Deadlines

            Over forty years ago a good friend taught me how to make various flowers for decorating cakes. Hers were always perfect: mine not so much. What made it special was working side-by-side as she demonstrated, then talked me through it.

            After every session I’d go home with containers of different kinds and different colors of flowers, plus tips and bags and even spare icing so I could make some more. When my kids’ birthdays arrived, I experimented with cartoon characters, truck shapes, and even a swimming pool since our older son was doing well on his swim team.

            From a distance, my flowers and vines and leaves looked pretty good. Only someone like my friend, who was quite talented, would see the flaws.

            My younger sister had been in and out of quite a few relationships. She’d married one older man, but he was looking for in-house babysitting. After a few months, that marriage ended.

            There was a second marriage to a seemingly nice guy, but apparently when no one was around he was violent and abusive. That marriage also fell apart, and for good reasons.

            By the time she married for the third time, I was pretty experienced at cake decorating. My mom volunteered my services, at no cost, of course. My family failed to tell me what flavor of cake and filling, nor what color scheme for flowers. Or even if there were to be flowers.

            The only instruction I had was to make a three-tiered cake. I thought that was interesting, as my parents had few friends and no relatives other than myself and my brother lived nearby.

            A week before the ceremony, I baked the three cake layers. Once they had cooled, I covered them and stored them in the freezer, as my friend had taught me to do.

            At that time, my kids were in elementary school, plus I was teaching part time. So, in between my real job and caring for my family, I spent evenings making flower after flower. Since I had no idea how many I’d need, I made tons.

            Two days before the wedding I removed the cakes from the freezer to thaw in the refrigerator.

            I made a buttercream frosting, white, then stored it in the fridge as well.

            The day before I covered each layer with the frosting, making sure the middle layers were thick.

            I covered the bottom layer with green vines and leaves. I stacked on the second layer and covered it with vines and leaves, then did the same with the third.

            I still had tons to do and was panicking about not finishing in time, when someone knocked on my door. I was expecting company, so I was surprised, and truthfully, annoyed, to see my pastor on the front step.

            He claimed he was dropping by for “a visit.” As he’s talking, I’m trying to listen, but mentally all I’m seeing are the ticking hands of a clock.

            He finally got to the real point of his visit. I’d half-heartedly applied to be on the new-to-be-formed Parish Council. I really didn’t want the position, but church friends thought I was a good candidate.

            He said that I wasn’t a “good candidate” and that I wasn’t approved. I thanked him, then stood and headed toward the front door. Of course he followed, talking all the way, piling on one excuse after another.

            Truth be told, I was relieved even though it hurt to be rejected.

The most important thing, at the point in my day, was to get him out of the house so I could finish the cake before I had to pick up my kids from school.

I might have been a bit rude, but he’d made his point. It should have been obvious that I had an unfinished cake on the dining room table. How could you miss a three-layer cake?

I was up against a deadline.

As soon as he stepped out of the door, I told him goodbye, shut and locked the door, then returned to work.

It wasn’t until after dinner that the cake was complete. To me, it looked pretty good. I had used the best flowers which I arranged in a pleasing design. A happy couple was imbedded in the top layer.

It wasn’t my responsibility to get it to the reception, which was important as I had no intention of going.

The most important details were complete: a finished cake sat on the table, and despite my fears, it looked beautiful.

I never heard from my sister if she was pleased, but that’s another story.

Success isn’t Just a Dream

Success is an uneasy journey

It depends upon hard work and determination.
Passion supported by the willingness to take risks,
But more than anything, it means standing tall

When others are waiting for you to fail.

Success must be rooted firmly in the soil
So that its branches can reach for the sky,
And its Leaves can rustle in the wind,

Reminding us that it is not a destination,
But a guided journey.

Success won’t magically appear in the morning

It takes days and nights of
Pushing through boundaries,
Facing challenges and never quitting.
It is worth every tear shed,
Every moment of doubt.

Success isn’t measured by wealth or fame,
But on the difference one creates

As they follow their dreams,

Chase after their goals,
And the pursuit of fulfillment.

Success is bolstered by the growth and evolution,
Of our minds, bodies, and souls,

By the smallest increments,

No matter how bumpy the road,
Nor how many obstacles unfold.

Success is about rising when we fall,
Standing tall when others scoff,
Having the courage to take risks,
Believing in yourself, when it’s hard,

And when it seems way too easy.

Strive for greatness,
And never give up on your dreams,

No matter how many times you fall.
Some measure of success is within reach,
As long as you are willing to chase it.

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.”

Writing Reprieve

            A few weeks ago, when strolling through the quaint streets of the coast side village of Mendocino, my feet insisted on walking toward the bluff. High overhead flocks of brown pelicans flew by, while down below seagulls tormented picnickers relaxing on the beach.

            Waves crashed repeatedly, the swells growing larger as the tide came in. A few brave souls rode the crests on boogie boards, while further out, a group of teenagers stood on paddle boards.

            Considering the chill wind that had blown all day long, the fog slowly drifting in, and the pale blue sky, everyone in the water must be freezing.

            I tugged my jacket closed, then fumbled with the zipper which refused to engage. I tried over and over, holding together the two parts of the zipper until, thankfully, it decided to cooperate.

            By the time I had my jacket zipped up, I was shivering.

            Despite the magnetic attraction to remain on the bluff, I turned and headed back to the board-walked streets of downtown.

 I stopped at the park, intrigued by a murder of crows, dodging each other’s beaks as one-by-one they fight over the remains of some treats that walkers had tossed their way. The winners often flew up to the pointed roofs, enjoying their well-earned reward.

The scene was incredibly relaxing, and since there was room at one of the picnic tables. I sat, with back against the top, to watch and hopefully find inspiration for a story.

I’d just bought a new journal at the bookstore in town. The cover was a deep blue with a wavy grain running from left to right. It was just the right size: big enough to get down the beginnings of a story, but small enough to fit in my shoulder bag.

The crows performed swoops and dives, cawing all the while, flapping wings and dancing on their feet.

To me, they resembled participants in a talent show, so that’s the setting I chose.

My character, an older single woman who sang in her church choir, was dating one of the members: a handsome gray-haired man, about her height, with an infectious laugh and a love of travel.

All was going so well that Margie expected an engagement ring to be raised on their next date. She’d thought about remarrying, about what it had felt like when her first husband passed away when shopping at the grocery store, and how liberating it was to no longer be under his beck and call.

Margie had sworn to never let another man run her life, but here was Samual, the kindest, most thoughtful man she’d ever known.

During choir practice Friday night, her friend Lola pressed a tiny note into Margie’s hand.

“Read this late,” Lola had whispered.

Well, the note said that she’d seen Samual at Roxy’s, a fancy restaurant in downtown San Francisco. His hands gripped those of a tiny redhead, and he’d been planting kisses on her cheeks, neck and even down her arms!

Margie shook her head in dismay. Samual might try to claim this other woman was “just a friend”, but Margie wasn’t stupid or gullible.

I was well into the story, plotting out what happened next, when a raucous group of juvenile crows surrounded me. Three were on the table top, pecking my hair and shoulders. Two danced down by my feet, running in to attack my shoestring, then backing away. They seemed to have coordinated their movements, as first one ran up, then as that one was backing off, the other charged in.

The squawking intensified as they moved closer and closer.

I slid my notebook into my bag and hurried away. The force of the wind sent me flying north, up the street toward my hotel.  The crows went with me, swooping down close to the top of my head, then shooting straight up, complaining loudly.

It wasn’t until I’d begun the climb uphill past the cemetery that the crows finally left me alone.

Back in my hotel room, I first spent time sitting in the old-fashioned arm chair that faced the window. Outside an array of flowers swayed in the wind as the fog settled closer and closer to the ground.

The sunny day turned gray in a matter of minutes. What once was an inspiration for a skewed love story took on an ominous tone in my mind.

I opened the journal and continued writing, not noticing when a murder to three crows landed outside my window.

An Old Friend Reappears

            I was sitting outside a friend’s house, too early to meet her. I didn’t mind the wait.

            The weather was pleasant, so it wasn’t hot in my car, plus I was listening to an engrossing novel through my radio.

            An unexpected car turned onto the street, a somewhat familiar gray-haired woman driving. I watched her through the side mirror park a bit down the road, so I assumed she was visiting that house, not my friend’s.

            About that time my friend Carol appeared, standing near the rear of her car.

            That was my cue to turn off my engine and meet her. As I approached, I asked her who the woman was. Carol’s face lit up as soon as she recognized Izzy, someone neither of us had seen in years.

            As soon as Izzy got near, she spoke and her voice took me back to the pre-COVID pandemic years, the last time the three of us had been together.

            As Carol drove to another friend’s house, the three of us caught up. It was wonderful to hear Izzy’s voice, to know that she was okay, and that she was still the kind, soft-spoken person I’d met years ago.

            During lunch, she sat at the far end of the table, next to another friend she hadn’t seen for years.

            Because I was at the opposite end, I shared stories with the three women closest to me.

            On the drive back to Carol’s house, Izzy was overjoyed at being with our group once again. I asked if she would join us next month, and her face lit up as she firmly stated, “Yes.”

            Not all old acquaintances are ones we want to see again, but in this case, I think all of us were pleased.

I Try, Again

Dieting is no easy job.

It eats at your resistance like

Easter candy, long gone stale,

Tucked away in last year’s basket.

I yearn for a choice piece of chocolate,

Nougat or caramel crème or a

Generous slice of dark chocolate torte.

Those things are no longer my fare

Housed within my body are too many

Ounces of fat cells, to the point of

Ugliness, obesity, just plain fat.

Gaining another pound cannot happen.

Having the will power to succeed,

Trying once more to drop sizes,

Success will come my way.

I hope.

The thing is, candy is alluring.

It calls your name, over and over

Until you have no choice but to sneak a bite

A piece, a chunk when no one is looking.

Guilt then overwhelms.

Why did I sabotage myself?

I’m a strong woman, I tell myself.

I’ve overcome emotional and physical abuse.

I’ve suffered chastisement from my employer

For simply doing my job.

I’ve raised three amazing adults

And been married for decades.

I read and write and do puzzles.

But yet I can’t walk away

When a simple piece of candy,

Or a perfectly baked cookie,

Or a slice of peach pie,

Or a spectacular bowl of ice cream

Appear, like magic.

  1. Will. Try. Again.

Poor Little Boy

(Based on a writing prompt)

            Miles loved to jump. Every day he practiced running as fast as he could, then leaping over whatever barriers he had managed to construct.

            He didn’t jump because he dreamt of being an Olympic track star, but because he loved being set free in the great outdoors. He loved nature, but mostly Miles loved escaping his overly critical stepfather’s eye.

            The year he turned ten, the summer Olympics were held. His stepfather controlled the television, and since he wasn’t interested, Miles never got to see any events taking place in the evening. But whenever his stepfather was gone, Miles watched as much as he could, paying special attention to any event that involved jumping.

            He watched in fascination as runners took off mid-jump, flew through the air, then landed in a pit of sand. Mile then decided to practice the long jump in his backyard. He was afraid of taking that leap, but with practice, he soon felt pretty confident in his abilities.

            He was pretty sure he’d never do the high jump: he couldn’t imagine himself running with a long pole, planting it in the ground, then using it to spring himself high into the air and over a pole.

            What intrigued Miles the most were the hurdles. He counted the steps athletes took in between each hurdle, then practiced in his backyard.

            As he ran, he pictured himself winning a big award, becoming the Greatest of all Time. He’d step up on the podium like those Olympic athletes had done, with a huge smile on his face.

            With great humility, he’d lower his head so that the official could place the ribbon around his neck.

            One day at church, an announcement was made that CYO, or the Catholic Youth Organization, was forming a team from his parish. Miles begged his parents to let him join.

            He had to mow neighbor’s lawns to earn enough to pay the fee, and as soon as he had the money, his mom signed him up.

            After picking him up form school in the afternoons, his mom drove him to the church so he could practice.

            Mile tried everything, but the hurdles and long jump were his favorites.

            Meets were held on Sundays at the nearby community college.

            For the first few meets, Miles came in close to last, but as time passed, and he learned the proper methods, Miles standing improved. He came in seventh. Then second.

            When the final meet arrived, Miles told himself that his time had come, that he would win.

            And so he did, then went on to win the Diocesan finals. From there he went to Sacramento, and won at the state level.

            Several years later when Miles enrolled in high school, he was pretty darn good. As a freshman, he came in first at every meet. Soon he was moved to Varsity, where he kept winning one red ribbon after another.

            Until a runner in the lane next to him reached out and punched Miles in the shoulder. Miles fell to the ground, fracturing his thigh in three places.

            Physical therapy helped regain his ability to walk at a good pace, but he’d never run again.

            The high school coach found a place for Miles on the team: as a mentor for up-and-coming hurdlers.

            While he couldn’t compete, he had the satisfaction of watching his teammates win.

            As an adult, Miles coached a youth track team, instilling in the little kids the love of the sport.

            He was saddened, but not distraught. He had accomplished his dream, then despite injury, was able to inspire others.

            Out of sadness can come joy, if one keeps their eyes open.

Thoughts about Yosemite

Yosemite National Park is

One of the most exquisite beauties.

Standing in its grass covered valley,

Energized by roaring waterfalls,

My heart expands: incomparable,

Incredible vistas surround me.

Tremendous witnessed awesome power.

Escapist’s vacation location.

Nothing impresses me more than this

Admirable verdant valley, with its

Towering, tree-devoid mountain peaks,

Iconic, historic wood buildings,

On-rushing river, wilderness trails,

Newly blossomed colorful flowers.

All gathered into a preserved spot

Left for generations to enjoy.

Protected from all development.

Absolutely stunning to the eye

.

Reminder of the glory of God

Kept as a witness to His power.

Missing Gift

            We didn’t have a lot of money when our family was growing up. We’d skimp and save in order to replace a broken washer, or purchase off-brand foods that were usually bits and pieces of canned fruit, broken noodles, dented cans. We only bought what was essential and always, always on sale.

            When our oldest son was about to graduate from eighth grade, we thought he should have a reliable watch to see him through high school. I checked every ad, looking for the best deal on a good watch.

            I finally found one during the pre-Christmas sales. It wasn’t too expensive, it was a well-known brand, and better yet, it was on sale at a price we could afford.

            My husband entertained the kids while I supposedly went out shopping. In actuality, I snuck around the side of the house, past a large sliding glass door, then crawled in through a window in our bedroom. I had to stay completely silent, so no radio blaring, and keeping the cutting of wrapping paper and the application of scotch tape as quiet as possible.

            We heated the house with a wood-burning stove in the family room instead of using the furnace, so it was quite cold in the bedroom. I wore a heavy coat, stocking cap, and long-sleeved sweatshirts.

            At the end of a specified period of time, I’d hide the gifts in our closets, climb out through the window, slink around the side of the house and open the garage door. I’d always have packages to carry in, items I’d left in the trunk of the car for just that purpose.

            After the kids had fallen asleep, my husband and I carried all the wrapped gifts out from our bedroom and place them under the tree.

            According to tradition, the kids couldn’t get out of bed until my husband went into the front room, turned on all the lights and pronounced that Santa had been there.

            With a great amount of shrieking and laughter, we gathered around our tree and opened gifts, one-by-one. Mounds of wrapping paper were soon all over the floor, accompanied by ribbons and bows, all of which we’d recycle for next year.

            I kept track, and all gifts but one were accounted for: the watch.

            As the kids built Lego structures or played with new toys, I scoured the house, searching through all my usual hiding spots. The watch was nowhere to be found.

            There was one possible place left, one that I didn’t cherish searching: the large garbage can outside.

            This event took place before formal state-wide recycling took place, which meant that everything would be in the can! Food scraps, greasy food coverings, tin cans, crumpled aluminum foil, newspapers, and even lawn cuttings.

            I put on a pair of my husband’s yard gloves and began sorting, moving things one way, then the other, alternating sides, digging deeper and deeper into the much.

            My heart was pounding, harder and harder, as disappointment took over. I wasn’t going to find the watch, our son wouldn’t have a nice gift to take him into the future.

            Imagine my relief when the rectangular box finally appeared!

            And it was unsoiled, a true miracle.

            I tucked it under my sweatshirt and carried it inside and down the hall. I hastily wrapped it, then hid it behind the tree when no one was looking.

            When our son discovered it, unwrapped it, opened the box, his face lit up!

Childhood Memories

            When I was beginning fourth grade, my family moved from Dayton, Ohio, to a rural part of the state: Beavercreek.

            I wasn’t sad to move because the only girls on the street humiliated me over and over, all because I was fat and poor. They’d invite me over, then insisted on playing Wheelbarrow. It’s an embarrassing game, in which one player walks on hands while the other two players lift the feet up high, creating a human wheelbarrow. It’s not like the intent was to gather things, but rather to split the legs apart, showing the crotch.

            I was always the wheelbarrow, even after complaining, whining, really, that it was someone else’s turn. Whenever I crossed the street to play, I made sure my bottom wasn’t damp or stained or smelly. It wasn’t until this had gone on for several weeks that it finally dawned on me that those two girls weren’t looking for a friend, but someone to ridicule.

            When my parents announced that we were moving, I was excited to get away from those awful girls. My hope was that I’d make new friends. It also meant starting over in a new school, which I looked forward to.

            In my current class, I was the dumbest kid. From the time I enrolled in the Catholic Elementary, I was well behind in first grade. I fell further behind in second. Before the principal would let me return for third grade, I had to have my eyes examined.

            No surprise: I couldn’t see long distance, which meant I’d never read even a single word the teacher had written on the board. And close-up I dealt with a severe astigmatism that made the rows of letters buckle and slant. Once I had glasses, things became somewhat easier, but I was so far behind that there was little hope of catching up.

            The new house meant a new school.

            The girls in that class, at a different Catholic school, were just as mean as in my previous school. Not one befriended me. Not one invited me for birthday parties. I was pretty lonely, and spent playground time either walking the perimeter of the blacktopped area, or assigning myself to lunchtime tutoring. I preferred the tutoring as that nun was kind and helpful.

            Just as things were looking up for me, my brother and I got permission to explore the woods behind our house.

            We spent countless hours deep in the forest, imagining that we were explorers. We’d climb trees, well, my brother would climb pretty high whereas I’d get one foot off the ground.

            By this time I’d taught myself to read, and since my brother, who was one year older, needed the library to research, I got to go along and check out books.

            I refused the picture books as they were for babies. I wanted to read about what I then called Indians, to learn where they lived, what they ate, how they dressed, anything and everything.

It was that interest that introduced me to the idea of a treehouse.

I decided to build one in a spindly tree at the end of our yard.

My brother and I had spotted lots of downed wood on the forest, but we never carted any of it home. I wasn’t allowed in there by myself, so I raided my dad’s supply of boards and nails he kept in the garage.

The nails went into the pockets of my shorts, along with the hammer. I balanced the boards on my right shoulder, held in place with both hands.

I spread the boards out in front of the tree, arranged from smallest to longest.

With one hand on the tree, I lifted my right leg as high as it could comfortably go. That was where the first step would go. Using a nail, I scratched a mark in the bark.

I placed the first board on top of the mark and held it in place with my hip. I had put the nail in my mouth, so now I rested it toward the center of the board. I took the hammer out of my pocket, and while leaning against the tree, pressing the board against its bark, I struck the nail.

It seemed to pierce the board. I hit it again and again, the nail moving a tiny bit each time.

And then it bent over. I was angry, but convinced myself that it had actually gone in far enough. I added a second nail, not too far from the first.

The step was a bit wobbly, but in my little girl’s mind, it would do.

I added a second board, just above the first. It too, had bent nails.

Then with a huge stretch, I added a third, equally wobbly, but I shrugged it off.

The time had come to begin the climb. Holding a longer board in one hand, nails and the hammer in my pocket, I reached up to the second board, raised my right foot, and pulled.

I got it up on the first step, quite pleased with myself.

I pulled hard enough to get my left foot off the ground, but just as I was suspended in air, the first board broke. I fell.

And as I feel, the sharp edge of a bent nail sliced down my left arm, leaving a bright red streak. Blood seeped through, at first random spots of red. Quickly it turned into a small stream.

I knew my parents would be angry, so I couldn’t let either of them see what had happened. I wrapped my arm in my shirt and ran for the house.

My mother had a rule that my brother and I had to stay in one place all morning long, changing locations only when it was time for lunch.

My brother had gone to the garage where he loved tinkering with a transistor radio that he had built, so I didn’t have to worry about him.

My mom had eagle eyes and the hearing of a bat. And when angry, as ferocious as a lion.

She terrified me.

That meant I had to get inside without letting her know. I opened the screen door slowly carefully to keep it from squeaking. Once inside, I crept down the hall, avoiding the known noisy spots.

Somehow I made it to the bathroom without disturbing my mom. I knew how to care for an injury, so I got down the mercurochrome and the box of bandages. I cleaned the cut with soap, covered it with the mercurochrome and then a slew of bandages.

I snuck down the hall and back outside. Using the hammer, I removed all the nails, stacked up the boards and carried everything back to the garage, all the while worrying not about a potential infection, but how hard of a spanking I would receive.

Fortunately my brother was out riding his bike, so he didn’t see me sneak in. It also meant he couldn’t tattle on me, either.

Somehow, I got away with it.

The cut didn’t get infected, no one said anything about why I wore long-sleeved blouses in the summer, and my dad never counted boards.

For many years I wore a scar on my right arm. In time it faded away, but the memory of what I had tried to do never left me.