loved her children so much. When they ran around the backyard catching insects and lizards, Sandra sat in a chair, her eyes filled with tears of wonder and joy. When they went to the park with a huge climbing structure, Sandra moved closer to offer support to Emma.

All was going well.

Autumn came in with a downpour. Since they hadn’t needed rain gear in Hayward, Sandra had to go shopping. She’d search through all the thrift stores in the area, carrying home armfuls of coats, hats, gloves, and even rain boots in the right sizes.

She struggled affording nutritious food, until she saw a flyer for assistance at the Unitarian Church.

Twice a week two women arrived in a black SUV. Both wore long dresses topped with solid-colored cardigans, their hair in neat buns. They’d pop open the back of the car, pull out boxes of food, which they delivered with huge smiles.

In order to get that assistance, Sandra had signed an agreement form that stipulate she had to be home and had to welcome in the church members. She was instructed to offer them tap water, with no ice, but no snacks of any kind. They’d share their interpretation of the Bible, pray while holding hands, and if the kids were present, place hands on the tops of their heads.

One last requirement was that the family had to attend services on Sundays.

Sandra hadn’t attended church since her marriage. Victor agreed to getting married in the Catholic church, but after that he rebelled, refused to go and wouldn’t let her take the kids.

 The Unitarian service wasn’t anything like what she’d grown up knowing, but she found the quiet and peace something she sorely needed.

Because Eureka sat right on the coast, it was subject to dense fog almost all year long. Sandra would get up in the morning, look outside, and see damp streets and muddy front yards. And that was due to heavy mist, not the rains that began in autumn and wouldn’t slow down until summer. Lightning was rare, but when it happened, all three of them panicked.

One evening in October, Sandra and Emma sat in the stands watching Jake’s soccer team lose to a team from McKinleyville, ominous-looking clouds rolled in. The wind picked up, so strong that everyone had trouble standing upright. Laughter broke out from players, spectators and officials as bent-over participants attempted to stay in place.

When the rains began, umbrellas popped open. Sandra expected the game to be called, but a parent she sat near, told her that if every outing was cancelled due to rain, or the threat of rain, nothing would take place. It was the fact of life in Eureka.

When the game finally ended, a resounding loss of 12-2, Sandra ushered her drenched kids into the car and drove home.

Her windshield wipers couldn’t keep the rain off, even at high speed. Her headlights reflected on the pavement, creating a wavy pattern that made it difficult to figure out where the lane lines were. It was a harrowing drive; made worse due to the worst traffic she’d seen since the move.

By the time they got home, the rain on the roof sounded like jackhammers, as it streamed down the windows, making it hard to see outside. Day turned into night, even though it was only three in the afternoon. They turned on a bevy of lights so Sandra could see to fix dinner, The kids watched some television, but only after taking turns in the shower.

Sandra had just placed a tray of grilled cheese sandwiches on the table when the lights flickered. She held her breath as she stared at the old-fashioned chandelier, praying silently that it wouldn’t fail.

After getting the kids settled at the table, Sandra said, “I’m really sorry, kids, but I’ve got to get these papers graded tonight.”

“What about the rule that we can’t do work while we’re eating?” Jake stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth.

“Yeah, Mom,” Emma whined, “no work at the table.”

“You’re right,” Sandra sighed. “But I heard on the radio that this storm is expected to be a bad one. The lights might go out and then my students would be disappointed when I couldn’t return their work.”

Her kids exchanged looks that told Sandra she was making a huge mistake. “How about if I work for only thirty minutes? And then we’ll do something fun.”

“We can build a fort.” Thomas swung his legs back and forth so hard that his toes cracked Sandra’s shins under the table.

“Sounds like a great idea,” she said as she rubbed away the hurt. “Rinse off your dishes and load them in the dishwasher. Then get ready for bed, including brushing your teeth.”

“Can I get the sheet?” Emma’s eyes lit up with excitement.

An ear-splitting crack shook the house, which was then followed by the zigzag streak of lightning. The three of them shot up, eyes wide open, staring out the kitchen window.

“You said it didn’t thunder up here.” Shivers shook Emma’s tiny body.

Another blast jolted the house, making Sandra wonder if it hit something close by. A smell of singed wood slowly penetrated the house, causing Jake to cough.

She handed him an inhaler, which seemed to help.

Sandra slid into her raincoat, then said, “Stay in the front room until I get back.”

“Don’t leave us,” Emma whined as she wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs.

Sandra pried off the tiny fingers, leaned over and planted a kiss on Emma’s forehead. “I won’t be gone long. I just need to make sure we’re okay.”

Just as she opened the door, thunder roared all around them, a terrifying sound that felt as if the heavens were attacking their small house. The lights went out, casting them into total darkness.

The rain intensified as more and more flashes lit up the sky.

“I don’t think you should go outside,” Jake said in his quickly deepening voice. He squared his shoulders, making himself seem taller. “I say we all stay together.”

“Mommy, I’m scared!” Emma dropped to the floor and wrapped her arms around her bent knees.

“I have an idea,” Sandra said. “There are flashlights in just about every room. Let’s divide up. Emma and Thomas, you search in the bedrooms. I’ll check the bathrooms, the front room, and the kitchen.”

“Okay, Mommy,” Emma said. The little girl’s feet refused to move.

“Hurry, now,” Sandra said as she placed a hand on her daughter’s back. “When you’ve found at least one for each of us, meet back here.”

It didn’t take long for everyone to have at least one flashlight, which they quickly turned on.

Sandra shook her head. “For right now, we’ll only use one at a time to save the batteries.”

The trio found refuge on the couch, Sandra in the middle, with Emma tucked under her left arm and Jake, pretending to be brave, leaning against the arm to her right.

The wavering light danced against the walls, illuminating the few photos Sandra had managed to hang before she had to go to work the first day. Familiar faces took on a ghoulish appearance. Corners were filled with eerie shadows that danced in the yellow light.

As a native Californian, and especially someone who had lived in the Bay Area her entire life, Sandra had little experience with thunderstorms. The few times it did thunder, there’d be only a blast or two, and then the storm moved on.

This was frightening because it was unexpected.

There was another resounding boom which shook the house as if it were a thin rag. What felt like a jolt of energy pulsed through the air, causing Emma’s long hair to fan out like a headdress, Jake’s short hair to stick up in crazy directions, and Sandra’s hair to stand on end, almost like a halo.

As suddenly as the storm hit, it left, accompanied by a suffocating stillness that fell over them like a heavy blanket. Sandra pulled her children tight against her chest.

A warm, flickering brightness filled the living room and didn’t stop. It intensified with each tick of the clock on the mantle.

Sirens filled the air, seeming to be approaching her neighborhood. The kids wanted to go outside and watch, but at first Sandra refused to let them go.

When she smelled smoke, she stood and said, “Kids, I think we should go outside.”

“It’s still raining,” Emma said as she hung back, clinging to her mom.

Jake, on the other hand, flung the front door open and dashed out into the storm without putting on a jacket.

Sandra grabbed an umbrella she’d placed in the closet, opened it as they stepped outside, then led Emma out to the gravelly road.

One look behind her and Sandra knew the flickering lights weren’t cause flashlights, but by flames dancing up the walls.

By now a bunch of neighbors had gathered outside. A heavily bearded man wearing overalls with one strap dangling, told Sandra to move on down the road in case power lines fell or the gas line exploded.

It seemed like a terrific idea, so Sandra grabbed Jake’s hand as he dashed by, tucked Emma close to her chest and quickly walked down to the nearest intersection.

A small hook-and-ladder, pulled into their street, followed by small fire engine and the Chief’s SUV. They stopped in front of her house and the fire people immediately connected hoses to hydrants and began spraying the flames.

Two firefighters went onto the roof and punched holes, while several others pulled lines of hoses into the backyard.

An older woman that Sandra had yet to meet handed the three of them cups of hot chocolate. After checking them for smoke inhalation, paramedics wrapped them in foil blankets.

More and more people line the street, most of them talking animatedly despite the late hour. What surprised Sandra was that almost everyone stayed outside until well after dawn brought light to the world.

Once the fire was out, an inspector called Sandra over to his side.

“The roof is compromised, ma’am. There’s smoke and water damage throughout the house.”

“Please tell me all the bad news,”

“Almost everything inside is gone, and what’s left is filthy.”

News of the fire quickly spread through the tight-knit community. By breakfast time, neighbors arrived with burritos, juices, and bananas. The Red Cross ushered them to a hotel in town where they could stay until permanent housing became available. The kids didn’t complain too much once they discovered an indoor swimming pool and so many Internet channels that it was practically impossible to decide what to watch.

FEMA helped Sandra complete stacks of paperwork, coordinated with her renter’s insurance, and gave them vouchers for food and clothes.

The Unitarian Church surprised Sandra by offering them housing in a rental unit they ran for people in need. Strangers dropped off clothes at the Safeway in town, as soon as everyone’s sizes were made known.

School supplies, including brand new backpacks, arrived the day before the kids were scheduled to return to class. F

One more surprise were the bags of food and coupons for local restaurants.

Sandra had never experienced such kindness before and didn’t really know how to express her thanks. That is until a local reporter stuck a microphone in her face and asked a bunch of intrusive questions.

Sandra was used to taking control of a situation: after all, she kept her class in line even when silliness and complaints threatened to derail the lessons. The reporter gave up after a while and let Sandra talk, her earnestness coming across as sincere gratitude.

One night during dinner, the family talked about what would happen next.

“We’re starting over,” Sandra said, “but this time we are surrounded by community.”

Jake nodded. “My soccer team gave me new cleats, shin guards and a uniform. It’s not my old number, fourteen, which I didn’t like. Now I’m number one, perfect for the highest scorer on the team!”

 Emma tried to hold back her tears, but couldn’t. “I wish we could go back home. I miss my friends.”

Sandra patted her daughter’s arm. “We all miss our lives there, but this seems to be a fantastic place to live. We’re more than okay,” she said. “The storm gave us more friends than we’ve ever had. Emma, your classmates cared enough to deliver homemade cookies, and Jake, your teammates offered to help you catch up with your schoolwork.”

She wiped away tears threatening to dampen her eyes.

“This is the beginning to our new lives.”