Hound dog, floppy ears,

Aged and scarred beyond your years,

Grumbling from my father’s chair,

Dreaming of some wily hare

Mocking from its thorny lair:

All the fun you’ve brought to me

Since I was a boy of three!

You’ve been such a loyal friend,

Chasing rabbits ‘round the bend!

But I know that it must end.

For I’ll grow up and you’ll grow old,

A maid will warm me when I’m cold.

A woman’s smile replace your yawn,

Your eventide will be my dawn.

Yet how I’ll miss you when you’re gone.

Resolutions! Resolutions!

I’ve sure made my share!

Dreamed up burdens that

no super human being could bear!

Learn it! Do it! Eat it! Lose it!

Work out every day!

Be more social ... more successful!

Win in every way!

Every New Year strewn with failures,

every vow a joke.

Be a veggan? What, no hot dogs?

Sure, and why not croak?

After all the years of soundly

falling on my prat,

Here’s one I can handle:

Lose the muscle, keep the fat!

A couple of years ago I was between consulting gigs around Christmas time. When I opened the bill for my Sears charge card, there was a note. It invited anyone, and particularly seniors, to apply for a temporary sales clerk position during the holidays. Being senior-ish and suspecting I wouldn’t get anything in consulting until after the New Year, I decided to give it a whirl. After a couple of days training on how to run the cash registers, etc., they placed me in electrical supplies because of my technical background (and because they needed someone there). Well, it was a good change of pace for me. I didn’t make much money, but what the hey.

As Christmas approached the pace really picked up, and on the night of Dec. 23’rd the store was jammed. I was swiping charge cards, bagging merchandise, and ringing up some serious sales commissions.

Whenever a person handed us a charge card, we were supposed to read the name and thank them in a personal way. "Thank you for shopping at Sears, Mr. Smith," etc. Anyhow, to cut to the chase, I looked up and saw an elderly gentleman standing in front of my register. He had a long, snow-white beard, was a tad rotund, had rosy cheeks ... in brief, this old boy was a dead ringer for Santa Claus. For a moment I thought he must be an off-duty Santa from one of the mall stores.

He had some minor doo-dad (I can’t remember what), and with a smile he handed me a Master Card. I wanted to tell him that he looked just like Santa Claus, but debated whether that would be polite. And of course he clearly must have known that anyway.

So I bagged his purchase, swiped his card, and had him sign the slip. Before handing the card back to him, I glanced at the name. When I read it, I thought it must be a joke. According to the Master Card (which was genuine ... otherwise it wouldn’t have been accepted by the system) his name was Kris Kringle. I looked up at this old fellow and his eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how merry!

Bug-eyed, I asked, "Are you ..."

With eyes totally devoid of guile, he smiled at me and said, "I am."

And with that, he took his little bag and disappeared into the crowd. I stood there with gaping jaw, trying to catch the other sales clerks’ eyes, pointing at the crowd that had closed in around him and squawking, "It’s him! It’s really him!"

But, everyone was busy and no one heard me. That night when I got home, I recounted the incident to my wife. She smiled and looked at me like she believed every word. (She always does that. What a broad!) But I could tell that she was thinking that it was time for me to be getting on with my consulting career. I was inclined to agree with her.

But it was Santa Claus. Honestly, it really was!

I placed a frozen hot dog in a saucepan of boiling water today, and I’d like to tell you about that. Let me start by conceding that there’s probably a perfectly good scientific explanation for what I observed. But I’ve been experiencing minor scientific burnout lately, so we’re not going to go there. About all I’ll say on that score is that, throughout the time it was immersed, the weenie rolled back and forth, back and forth in the boiling water.

The question, of course, is why? I’d like to write down some reasons that occurred to me. My purpose is to demonstrate how differently an event can be described when we practice that most ancient of human pursuits, anthropomorphism (a big word that Webster defines as "an interpretation of what is not human or personal in terms of human or personal characteristics.") I’ll abbreviate it as "apm."

Ideally I should be recording the (anthropomorphic) interpretations of many people, and not just myself. Better still, I should have gotten the opinions of a bunch of children. Children are without equal when it comes to apm. The important thing for now, though, is that all of the apm’s I’m about to relate to you made perfectly good sense, and were a lot more fun than trying to describe the rolling thing scientifically.

My first thought was that the hot dog was in agony, rolling to and fro in the boiling water.

"Poor thing!" I cried out. (You see how quickly this apm stuff becomes real to us.)

But as I waited (remember, this was a frozen wiener to start with), I began to think. Why this dog isn’t in agony at all. It’s in ecstasy! After sitting in my refrigerator’s freezer for I don’t know how many months (or years) the frank was rolling around in the warm water in sheer delight!

It hit me about then that I (not the wiener ... at least not yet) was on a roll! What were the other possibilities? As it turned out, I had a classical CD playing, and my next thought was that this dog was pretending it was conducting a symphony orchestra. And why not? I’ve been known to do that myself (when nobody’s looking, of course). I also dream that I’m a great pianist. But that’s another story.

My next thought was very disquieting. It suddenly became clear that this wayward wurst was flirting with me. Like a doll at the beach, it rolled back and forth, daring me not to pay attention to it. Hm-m-m. But nah, that one didn’t fly. No hips. No ... but you get my drift.

Perhaps this crazy hot dog was feeling cooped up and was pacing back and forth like a caged lion at the zoo. Atavistic anxieties ... the kind that our distant ancestors might have felt as they cowered in caves at night ... raised the hairs on the back of my neck. This thing might jump out and go for my throat any moment! But wait a minute! Go for my throat with what? No mouth! (I verified this by peeking in over the saucepan’s edge.) Anyhow, it’s the eatee ... I’m the eater here!

This thought of course reminded me of why I was standing there: I was hungry! But a weenie with a cold center (not to mention a cold heart) just doesn’t cut it. So I decided to play it safe and wait another minute. Time for one more apm. Just when I thought the well had gone dry, it hit me! This dog wanted to relieve itself! Like a kid doing the potty dance, it seemed to be whining, "Please, Mommy, I’ve got to go now-w-w."

When I thought about it, this apm made the most sense of all. For I’d read in more than one health book what hot dogs are stuffed with. (Why I continue to love them I’ll never know. There was that bully who once told me that I eat sh ... NO! Enough already! You’re ruining a good thing here, man.)

OK, time to lift this puppy out of the water. With my trusty tongs I place it in a bun, on a bed of chopped onions. Ah-h-h, lots of mustard (just in case). You prefer ketchup? Get your own hot dog!

And now for that first bite. Yes-s-s! But what was that little squeak? Did I hurt the poor th ... STOP IT! Enjoy! It’s only a weenie!

(I think I’ll fix a hamburger tomorrow.)

Easter, Easter, holy day

When God took my lord away.

Told an angel, "Roll the stone

From the grave and bring Him home.

Leave behind the Holy Ghost

For the ones who love us most.

They will join us by and by,

When the stars fall from the sky.

He will lead them home to me

Where they’ll glimpse eternity."

The Easter lilies bloom again

Throughout the Christian world.

They greet us every Easter morning,

Lightly waxed and pearled.

Like unseen ghosts their fragrance

Permeates the April air.

It reaches into every room,

We smell them everywhere.

Their muted horns reminding us

Of why they bloom and flower:

In memory of Him who rescued

Us from Satan’s power.

The Son of Man, who took the nails

And drank the bitter brew,

And died upon a cross that we

Might see His Father too.

O’ child of heaven, lamb of God,

Arisen Easter day,

How lucky are we that you came

To Earth to show the way!

Blessed baby in the hay,

Born on that first Christmas day

Underneath a nova star,

Seen by wise men from afar:

Lead us with your gentle light

Through the darkness of the night

To a new and perfect morn,

Like the one when you were born!

I saw a star fall Christmas night,

Marked by a trail of ghostly light.

From where it came I do not know,

I only saw its final glow.

I’d seen stars fall before, for sure,

But none ‘til then seemed quite so pure.

Could this be Heaven’s holy seed,

Sent down in this, our hour of need?

Or did my sense of wonder there

Spring from some inner, dark despair?

We are so lost, in discord mired,

Another manger seems required

To light the way from bad to good

And join us all in brotherhood.

And if He came again would we

See that He comes to set us free

To build a world where He would stay ...

Where every day is Christmas day?

All ye who hate, no matter what your creed,

No matter how obscene your craven deed,

Know this, and take it with you to your grave:

You cannot crush the homeland of the brave.

We know your kind, we’ve dealt with you before;

‘Though loving peace, we have no fear of war.

The mad belief that you alone are right

Will turn to ashes in the coming fight.

You see, too many who you call your own

Have crossed the sea to live in freedom’s home...

Have learned to love the lady on the shore

Who lifts her light beside the golden door!

Cowardly madmen with box cutter knives,

Now it is your turn to run for your lives.

Here is the price tag, by air, sea and land,

Here is the payment: your blood in the sand.

Woe unto all who would harbor your kind.

Nothing but tears for such folly they’ll find.

For there is nowhere, no place you can hide

Safe from the storm surge of liberty’s tide.

Yes, we would have you, and have you we will.

Payment’s expected, and here is the bill!

If we but have the will

To stay the battle through,

Then victory will grace

The red, the white and blue.

And if we never doubt

That we are in the right,

Then nothing can prevent

Our triumph in the fight.

It’s true that strident cries

Will scold and say we’re wrong.

But God Himself confirms

What we knew all along:

‘Though evil ones may plot

And scheme among us still,

Their plots cannot succeed

If we but have the will.

Sing your songs of sadness; take your leave now.

Cry for those who left us that dark day.

Bow your heads; weep angry tears and grieve now.

Pray that time will take the hurt away.

Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters taken...

Senseless acts of hate swept them away.

All our hopes and dreams for them forsaken,

All our hearts so broken that sad day.

But we know ... experience has taught us

Freedom isn’t free; we’ve had to pay.

Down through hist’ry evil ones have fought us,

Tried to steal our liberty away.

Once again we’re asked to stand the test now,

Meet the foe and triumph in the fray.

Lift your heads; resolve to do your best now;

Those who fell live on to light the way!

When leaves turn gold and feathered friends

Take leave the arctic air,

Thanksgiving rolls around again

And once again we’re there.

America’s one special day

When free men everywhere

Give thanks to God for all the gifts

We lucky Yankees share.

Most precious gift of all, for me,

Is freedom, for you see

It’s only when we’re free to choose ...

It’s only when we’re free

That we dare hope for happiness,

For lives that are worth living.

Yes, most of all our freedom’s why

I celebrate Thanksgiving!

Anxious mothers, wives and children,

Fathers, brothers, sisters too,

Eagerly await the choppers

Bringing home the proud, the few.

Hugs and kisses, tears and laughter...

Families once again made whole.

Missing: all the ones who perished,

Etched in freedom’s honor roll.

Through the years you’ve bravely left us,

First to fight and first to die.

Proud marines, God guide and keep you.

Freedom’s heroes, Semper Fi!

Her name was Ella. She was a big woman with a laugh to match. More than anyone else, she made Marge feel welcome in her new job. As time went by she and Marge shared many conversations. Even though she worked in a different department, Ella would drop by regularly and brighten Marge’s day.

A year or so after starting in the new job, Marge heard that Ella had to leave for health reasons. The word was that Ella had an enlarged heart. Some time later Ella came back to visit with old friends and Marge noticed that she was wearing a special pager. It turned out that the pager was to notify Ella if and when a suitable donor heart became available. For Ella was on the list for a heart transplant.

Candidate hearts for Ella became available only rarely, due to her African heritage. But eventually her name reached the top of the list and then, one fateful day, the call came. But it turned out that there was a problem. The heart was from an infant, and the doctors told Ella that it was questionable whether the tiny heart would be able to keep her alive. On the other hand, the drugs that kept her enlarged heart pumping were gradually destroying it. If she didn’t take this heart, then It was a long shot whether she would survive until another suitable heart came along. The choice was hers to make.

"Who’s next on the list?" she asked. The doctors informed her that it was a fourteen-year-old youth.

"Would the heart work for him?" she wanted to know. The answer was that there was an excellent chance it would.

"Give it to him," she said. And that was that.

Ella bought a plane ticket to return to the East where her aged mother lived. She would finish her life out there. A last night out with some friends was planned ... dinner and a movie. Sometime during the show Ella slipped into unconsciousness. She never came out of it. She passed away quietly in the hospital.

Somewhere a young man has a new lease on life. As Mr. Spock of Star Trek would say, may he live long and prosper. He might never know how a real-life guardian angel placed herself between him and harm’s way, and that is probably okay. We can only hope that this young man leads a full and productive life and that the world is a better place for his being here. That is, after all, not too much to ask ... Ella is watching.

This morning (1/29/02) I happened to be watching CNN when Elaine Duch was interviewed. Ms. Duch is the last victim of the WTC disaster to be released from St. Vincent’s Burn Center in New York City. For those of you who may have missed this singular TV event, here are my impressions. If I get any of it wrong, I apologize. I’m typing this from memory.

Ms. Duch was still in a wheelchair, and was surrounded by the doctors and nurses who attended her during her long struggle back from death’s door. Also present was Paul Adams, the paramedic who (along with his partner, "Moose,") met her in the plaza and rushed her to a triage center. Paul has visited her every Sunday since 9/11/01. When the press asked Paul what Elaine looked like when they first encountered her walking toward them, he said that her clothes were still smoking but she seemed to be very calm. She was still on her feet after making it down from the 88^th floor. But they immediately realized that she required urgent care and put her on a stretcher to be evacuated. Her injuries were so great that a priest asked her if he could administer Last Rites, and she agreed. The press asked Paul if he thought she was going to die, and without hesitation he said "No." His memory was that, despite the terrible severity of her burns, she was going to make it. He attributed that conviction to her incredible calm. To give an idea of what shape she was in at that time, one of the doctors said that the chances of a burn victim dying, as a result of their injuries, is approximated by adding the victim’s age to the percent of skin loss. In Elaine’s case, she was 49 and had lost more than 70 percent of her skin to the inferno she suddenly found herself in. If you do the math, you can see that the odds were over 100 percent that she wouldn’t make it. Yet she did.

How do you describe a person with this kind of pluck? She remembers that she was in a hallway, preparing to re-enter her work area, when the jetliner crashed into the tower. (She had no idea that it was a plane crash at the time.) In her words, had she been a few steps further along, she would have been blown up, as so many of her coworkers were. As it was, she suffered grievous burns, smoke inhalation and severe trauma to her lungs.

The press asked her what she thought pulled her through. The simple, one-word answer is "God." She remembers asking for His help as she made her way down from the inferno above her. She said that she wanted to live. And with a will, grit and guts that rewrite the book on courage, plus the dedicated care of the physicians and nurses at St. Vincent’s, that’s what she’s managed to do. For four long months she couldn’t even talk, since she was on a ventilator full-time. There were constant ongoing infections, both from her burns and inside her lungs. When she arrived at St. Vincent’s she was in full shock and collapse. Her blood pressure was so low that it was all but impossible to get pain medication to her tissues. Yet she wanted to live ... wanted to live. And live she did.

At the time of the press conference, she had undergone the seventh (and hopefully last) operation on her ravaged body. She looked remarkably good in the press briefing. Virtually all of the visible parts of her body were wrapped, with the exception of her face. It was impossible to tell what the doctors were able to do with the unexposed parts, but her face was remarkably pretty. The skin of her face appeared to be swabbed with ointment, and is evidently still healing. But she’s going to make it. Asked by the press what she wanted, she answered, "I want to get back to the way I was." She didn’t know what the future held for her. Now that she’s been released from St. Vincent’s, she thinks a vacation might be nice. Someone suggested Atlantic City, the idea being that someone with her luck was bound to win a bundle.

Elaine Duch may never again be quite like she was before 9/11/01. How could she be? (I noticed that the flashbulbs going off at the beginning of the press conference disconcerted her. Draw your own conclusions there.) But no matter. I have never been more moved by a human being’s courage in the face of adversity. It’s so easy for those of us who are well and whole to indulge in self-pity over a love affair gone wrong, the loss of a job or what not. Then, every now and then, we receive a reality check from someone like Elaine and realize how lucky we are. I believe in my heart that Elaine Duch is going to make it all the way back. There’s no question in my mind that God is in her corner. And Ms. Duch, for what it’s worth, you are in this man’s prayers.

Our son alerted my wife and me to the Leonid meteor shower a few weeks before it was scheduled to occur. As the date drew nearer, occasional sound bites on the news began cropping up. The Internet indicated that the shower would peak at 3 AM Mountain Time on the morning of November 18^th.

But let me pause and offer some background information to those not heavily versed in things celestial. The Earth orbits the Sun, along with eight other planets. But the planets are only the tip of the iceberg! Countless asteroids, clouds of dust and many comets also whirl around our Solar Star. Many of these objects, particularly comets, take several decades to complete a single orbit. Halley’s comet, for example, takes on average about 76 years. It could be viewed in 1986, sweeping through the night sky toward the mighty Sun, only to whip around it and start another 76-year journey out beyond Pluto (the most distant planet). I read somewhere that Mark Twain was born when Halley’s comet was visible in the sky, and died when the comet returned.

Comets might be described as conglomerations of dirt and ice. Yes, water (and lots of it) does exist out there in space. There are those who believe that much of the Earth’s oceans originated with comets, caught in the infant Earth’s gravitational pull and slowed to crash-speeds as they entered Earth’s atmosphere.

In any case, much of the stuff that makes up comets is loose aggregate, sort of like gravel thrown up into the air. In deep space the individual granules move in orbits around a comet’s solid core or nucleus under the influence of the core’s gravitational pull. Collectively the loose stuff forms something of a halo around the core.

As the comet approaches the Sun, however, this loose aggregate rearranges into something resembling a tail (for reasons to be explained shortly). And a fraction of the particles in the tail actually break free from the core’s gravitational grip, laying carpets of debris down as the comet sweeps around the Sun.

A common misconception is that the tail trails the comet as it speeds through space. But that is not in fact the way things work. Our Sun not only radiates prodigious amounts of light, but it also spews out tons of material particles every second. (The tiny fraction that passes through Earth’s magnetic field is what causes the Aurora Borealis, or "Northern Lights" here in the Northern Hemisphere.) This swarm of very fast-moving particles, streaming out from the Sun and into space in every direction, is collectively referred to as "The Solar Wind."

Now as a comet approaches the Sun and encounters a Solar Wind of ever-increasing intensity, the Solar Wind begins to push the comet’s halo of loose aggregate particles out away from the Sun. So in truth the comet’s tail always points away from the Sun!

Well, that’s enough background information! What about the Leonid meteor shower? This event is brought to us courtesy of the Tempel-Tuttle comet. It turns out that some of the debris trails (laid down by the comet) and the Earth’s path (in our yearly trip around the Sun) intersect. Since the particles of the debris field are traveling, relative to Earth, many times faster than a high power rifle bullet, they are literally vaporized by the tremendous heat of friction that’s generated when they enter our atmosphere.

As one of these tiny drops of mineral and ice plummets through the outer reaches of our planet’s atmosphere, it glows briefly and leaves a ghostly trail of luminescence behind. It becomes what we romantically refer to as a shooting star. But far from being mighty stars, these particles are almost always no larger than a single grain of sand. It never ceases to amaze me that something that small can create such a dazzling show of light!

My wife and I have a hide-a-way up near The Grand Canyon, at 6000 ft. elevation. We live in Mesa, Arizona, which gets very hot in the summer, and we spend practically every weekend between May and October up there where it is much cooler. The skies at those elevations are very clear at night, and stargazing is excellent. Normally if we see a single shooting star on any given evening, it’s a memorable event.

But when the debris field of a comet passes through Earth’s atmosphere, one might expect to see hundreds of shooting stars in less than an hour! That is why these relatively rare occurrences are called "meteor showers." The Leonid meteor shower is one of the most spectacular. Since one of this magnitude isn’t expected to occur again until 2099, we thought it might be worth making the trip up to the higher elevations to watch it. On the other hand, it’s a 3-½ hour drive up from the Phoenix area, and we were going up the following Wednesday for a long Thanksgiving weekend. So we debated whether to go. We decided to watch things from Mesa, where the viewing would not be nearly as good due to metropolitan smog, city light pollution and so forth.

Saturday afternoon the sky began to cloud over, and it looked like we might not see anything at all if we stayed in Mesa. So at 5 PM we hit the road, arriving at our place up north by 8:30 PM Saturday night.

We went straight to bed, setting the alarm clock for 2:15 AM. (Remember, the experts said that peak viewing would occur at 3 AM.) I was awake before 2:15 and walked out onto the front deck. I was astonished! Meteorites were already streaking through the sky!

"It’s show time!" I shouted, rushing back indoors to get bundled up. (Yes, in mid November the nights are chilly at 6000 ft.) My wife, Marge, got into her own down parka and we settled down out on the back deck where there’s a nice swing with seating for three. We scrunched down and rested our heads on the swing’s back, so as not to get cricks in our necks, and began to watch the show. With increasing frequency the meteorites streaked across the sky.

"There’s one!" Marge would cry.

"There’s another!" I’d answer. In the space of an hour we no doubt saw more shooting stars than we’ll see again in the remainder of our lives. It was an amazing, once-in-a-lifetime display!

It’s now Sunday morning, and I’m writing this up here in the high country where we spent the night. It’s a beautiful day outside. After being up for two hours plus in the middle of the night, we slept in this morning and didn’t rise until the Sun was well up in the sky.

As I drift back mentally to what we saw last night ... hundreds upon hundreds of tiny visitors from outer space, burning up in Earth’s atmosphere ... and as I think about the turmoil among men even as I write these words, it’s clear that there is much to ponder. The Universe is so vast, and we are so insignificant in the greater scheme of things. Taking the big view, the madness that occurred on September 11’Th here in our own tiny bubble of space would seem comical and even ridiculous, if it weren’t so tragic.

Will we survive as a species, long enough for our descendants to travel out among the stars, perhaps to discover and colonize real new worlds (and not simply new continents here on our mother planet)? Your guess is as good as mine. Suffice it to say that I’m glad my wife and I made the trip up here, where clear night skies are the norm, and didn’t decide to wait for the next display in 2099!

The Leonid meteor shower was an awesome production put on, in my opinion, by an infinitely awesome Producer. With luck it might be hoped that freedom and human rights will, in time, be enjoyed by all the men, women and children of planet Earth. And if and when that happy day arrives, then hopefully there will be enough of God’s bounty left for us to fashion mighty galleons that embark on voyages out among the stars. Stay tuned, humanity. The best may be yet to come!

I have a young friend who wants to attain perfection in his poetry. I say "young" because, at my age, most people seem young. I say "friend" because I admire him so, but the truth is we’ve never met.

Being so much older than he and, in all probability, than you, I would like to beg your indulgence and reflect upon perfection, poetry, and literature in general. I propose to do this by asking a few questions. And I am going to answer those questions on the assumption that God is perfect, and that I know something about God (presumptuous though that may be).

Is desire perfection? I think not. We desire that which we want but don’t have. I doubt that God desires or wants for anything. Indeed the 23’rd Psalm might well be paraphrased to read, "The Lord is my shepherd so that I shall not want for anything." It seems to me that our existence is less than perfect when our hearts are filled with desire. Yet some of the greatest works in literature are about desire ... were inspired by desire.

Do you see the contradiction? Can a poem ever be perfect in content when it expresses desire? Would it be worth reading if it didn’t?

How about regret? Great poems have expressed it, and perhaps it can be viewed as one small step toward the elusive grail called perfection. But it is in the same breath a tacit admission that, although we may have gotten up from a fall, our feet are still planted in the clay. Many a touching greeting card has been a quest for forgiveness. Literature, not to mention the blues and country music, should well nigh be bankrupt without regret.

And then there is hate, lust, anxiety about our mortality, defiance ... the list is long. All have engendered great works. All are rooted in the soil of Mother Earth and the human condition, far from the rare ether of heaven. Great literature seems not only to discuss the imperfections of life on Earth, but to celebrate them. We simultaneously rail and revel at our juices and passions. In some of the best works it is clear that the author was besotted with them. And we, by association, become a little drunk too when we read the words.

I will not belabor the point further. In a nutshell, it seems to me that poetry, and literature in general, cannot and should not aspire to be perfect. For it is the imperfections filling our lives that seem to be the well springs from which the beautiful words and forms flow.

Nor should we delude ourselves with the idea that there is perfection of form. Art is and always will be re-inventing itself. (a) Rebels create new forms of expression. (b) The new ways catch on. (c) The pedants refine it into a school. (d) At last humankind has found the right way to do poetry, or music, or ... (e) Go to (a).

And so I would advise all young people whose minds are open and fresh: Yes, by all means, read the great works (and even the not so great)! Marvel at the flow and meter ... the words and notes ... and forms and colors! Gasp and sigh, laugh and cry at the sweet desires and pathos ... the melancholy and nostalgia that drift up from between the words, out of the pages and into your souls. Vicariously re-experience lives that were but are no more ... that were once as imperfect and filled with longing as your own are.

But if and when you take pen, or keyboard, or brush or chisel in hand and deign to add your own creations to those done by fellow creatures who preceded you, then I would charge you with the words of one of the greatest: Above all else, to thine own self be true. Imperfect though you may be ... unorthodox though your manner may seem to your peers ... anything less is not art.

For living creatures there is no perfection. There is only life. But folks, that ain’t bad. Enjoy and celebrate it while it is yours!

The words, like birds, do float and soar

And stir the poet’s heart once more.

They sing and bring the minstrel soul

Back from a break and make it whole.

Words mend and send the weary heart

From finish back to race’s start

To try (and die, if that must be)

Once more to win love’s pageantry.

They slake and break the poet’s thirst

For passion’s wine (‘though heart may burst).

Like birds, the words would once again

Send forth to thee sweet love’s refrain.

The smell of new frost thrills my nose

As petals fall from summer’s rose.

A glimpse of life, another season

Flee with little rhyme or reason

Like some startled drummer.

We call this autumn, season bright,

Of thousand colors, dancing light.

But sounds of rustling leaves at night

Too soon must die beneath the white

Of winter’s snow.

A wisp of smoke, a distant fire

Rekindle flames of lost desire;

A yearning that I thought had died

Awakens once again inside,

But did you know

An Indian love call rapidly flees

Away with the wind and whispering leaves

Of Indian Summer?

You heard her heart and gentle voice

Before you felt the air.

She was your World, your Universe

As you lay slumbering there.

The first thing your new eyes beheld,

When opened, was her face.

Through all your years of growing up

She gave a sense of place.

And now that you’re a man, with luck,

You’ll be loved by another.

But son, you’ll never know a greater love

Than that of Mother.

It must have been the Lord above

Who was the author of our love.

Perhaps he saw my empty life

And sent you down to be my wife.

It’s true, when young, we lived apart,

Love but a promise in each heart,

But even Jesus was a boy

Before, as man, he taught us joy!

‘Though some would say it was mere chance

That set the stage for our romance,

I know it was a grand design

That made me yours, and made you mine.

O’ luscious, throbbing verdant season,

Full of promise, void of reason!

Rolling hillsides, greenly blushing,

Snowmelt sending streams a-rushing!

All my senses drunk and reeling,

Loins afire with ancient feeling!

Whence this unfamiliar aching,

Filling chest and heart a-breaking?

Might the robin’s purposed quest,

Weaving grasses, building nest,

Offer clue to this strange yearning

Coursing through my veins a-burning?

Will yon window box’s crocus

Bring my problem into focus?

Could the eyes, through curtain peeking,

Hold the answer I am seeking?

There! A shy smile now in view!

Behold! The cure for spring is you!

Hi Lassie Aye, Hi Lassie Oh

I’ll be with you ‘til leaves go gold,

A song of love I’ll gladly sow

To keep you warm when days grow cold.

And in good time you’ll come along

And join me under Summer skies,

And I will sing the old song,

The song that never dies.

This Christmas we received the gift of time,

Marked by tick and tock and pleasant chime.

Gently placed above the fireplace,

Our new clock’s round and Roman-numeraled face

Counts the seconds smartly marching by.

Feebly struggle some against the sweep

Of the hands that hours and minutes keep,

Vainly seeking privileged place to hide

From the rushing, all-embracing tide

Washing over all within its reach.

Smart the pupil who, with studied ear

Does the message in the ringing hear.

Does the lesson of the ticking learn,

Told repeatedly each earthly turn,

Lesson that the friendly clock would teach:

As each day begins, so must it end.

Seize the hour before it’s lost, my friend.

Hearken to the tolling of my bell.

Drink the wine of life, savor it well.

Lift your glass, for soon it will be dry.

Pretty leaves outside my window,

Feathers for a favorite tree,

Wafting, waving, gently testing

Breezes from the distant sea:

Brief the time you spend among us,

Scarce’ a season, not much more,

‘Til the call of colder weather

Draws you to the forest floor.

While you’re here you do your duty,

Toiling uncomplainingly,

Binding sun and earth and water

Into fiber for your tree.

Comes the fall you’ll turn to crimson,

Drop in waves as north winds blow,

Drift to earth in numbers legion,

Vanish under winter’s snow.

Even in your passing, though, is purpose,

Part of nature’s plan.

For you’ll leave a richer earth

For unborn members of your clan.

Pretty leaves outside my window,

Living life so purposely:

When I fall to earth one autumn

Will the same be said of me?

It’s that special time of year again

When Halloween is nigh.

The trees are turning color,

Flocks of birds are on the fly.

One day is gray and overcast,

The next one clear and bright.

The crops are mostly gathered,

Jack Frost visits in the night.

Another year has passed by

And I find myself still here.

Three-sixty five days older

(Not much wiser for ‘t I fear).

But does it really matter

When you take things overall

If a man has missed the Nobel

‘Ere he’s seen another fall?

He travels down a stretch of time

The distance of a life.

With luck he has some young ones

With the aid of comely wife.

His body goes from boy to man,

From man to older gent.

His days, like pennies squandered,

All too soon are mostly spent.

Yet who would turn aside,

Lamenting seasons come and gone,

When crimson-bowered country lanes

Invite the traveler on?

With dazzled eyes we press ahead

(‘Though winter snows draw near),

Bewitched by all the beauty of

This special time of year!

When snow blows horizontal to the ground,

And stars are hidden by the scudding clouds,

I lie and marvel how the creatures ‘round

My cabin duck death-angel’s dreaded shrouds.

I could not last a single night like this

Outdoors, ‘though garbed in all my warmest togs.

And yet, before I hear the teapot’s hiss,

The coyotes welcome dawn like carefree dogs.

I wondered at such things once to a friend.

A philosophic type ... a Greek was he.

I’ll not forget his words until my end.

And here, in verse, is what he answered me:

A thousand generations in these parts

Has made the savage, winter winds to seem

As normal to their stalwart, robust hearts

As Summer’s breeze and morning sunlight’s beam.

It’s we who are the marvels, don’t you know,

Who, with our wits and brains so bright and smart,

Have learned survival through the months of snow

Far from the tropics where we got our start!

And as I pondered on my wise friend’s words

I saw what special creatures we must be ...

We cannot float unaided with the birds

Nor swim on breath alone beneath the sea.

Yet even these strange realms we’ve made our own

With planes and aqua-lungs and other gear,

And now plan out in empty space to roam

Far from the safety of this biosphere.

What strange and hostile places we find there

Will test us once again, but we’ll not fail

In time to make our homes in other air,

On other worlds to which we boldly sail!

The list is long (too long, perhaps),

the list is long, my friend,

Of men (and women too, no doubt)

who pierce and dash and rend

Their hearts asunder on a cause

full lost for many years ...

A fact quite clear to all but they,

their vision blurred by tears.

Maugham’s ‘Human Bondage’,

Wilbur Mills’ disgrace and fall,

Countless more less famous,

all ensnared, forsaking all

On a fruitless quest,

denying that their love’s been spurned ...

Squandering their precious years

on passion unreturned.

By the time Monsignor Francisco was appointed Abbot at the monastery, no one in the village could say with certainty how long Brother Philip had been there. A few of the oldest men remembered that he had arrived as a young man, but there was general disagreement on the exact year.

In those impolitic days it was considered a kindness to call people like Philip "simpletons." He had never mastered the written word, and although he had the religious calling as a child, he clearly was not material for the priesthood. But the Mother Church had nonetheless found a place for him and, from the day of his arrival at the monastery, he happily worked in the kitchen, mopping the rounded stones of the floor every morning and scouring pots and pans three times a day. Every Saturday afternoon, in preparation for Sunday services, he would polish the fragrant wood of the church's pews and pulpit and reverently dust the large crucifix and other trappings arrayed on a table in front of the pulpit.

Philip had a great respect for all living things, and on numerous occasions he was seen to usher a cricket or spider out of doors, holding the uninvited guest carefully in his cupped hands so as not to harm it. It was rightly said of him that he would not harm a flea.

Five years after Philip’s arrival, an elderly priest who had tended the monastery’s large rose garden for many years was taken ill. He was not expected to recover. A replacement was vitally needed, since the altar boys sold the beautiful blooms outside the church's massive doors every Sunday, the proceeds being used to help the poor. In view of Brother Philip’s love for living things, it was decided to give him a try. It turned out to be a good choice. Although he could not read the scant horticultural literature available in those days, after his work was done he would sit at the bedside of the stricken priest, learning about the roses. In short order he was seen to have the proverbial green thumb.

The old priest went on to his final reward, and Brother Philip became the official tender of the roses. For many years the beautiful flowers flourished under his attentive care. Never a complaint was heard from his lips at this extra duty. Every Saturday, after preparing the church for Sunday mass, he would fill the vases on either side of the altar with scarlet blooms. And on Sunday mornings, when the sky was still dark, he would rouse himself in his tiny cell and hasten out to the garden, there to cut budding roses for the altar boys’ baskets.

Not far from the monastery a beautiful stream wended its way through the village. It was filled with clear, sweet water year ‘round. Centuries before, it had been dammed to provide waterpower to a mill that had long since fallen into disuse. An all but watertight gate that spanned the breadth of the stream had been constructed upstream from the dam. In the days when the mill had been used to grind grain, the water would be diverted into a sluice that carried it to the top of the great wheel inside the mill. But, that had been years ago. After the mill had ceased operations, the gate had been left open and the water was allowed to flow over the top of the dam, there to crash with great fury onto the rocks below.

Above the dam both sides of the stream had been walled with great, square blocks of stone. On the upstream end of the pool that formed behind the dam the walls were higher than a horse, but they tapered to half a man’s height down at the dam where the water was quite deep. Rich loam from the region was backfilled behind the walls, creating park-like meadows which eventually became blanketed with grass and trees.

It was customary for the children of the village to play in the cool grasses that grew there, despite their elders’ stern admonitions not to get close to the walls. Probably not a single boy had not been told many times that he would certainly be killed if he ever fell into the water and was swept over the dam. Raul had received his share of such dire warnings by the time he was six, but along with his peers he was undeterred from playing along the side of the stream above the dam.

There were always white ducks plying the waters there. For the most part they would turn upstream and paddle furiously when the current threatened to carry them over. Raul and his friends took great pleasure in pilfering scraps of bread from their homes and, by tossing crumbs into the water, seeing how close they could get the birds to approach the brink. Of course they were careful to practice this somewhat cruel sport only when no adults were around to take note and to scold them.

Brother Philip enjoyed seeking out the stream and sitting on one of the ancient stone benches at streamside whenever time permitted. Sometimes he would tag along with a couple of monks, and on such occasions he would take great delight in quietly listening to them talk of priestly things. When the boys playing there became too raucous, the monks would chide them to quiet down. In his heart Brother Philip secretly sided with the boys, and always softened the scolding with a gentle smile.

One such day in late spring Philip accompanied two young monks to a favorite bench. Raul and a few other boys were already there at play under the trees. If any of them had any bread to tease the ducks with, he kept it carefully out of view. Raul, who already thought he might become a priest, sidled over to the bench and, along with Brother Philip, eavesdropped on the two monks. At some point a duck darted toward the dam, evidently in pursuit of a bug in the water. Too late it realized that it had crossed an invisible line and would not beat the current. But of course this presented no problem. Just before being swept over the edge, the bird opened its wings and exploded into the air, flying several yards upstream and quacking loudly.

"Lucky for him he can fly," one of the monks mused.

The other monk, aware of Raul’s eavesdropping ears, agreed and loudly allowed that the fowl would have met with a certain death, had it gone over the dam’s top. Although Brother Philip never had anything to say on such occasions, he surprised even himself that day by murmuring, "Angels never die."

Raul looked earnestly up at the old Brother’s face, wondering what he meant. Was the duck an angel? Philip only smiled back at him. The two monks glanced Philip’s way with disapproval tugging at the corners of their eyes. It was not expected that a simpleton should or would interject quirky non sequiturs during priestly discourses. Brother Philip blushed and Raul sensed that he should rejoin the other boys. He did not see the priests leave, and did not know whether Philip had left with them or, like he, had slipped away early.

It was the custom for the monastery to host a festival along the stream bank early each Summer. The monks provided food for the villagers, and a small group of them sang beautiful songs of faith and devotion. A statue of The Virgin stood in a small alcove under the trees, and every year Philip would place a garland of roses around her neck.

On this particular occasion, in the beginning of Raul’s sixth summer, the day was more beautiful than usual and a good crowd turned out. As the villagers made polite conversation with the monks and daintily picked at the free food, Philip sat happily under a large tree, leaning against its trunk and alternately listening to the birds above and to the people milling about before him. As usual he said nothing, only smiling and nodding each time a child paused before him to say "Hi, Brother Philip."

Raul and some friends were busy throwing twigs into the current and watching them be swept over the top of the dam. They would then race past the dam, down a path to the turbulent pool below it, and wait excitedly for the sticks to emerge from the white maelstrom where the water fell.

Midway through one of the cantos being sung by the choir, Philip thought he heard a splash. With a nimbleness that was surprising for a man of his years, he leapt to his feet when several boys began shouting, "Raul! Raul!"

A horrible scream pierced the air as Raul’s mother ran to the stream wall. There in midstream was Raul, swimming with all his strength against the current, but to no avail.

"Raul!" his mother screamed, running toward the dam and flinging herself onto her belly, half hanging out over the water. Her outstretched arm beckoned desperately at the small head, willing it to move toward the wall. But Raul’s gaze was riveted upstream as he fought his losing battle with the current.

In seconds he was swept by, his terror-stricken eyes locking with his mother’s. In a few more seconds he would be swept over and pounded into the rocks that everyone knew lurked beneath the white water at the dam’s base.

In those few seconds, with a speed that people afterward said was miraculous, Brother Philip flew in a great arc out over the wall and into the current. He surfaced just below Raul, unceremoniously grasped the boy by the back of his shirt collar and plowed with powerful strokes toward the wall. People ran toward the spot but, before they could get there, Brother Philip gave a mighty heave and launched Raul up out of the water and onto the wall’s great capstones. The effort was enough to drive the old man deep beneath the surface. His head bobbed up again at the brink of the falls. For one instant his eyes met those of Raul’s mother. Then, with a smile and a nod, he went over.

Raul’s mother stared at the spot where the old man had disappeared from view. Her mouth worked wordlessly, but she was too stunned to make a sound. Several of the men ran down the path below the dam. Three of them waded out into the current below the savage white water, hoping to catch Brother Philip when he emerged. But he never did. The men ended up taking turns until dark, standing in the cold water and peering into the swirling current until their eyes ached. Minutes after the accident, several young men raced downstream, watching the water and asking people in the neighboring villages to watch for a body.

After a time, with no sign of Brother Philip, some of the monks concluded that he or his body had slipped by unseen below the surface. Others feared that he was wedged among the rocks that lay beneath the boiling white water. Monsignor Francisco spent a restless night wondering what was to be done. By the time the first gray light of dawn stole into the eastern sky he had made a decision. He ordered that the gate be pried loose from its moorings and deployed across the stream as had been done in the old days, diverting the water down through the old mill. The water wheel had long since become dilapidated, but no one thought that presented a problem. The water would still pass through the mill and out through another sluice, re-entering the stream below the pool at the dam's base. The idea was that, once the stream had been diverted, it would be safe to enter the stilled pool at the base of the dam and to retrieve Brother Philip’s remains, if in fact they were there.

And so the whole thing was done. But no sign of Brother Philip was ever found. Some of the daring young men from the village even dove down among the treacherous rocks, but to no avail. All the next day monks lined the banks below the dam, and Raul and the other boys of the village peeked between their flapping robes. What could have happened to Brother Philip? Although people in the villages downstream had watched the waters all afternoon on the day of the accident, no one had seen anything.

Monsignor Francisco ordered that the gate be left in place and the water diverted through the mill indefinitely. It was generally agreed that if the pool below the dam was allowed to dry up during the hot summer, then Brother Philip might eventually be found among the rocks.

As the waters in the great pool below the dam evaporated, thorn bushes took root among the emerging rocks and even among cracks in the exposed dam face itself. By early fall the pool was all but dry, but there was no sign of human remains anywhere among the rocks. It was decided to leave the waters diverted through the deserted mill until the following spring, when a fence would be erected along the stream walls. All that winter the villagers contributed to a special box at the monastery, created especially to finance the new fence. Everyone agreed that the fence should have been constructed years ago, but no one could figure where the blame for this oversight should be placed.

The winter came and went and Raul celebrated his seventh birthday. One day early in the following spring, before the fence construction had gotten under way, the two monks that Brother Philip and Raul had eavesdropped on the year before, again sought out the stone bench. After a while the two young men rose and strolled down the path to the bank below the dam to view the flowers there. For to everyone’s delight the thorn bushes, now sprouting densely from the wall of the dam and the jagged rocks at its base, had turned out to be wild roses. The monks gazed appreciatively at the profusion of small blooms adorning the dam face and the rocks below. Raul, who had been eavesdropping again, had quietly followed the monks down the path a few discrete steps behind. As the monks sucked the sweet smelling air into their noses, their conversation turned to Brother Philip.

"His body must have slipped by under the water and been swept out to sea," one of them remarked.

"Yes, no one could survive being thrown down onto those rocks with such force," the other agreed.

Raul turned silently away from the monks and began climbing back up the path. An uncomfortable lump filled his throat. In the now placid pool above the dam a duck quacked. With a sigh and a sadness of heart rarely found in the breast of one so young, he saw Brother Philip’s smile again and heard him whisper, "Angels never die."

When he was young, Rafferty had always scorned suicide. So things didn’t work out ... big deal! Take off! Go to the South Seas! Go to Alaska! Become a mountain man! The possibilities were endless. What a cop out suicide was.

But ... those were a young man’s thoughts. In one’s twenties, with few regrets and at the peak of one’s powers, anything seemed possible. At 63, dead broke and out of gas, nothing seemed possible.

With frightened eyes he looked around the drab bungalow he had called home for the past three years. It really was little more than a shack. He looked down the barrel of the snub-nosed revolver and thought that McAllister had made a pretty good deal. Three years ago Rafferty had blown into town with severance pay in his pocket, and had taken a room at the inn. McAllister owned the place and tended bar. The two had gotten on well. When Rafferty inquired what longer term lodging arrangements existed in the area, McAllister’s ears had pricked up. He had taken Rafferty out back and showed him the shack. If Rafferty had $600 down and could come up with $600 every June 1^st, then the place was his for as long as he wanted it.

Rafferty had looked around. Like himself, the place was old and worn out. But, there was a working toilet and a kitchenette. Almost no furniture, but that could be remedied. What the hell, he made the deal.

It had been slow going after that. He had to hustle and find some source of income. The best he could manage was bagging groceries. But the meager pay and occasional items he pilfered from the supermarket put food on the table.

When he turned 62 he had opted for early Social Security and "retired." It was then that the serious depression set in. With no money to spend on diversions, he had sat alone in the small living room, staring blankly at the black and white TV, and taking stock of his life. It was a daunting experience.

At first the old defense mechanisms, that had protected him from the truth when he was young, had tried to kick in. But they no longer seemed to work. Gradually, over a period of weeks and months, it became clear that he had always been a screw up ... a certifiable sociopath. Why? Why had he never really clicked --- never effectively meshed with life? It seemed he had destroyed every good thing that fate had ever served up to him.

Most painful of all were the memories of Anne and Maria. He had met Anne at a singles bar in the days when he had a good job. He forced himself on her after their third night of partying. He could tell he was her first. Marrying her was probably one of the few decent things he ever did. He doubted that even she knew she was pregnant the night he popped the question.

Maria was born seven months after their marriage. He wasn’t ready for fatherhood. For that matter he wasn’t ready for marriage. He never committed to Anne. And he never made his little girl feel wanted. As she grew up his coldness obviously drained her of all self-esteem, but he refused to care. And now, too late, the enormity of his sins of omission tormented him exquisitely.

Anne had taken ill when Maria was 17. It was cancer, and it was untreatable. Even then he had been indifferent ... distant ... even resentful that she had to be hospitalized. He had still been young enough to hold a job with benefits, so there was no financial strain. It was just that it seemed, in his selfish mind, that she was trying to dump everything on him.

He remembered now, as he eyed the brass-cased bullets in the pistol, the last night in the hospital. He had been especially cynical about Anne’s sad eyes, having decided that she was playing for pity. Maria had been speechless. He could only smirk when Anne had beckoned to her daughter with frail, open arms. He had looked away with mild disgust when Anne wrapped her arms around Maria and stroked her hair.

And then it was his turn.

"Kiss me, Tommy," Anne had whispered, holding her arms out to him. Peevishly he had complied, bending over to kiss her on the cheek.

"Kiss me on the mouth!" she had demanded hoarsely, fixing him with stern eyes. It had caught him off guard. She had never ordered him to do anything. So he had pressed his lips against hers, dispassionately. At first she placed her hand on the back of his head, holding his mouth against her own. But then, as if sensing his lack of interest, her hand had slipped away.

He had straightened up and she turned her face away, toward the room’s wall.

"See you tomorrow," he had said, implying in tone that it was a chore, but that he’d do it anyway. She didn’t answer.

"Well, come on," he’d said brusquely to Maria. He opened the room’s door to usher her out. The sound of Anne’s voice stopped them.

"Goodbye, baby," she called in a frail voice. Maria had turned and looked at her mother. Only now, with the revolver heavy in his hand, did Rafferty realize how real the sadness in Anne’s eyes was. For a moment Maria had hesitated, uncertain of what to do. But Rafferty had pushed her through the door.

Anne died alone in the hospital that night. When the call came, Rafferty went into total denial, stubbornly remaining cynical. He never did grieve. Somehow Anne got buried. Maria went silent from the moment Rafferty told her that her mother had died. She was gone the morning after the funeral.

Rafferty never saw her again. At first he had scoffed at the disappearance. She’d be back in a day or two! But the days came and went. At last, with the first hints of misgivings creeping into his mind, he had notified the authorities. But they found no trace of her. When he indignantly complained after three weeks, the desk sergeant pulled out a long list of names. They were all teens who had run away and were officially missing. So many, Rafferty had marveled ... and all of them just from this one city!

Rafferty’s professional career went down the tubes after that. He had always been a job jumper --- no long-term commitments for him! But somehow there had always been a better paying position. Now the trend reversed. In time he had to sell the house and move into an apartment. It was only dumb luck that he was laid off with hundreds of others, and received a modest severance check.

Three years after Maria’s disappearance, Rafferty had convinced himself that she was dead. So he had left town and traveled halfway across the state to this place. And this, he now realized, was the end of the line.

He had been raised in a moderately religious family. But Maria had never received like treatment. By the time she was born, organized religion had joined the long list of institutions which he held suspect. And so, for Maria, there had been no Sunday schools. On the few occasions that Anne had wondered aloud if they should join a church, he had silenced her with looks of hate and derision.

But now, after a year of sitting alone in this seedy shack --- when the awful truth about himself began to actually sink in --- he had unabashedly turned to God, beseeching His help.

"Tell me why I shouldn’t put a bullet through my head," he had begged. "Show me one reason why I should go on living!"

But there was no answer. There was only the sound of a fresh snowfall sifting against the windowpane. Twenty years ago he’d have exulted that God was a myth invented by cowards. Of course there was no answer! God didn’t exist! But now ... now he felt that it was he who had failed God, like he had failed every earthly supervisor he’d ever worked under.

"Life is a job," he ruefully concluded. "And like every job you’ve ever had, you blew it."

And so he decided to end it. It seemed like the decent thing to do. This would be the final job jump, straight out of life and into Hell. The Boss wasn’t answering his calls. No one was stopping him from walking out the door.

Again Rafferty stared down the gun barrel. He carefully pulled the trigger. The cylinder began to turn. He studied the round slug that would rotate into the chamber next. That was the one with his name on it. Would McAllister hear the shot? Or would he lie here on the floor until his rotting carcass alerted someone?

Carefully he relaxed the trigger.

"A lifetime of bad calls ... of wrong turns," he thought. "A totally fucked up mess. Let’s do it, asshole."

And he placed the gun barrel against his temple and again pulled on the trigger. But before the flash of light there was a knock on the door. What the hell was this? No one had ever once knocked on this rat hole’s door!

"Who is it?" he barked angrily.

"It’s me, Maria," a timid feminine voice answered.

Maria! Maria alive? For an instant he was paralyzed.

"Just a minute!" Rafferty cried, jumping up and hiding his pistol in a kitchen drawer.

He crossed the living room and opened the door. At first he barely recognized her. Her hair was dyed and she looked like twenty years or more had passed. Under her ragged jacket a worn maternity dress couldn’t disguise her pregnancy.

"I’m sorry to bother you," she said in a dead voice, "but I’m broke and I need some help."

She had been out in the falling snow long enough for it to begin piling up in her hair. She was wet and obviously cold. For an instant Rafferty thought about admonishing her for leaving without a word, so long ago, and now showing up on his doorstep knocked up. He couldn’t believe the thought had even occurred to him.

"Come in, come in," he said softly, holding his hand out to her.

Maria stepped into the shack. She was ill at ease ... even a little defiant.

"If I could just stay until after ..." she said in a tired voice, placing her hand over her swollen tummy.

Rafferty nodded, at a loss for words. He led her to his easy chair and helped her out of her wet jacket.

"You can stay as long as you like," he finally stammered, reaching to turn the TV off.

"Could you leave it on?" Maria asked. "It’s a Christmas show ... I love Christmas shows."

Rafferty pulled a kitchen chair over next to her and sat on it backward.

"Yes, it’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?" he murmured. "I haven’t celebrated Christmas since ... since your Mom died."

Maria looked at his face in disbelief. The warmth of the room was clearly sinking in and her own face was beginning to relax. It seemed that she felt safe for the first time in a very long while.

"You didn’t know it was Christmas?" she asked, her voice filled with wonder.

Rafferty shook his head, smiling wanly, guilt tugging at the corners of his eyes.

"But Dad, Christmas is when prayers get answered," she added, laying a hand on his forearm.

Tears stung Rafferty’s eyes. And then, like a storm surge, sadness exploded in his chest and his body was wracked with sobs.

Maria was stunned.

"What is it, Dad?" she cried in alarm.

"I love you, baby," he sobbed. "I’m so sorry ... I’m just so happy to see you again."

Maria’s face took on the radiance that only a full term mother’s can.

"I don’t have a present for you ... for the two of you," Rafferty laughed through his tears, nodding at Maria’s tummy.

Maria’s own eyes brimmed.

"That’s not true, Dad," she answered. "That’s not true at all."

Julie knew that Rafe was a hard man when she accepted his marriage proposal. But then again, all of the men in those mountains were hard. They had to be.

"Almost all," she thought wistfully, studying the small family portrait in her lap. There they all were, nine years ago. Pa and Ma, looking younger, and she and her two brothers in their pre-teens. Yes, they were all hard men except for her brother, Chester. Where was he now?

Julie smoothed the quilt on her small bed and let her eyes rove for the thousandth time over the walls of her tiny bedroom. A few pictures that she herself had painted hung uneasily on the round logs. In the corner a homemade pine dresser held all her earthly possessions. On its top sat a small mirror, handed down for three generations. It was fogged the color of charcoal around the edges, but her pretty face still reflected back from its center when she fixed her hair each morning.

Her eyes wandered back to Chester’s features. They seemed so delicate and fine compared to Pa’s craggy face and brother Bruno’s square jaw. At the age of 15 Chester had been caught asleep and nude in a hayloft with another boy from the hollow. It was an abomination to the code that the men of those parts lived by. Men had actually been killed for being "queer," and indeed the other youth had disappeared without a trace. Chester had been spared from death, possibly because of Ma’s intervention. But if that were the case, his mother couldn’t manage to buy him anything more than that. Pa had disowned Chester and banished him from the mountains forever. And so Chester had packed his few things and disappeared seven years ago.

Julie missed him sorely at first. After his departure, brother Bruno became even more determined to hold her at arm’s length. At puberty he even began taking a hard line toward Ma. At first Julie had waited for her mother to slap him down. But Ma had changed too, and slowly began deferring to him almost as much as she did to Pa.

The blot on Julie’s family was no secret by the time Rafe began courting her. But, perhaps because he found her to be so pretty, Rafe had been undeterred in his pursuit of her. Every Saturday night he had shown up on the cabin’s front stoop, a squirrel rifle cradled in one strong arm and his dog Shep at his side. He had acknowledged Chester only once, when Julie had shown him the family portrait.

"So that’s Pretty Boy," he had muttered. "He got off easy. Men have been killed fer less in these here hills."

Julie had pondered Rafe’s words in the months that followed. What other acts were killing offenses? Adultery was certainly one, as was rape. And time had shown that both lives were forfeit when a white woman willingly lay with a black man. Much of it seems backward and harsh now, but it was the code that these people lived by, and Julie did not think less of Rafe for his remark. Nonetheless, along with her mother she held the memory of Chester in a tender corner of her heart.

Julie (and just as importantly) Pa accepted Rafe’s proposal, and so in due course the two were wed. Rafe owned his own farm, inherited from his father who died of the flu. Indeed Rafe’s own family was not without its shame. When his mother died only weeks after influenza had claimed his father, it was widely believed that she had taken poison. But, given the meager medical facilities in those parts, an autopsy was not even considered and Doc Johnson had listed "Grief" on her death certificate.

Rafe’s home was of frame construction and considerably larger than the cabin Julie had grown up in. The house was in sad disarray the day he carried Julie across the threshold. But two weeks after their wedding day the place had been transformed into a cozy home. Shep, who had actually slept in bed with Rafe, had been relegated to a corner of the living room on their wedding night. The dog had taken the change graciously, seeming to sense that three in bed would be a crowd.

Julie settled happily into married life. Rafe was a big, lovable cuss who worked hard. In less than a year the money in their secret cache, under a floorboard in the barn, had grown by nearly $300. The future seemed bright.

Eight months after her marriage Julie missed her period. When she mentioned it to her Ma, the old woman had hugged her and told her what it meant. Should she tell Rafe? Of course! But Julie decided to visit Doc Johnson first. The old country sawbones confirmed Ma’s diagnosis.

And so she had gently told Rafe that they’d need to redecorate one of the two spare bedrooms into a nursery. She sprang the surprise on him while they sat eating dinner that night. Rafe had appeared stunned. It seemed that he could scarcely believe he’d had anything to do with it! After dinner he kissed and hugged her, more carefully than usual, and told her he had to tell the boys. Julie knew what that meant ... a hard drinking night in the saloon out in back of Jorgensen Mercantile. But that was agreeable with her. Rafe’s bouts with a jug were few and far between, and she sang happy songs while she did the supper dishes and afterward studied mail order sewing patterns for infant clothes. Late that night, after she had gone to bed, she heard Rafe’s pickup rattle into the yard. With a giggle she listened to him lurch about the front yard, hollering to Shep that he loved Julie and Julie loved him, and Shep all the while barking and biting at his pants legs.

Little Nancy arrived on schedule, and there was never a prouder daddy than Rafe. The baby was christened in the hollow’s clapboard church, and Julie’s own sewing efforts were augmented by those of her mother and several other woman friends.

Time slipped by. Shep made little Nancy his own special business. From the day Julie and Rafe brought the baby home, Shep would lie down in front of the nursery door whenever Julie put the baby down for the night. Now getting on in years, he would rise only to allow Julie to pass. On the occasions that Rafe wanted to peek in on the baby while she slept, Shep would only give him a suspicious stare and Rafe would be obliged to step over the old pooch. Once when Ma and Pa had come over for dinner Pa had reached to open the nursery door before they left for the night. His intentions were innocent enough ... to peek in on his granddaughter before they departed. But Shep had leapt to his feet and growled menacingly through bared teeth.

"Here now, what’s the matter with you?" Rafe had scolded, moving to swat the old dog.

"Leave him be!" Pa had admonished, holding Rafe back with a raised arm. "He’s doin’ his duty as he sees it. He’s a good dog."

And so the years came and went. Nancy’s fifth birthday was celebrated and Julie began telling her of all the fun she was going to have in school.

All of the mountain people strode a straight and narrow path in those days. The hard life they led was no doubt partly responsible. It left little time to even think about straying from the path, not to mention actually doing anything unseemly. And then there was the code they lived by. Justice could be swift and informal in those parts, often meted out personally by the injured party, with the approval of others.

And so it was at first unbelievable to Rafe the day a neighbor drove down the dusty road into the farm, and sought Rafe out in the cornfield.

"Hey, Miller!" Rafe shouted, leaning on his hoe. "What’s up?"

Miller’s grave face indicated that this was not a happy visit.

"Rafe," Miller began uneasily, "I ain’t a bit happy to tell yuh this ... not one goddammed bit happy."

"What is it, man?" Rafe asked anxiously. He fished a large bandanna from his overalls and mopped the sweat from his brow. Miller kicked the dirt around with the toe of a well-worn work shoe.

"Rafe," he said softly, avoiding Rafe’s eyes. "Us fellas talked it over and ever’body decided yuh had to know."

"Know what?" Rafe answered, letting the hoe drop to the ground and laying his hand on Miller’s shoulder. Miller moved away a few steps, as if wary of Rafe’s touch. At length he spoke again, casting worried sideways glances at Rafe.

"Do yuh know about the stranger what moved into that abandoned shack in town?"

"I heard," Rafe answered, wondering how that could cause such concern.

"Well, Rafe," Miller continued, "it seems that ... we.., that is ... two o’ the boys seen Julie huggin’ him."

Rafe felt the blood drain from his head. At first he was speechless.

"I don’t believe you," he said through clenched teeth. Miller nodded sympathetically.

"What two boys?" Rafe demanded.

"Simms and Elliot," Miller mumbled.

Simms and Elliot! Rafe would bet his life on the honesty of those two!

"When?" he now asked in a dead tone.

"More ‘n once, Rafe," Miller answered. "It looks like they’s ... gittin’ together every Wednesday afternoon."

"And where?" Rafe asked, his voice now taking on a dangerous edge.

"At that thar shack he’s squattin’ in. Well, I’ll be goin’ now," Miller answered nervously, turning and hurrying back toward his old truck.

Rafe’s head was swimming. Wednesday afternoon! This was Wednesday morning! It couldn’t be! Yet ... Julie had seemed occasionally furtive of late.

Rafe racked his brain. What was he to do? The code was clear. But how could she go to bed with him every night, if she was giving herself to another man? How could she throw away everything they had? And little Nancy ... how could she do this to her own child? Did she think Rafe would let her take Nancy away? Or did she just think that she’d ... they’d ... her and this stranger would go on undiscovered, and nothing would change? Was this the first time? Was he the first one? And then a truly terrible thought coursed through Rafe’s mind. Was little Nancy even his?

Rafe continued chopping weeds savagely. Fourteen rows later the lunch bell tolled back at the farmhouse. For a moment he considered running away, up into the hills. But he was, in the final analysis, a proud man. Anger and resolve pushed the panic out of him. He would get to the bottom of this and ... he would do the right thing.

Rafe entered the farmhouse’s kitchen. Julie smiled at him and he forced himself to smile back at her.

"Smells good!" he greeted, trying mightily to act normal. He peered into the pot. Beef stew ... it was one of his favorites. But there was so much of it!

He took a seat at the table and forced himself to eat, trying to praise the food as he always did.

"So, what’s on the burner for this afternoon?" he asked casually, after finishing the bowl of stew.

"Oh, I thought I’d drive into town to the Mercantile," Julie answered, rising and turning away to the sink, hiding her face from him. She was clearly jumpy all of a sudden. So ... it was true! Rafe stifled the sob that threatened to erupt in his chest.

"Sounds good," he mumbled, rising and walking toward the door. "Ring the bell for supper. I’ve got a lot of corn to weed."

Rafe walked out the door. Julie looked over her shoulder as his back disappeared behind the closing door. No kiss! He was beginning to sense that she was keeping something from him. She resolved to tell him everything that night at supper.

Rafe tramped out into the corn and, after he’d gone a hundred yards or so, doubled back toward the farmhouse, bending low to stay out of sight. At the edge of the field he lay down on his belly and stared intently at the house. Shep came padding out to him from the barn. For a brief moment Rafe’s thoughts turned to the dog.

"He’s gittin’ really old now," he mused. As the old dog approached with a quizzical look, Rafe hissed,

"Git outa here! Go on now, git back."

Shep stopped and lowered his tail. Clearly puzzled, he turned and shuffled back toward the barn. Minutes later Julie came out and got into her car.

"Not too close ... mustn’t see yuh," Rafe said to himself as he crossed the yard and opened his pickup’s door. Before Rafe could stop him, Shep leapt up into the seat.

"All right, you kin come," Rafe said grudgingly. "But you’re stayin’ put in this truck, hear?"

Rafe opened the glove compartment and took out the Colt 45 that he’d spirited away in his duffel bag the day he mustered out of the army. He took out the clip and inspected the snub-nosed bullets. There were, he knew, eight of them.

"Only takes two," he muttered, slapping the clip back into the pistol’s handle.

Rafe steered the pickup down the long drive and turned into the county road. Julie’s car was nowhere in sight. He would keep it that way. He knew how she’d approach the shack where her lover waited for her. He’d pull up out of sight, on the next street, and sneak through a yard over to where the shack sat. He knew he should go slow and give them time to get into bed. But in spite of this, he pressed the accelerator to the floorboard.

When he arrived at his destination he dropped the pistol into the big side pocket of his overalls.

"You stay!" he commanded his old dog, and warily strode through a yard. The shack and the street it sat on came into view. Julie’s car was nowhere in sight. Would the lovers be meeting somewhere else today? Was he ... was that scum ... inside? Should Rafe go in and finish the filthy piece of shit off now, and take Julie out when she came through the door? He thought better of that and lay down in the grass, peeking around the corner of the house whose yard he had just crept through.

With eyes of total despair he watched as Julie’s car pulled up in front of the shack. He had hoped this was all a mistake. He loved her so. Rafe felt his resolve begin to slip away.

Glancing each way, and obviously not wanting to be seen, Julie got out of her car and strode purposely to the shack door. What was that she carried? It looked like a food bucket. Son of a bitch, she was even feeding the bastard! That explained the extra stew!

Julie knocked on the door and the stranger stepped out. He smiled at the bucket of stew and hugged her. She kissed him on the cheek. She kissed him! Cold rage swept through Rafe’s body. His resolve returned with a vengeance. He pulled the 45 out.

"Wait ... wait," he told himself. "Catch them in the act."

Seconds and then minutes ticked by. In spite of itself, Rafe’s mind began going back over the life they had shared. Such happy times. He thought she had loved him, as he loved her.

"Even now you love her, you miserable son of a bitch," he thought, as tears burned his eyes. He had seen what a 45 could do to a human body. Could he do that now, to her?

A nudge against his leg roused him from his reverie. Shep stood looking at him. The old dog’s eyes were as suspicious as they had been back in the days when he lay at guard in front of the nursery door.

"Goddammit, I told you to stay in the truck!" he hissed. The old dog didn’t even blink.

"Well lay down, then," he commanded. Again Shep ignored him completely.

"You old son of a bitch, if you follow me in there then I’ll gun you too," he threatened, looking back at the shack. Again his thoughts drifted back in time. He saw Julie on their wedding day. She was so beautiful. He’d felt like the luckiest man in the world. Could he destroy her now? Was he up to raising little Nancy as a widower?

"God help me! Should I kill them?" he sobbed in anguish. Shep growled ominously. Rafe glanced back at the old cur. The dog’s eyes were devoid of mercy.

"What then? Let them live?" Rafe muttered. Instantly the old dog’s mouth opened in a grin and his tail began to wag wildly. Christ Almighty, was it possible that God was talking to him through this old mutt? It didn’t matter. With a mighty sigh Rafe knew that he couldn’t destroy what he still loved with all his heart.

With a feeling of weariness unlike anything he had ever known, Rafe rose to his feet and walked back to the truck.

"Go on, git up there," he ordered, holding the door open. Shep jumped in and Rafe followed. He put the pistol back into the glove compartment and turned the ignition key. The pickup’s engine came alive. What to do now? Everybody knew! Oh shit, he didn’t mind what they’d all say about him. They could call him a coward or any other goddammed thing they wanted to. But there would be no mercy for Julie ... NONE! Some good ole boy might even do what Rafe didn’t have the guts to do.

Rafe steered the pickup around the block and stopped in front of the shack. The two of them ... Julie and her lover ... would have to be told that there was no way they could stay here. She’d understand. They’d have to go back to wherever the hell he came from.

And little Nancy? Rafe knew that she’d want to be with her mother. Maybe he’d just keep her here with him until Julie got settled.

Rafe glanced at Shep.

"You stay here, you old bastard, or I swear I’ll kill yuh this time!" he glared. Shep smiled and thumped his tail against the dash.

Rafe got out and walked up to the shack door. He raised a hand to knock on it, but thought better of it. What did it matter what he found inside? He and Julie were history! With knotted jaw muscles he pushed the door inward.

Julie and the stranger were seated at the table. At least they weren’t in bed! The stranger was unenthusiastically picking at a bowl of beef stew. He was sallow faced and puny. Rafe wondered for a fleeting second what Julie saw in him.

"Rafe!" Julie cried, rushing toward him and wrapping her arms around his neck. He recoiled away from her when she tried to kiss him on the cheek.

Julie stepped back and looked him in the face. A look of comprehension filled her blue eyes.

"Rafe," she said softly, turning toward the stranger. "This is my brother, Chester."

Indescribable emotions washed over Rafe. This was Chester? But what ...

As if divining Rafe’s question, Julie continued.

"Chester has AIDS, Rafe. He’s come home to die here by me and Ma.

Rafe felt himself shrink ten sizes. The frail man at the table looked up at him with sad eyes. He rose in pain from the table and moved toward the two of them. He began to reach out his hand but then pulled it back, as if guessing that Rafe might not want to touch it. When he spoke, his voice had that unmistakable quality of a dying man. Rafe had heard it when his uncle, dying from cancer, had spoken to him from his deathbed.

"Rafe, I’m pleased to meet you," the wasted man said.

"Chester!" Rafe smiled awkwardly, extending his own hand. With a look of relief and gratitude Chester grasped the proffered hand, striving heroically to return the manly grip.

"I’m glad to meet you too," Rafe stammered. "I didn’t recognize you from the photo Julie showed me." Immediately Rafe felt mortified at his own stupidity. But Chester seemed to understand.

"It’s been quite a while since that picture was taken," he smiled.

"Where will you ... stay?" Rafe asked, glancing around the dilapidated shack.

Chester was silent for a moment, but then answered in a forced, cheery tone,

"Oh, here. This place has everything I need."

Rafe looked down at Julie. Her eyes were shining but she said nothing.

"Chester, pack your things," Rafe said. "You’re comin’ home with us."

Outside Shep barked from the truck’s open window. Rafe smiled as he remembered words his long-dead Granny had said to him more than once when he was a boy.

"Mysterious are the ways of the Lord."

Rafe put his arm around Julie’s waist, and she kissed him on the mouth.

"Amen to that," Rafe thought.

Harry Williams watched in shock as the P38 was consumed by the inferno of burning aviation fuel. He had to be the luckiest bloke alive! He tried to think how he had gotten out. Had he bailed out before the runway crash? Had he been thrown clear? He couldn’t remember anything after blacking out.

What could he remember? There was the bombing run over Germany. The German fighters had appeared on schedule, and he and the other P38 pilots had taken them on. As always, it had been intense. Almost too late he saw the two Germans, one on his wingman’s tail and the other below him. He knew that Pete’s P38 had a chance against one, but not against two.

"Pete! Gerries ... one below you and one at 6 O’clock!" he’d screamed into the mike. Without thinking, Harry rolled and closed on the plane on Pete’s tail. The moment he did it he realized he was setting his own plane up for a kill. If he got that one, the one below him would have his belly dead to rights. Maybe he’d get lucky.

He pushed the throttle to the max. His P38’s big twin engines screamed.

"Now!" he yelled, opening up with his guns. He could feel the P38 slow under the kick from the big cannons. Tracers streaked out in front of him. Pieces began flying off the German fighter.

"Yes!" he shouted, peeling off to follow Pete. And then, the searing pain. His right leg ... half blown away! His eyes stared saucer-like at the ooze, ooze, ooze of his own blood.

"I’m hit, Pete," he yelled. Pete’s P38 dove and slowed, allowing Harry to pass overhead.

"Roger that," Pete’s voice crackled. "You’ve got six ... seven holes in the bottom of your fuselage. But you’re not leaking anything."

"I’m afraid I am," he answered.

"What ... you’re hit?" Pete asked excitedly.

"Roger. My right leg. It looks bad."

"Bleeding bad?"

"Real bad. Looks like an artery."

He heard Pete curse.

"Can you tie anything around it?"

"I’m doing that now. I don’t know if it’s helping."

"Try to stay calm. I’m staying with you."

And so the two P38’s turned back toward England. Pete flew up on Harry’s left wing and waved to him. Harry began thinking that he was going to make it. He heard Pete radio ahead. He began feeling woozy. Then he could see it: the runway. Then ... blackness.

Harry heard Pete’s P38 roar by overhead. He waved to let Pete know he was OK. It occurred to him that he felt no pain in his leg. He looked down. It was fine!

"What the..." he exclaimed. The fire trucks and an ambulance came screaming up. The big water cannons smother the fire in less than a minute. The ambulance crew approached the streaming wreckage in heat-retardant suits. Harry ran toward them, yelling that he was all right. The first medic to approach the wreck turned back. He pulled his protective hood off, shaking his head.

"Of course there’s no one in there! I’m here!" Harry shouted exultingly.

"No help for him," he heard the medic say.

What the ... Harry ran up to the smoking wreckage. Funny ... he didn’t feel the heat! And then, there it was, the charred remains of a pilot.

The Group Captain looked up at Harry from his desk. What...? How did he get here? What happened to the burned out P38? Who was that in the cockpit?

"It was you, son, it was you," the Group Captain said gently.

Harry looked mutely at the Group Captain.

"Then I’m..."

"Yes, you are, son. But, no rest for the weary. There’s much for you to do. Look in this book."

Harry bent forward and looked at the blank page of a large book sitting on the desk. A picture of his wife, Sarah, and their little boy, Danny, appeared. In fast forward he watched Danny grow into a young man and attend Princeton University in America. He married an American girl and settled in the states. They had three children. One of them married and had a son and daughter. The son graduated from the new Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. And then he was flying a jet fighter over Vietnam. The fast forward slowed. The page went blank.

"This is your first assignment," the Group Captain said. "He’s your own great grandson."

"Yes, sir, I gathered as much," Harry said. "And what do I ... do?"

"You watch over the boy," the Group Captain drawled. "You step into his future and let us know if he’s in danger. It’s important that he survives the Vietnam conflict and father a daughter. It’s very important."

Harry nodded understandingly.

"But ... how can I change anything?" he asked. "Surely what’s done is done."

"That’s true," the Group Captain agreed. "I don’t know of any way the past can be altered. But the future ... Ah! That’s a different matter!"

"You mean I’ll be able to see his future?"

"Of course! What do you think you’ve been looking at in this flippin’ book, if not at your family’s future?"

"And if I see something ... if I see him in harm’s way, how do I change anything?"

"You don’t," the Group Captain shrugged. "When you see it, it’s as good as reported to higher authority. It or they will alter the future in ways too subtle for us to fathom. I’ve seen it happen many times, but can’t explain it."

Harry nodded that he understood. And then, there he was, looking over his great grandson’s shoulder. The boy’s name was Danny, and he was writing a letter to his wife.

"Only one more sortie, and I rotate stateside, my love. I’ll be home for Christmas."

Fast forward. He’s in the air with Danny. The big American fighter is in a fierce dogfight with North Vietnamese MIGs. Harry is astonished. His old P38 was fast, but this beast!"

Ahead, a MIG. The boy has him dead to rights.

"Let him have it!" Harry shouts, but Danny doesn’t hear him. Suddenly the lock-on cockpit alarm. Somehow Harry knows what it means. Danny pulls back hard on the stick. The jet begins to climb. Too late! A brilliant flash. Suspended in space, Harry watches the brilliant fireball with debris streaming out ahead of it. Not a piece is bigger than his hand. The other MIG ... the one that fired the missile ... the one they didn’t know was there until it was too late ... climbs above the fireball and does a victory roll.

Harry is back at the Group Captain’s desk.

"Good work," the Group Captain smiles. "Let’s see, what’s next for you."

"Ah, beggin’ your pardon, sir. What ... how...?"

"How was Danny saved? I don’t know, actually. But, you’re new. I have a certain amount of discretion. Would you like to revisit the lad’s future and find out?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I would indeed!" Harry beamed.

"All right, then. This once can’t hurt."

Harry is back in the big jet’s cockpit. The MIG is in Danny’s sights. Harry senses his great grandson’s thumb descending on the stick’s "Fire" button. Then, the alarm!

"What the..." Harry fumes. Here we go again! But in the same heartbeat, flameout! Danny’s plane pitches forward, visibly slowing with the sudden loss of thrust. The heat-seeking missile streaks overhead. The MIG in front of them explodes in a brilliant fireball!

Frantically Danny tries to restart the jet engine. They’re diving through thick cloud cover, lost from the other MIG’s sight. Then they’re back into the clear! The North Vietnamese countryside expands at breakneck speed in their field of vision.

"Bail out, Bail out!" Harry screams. But just then, a jolt! Are they hit? No! The engine’s restarted. Tremendous acceleration! The big jet pulls gracefully out of its dive. It screams over villages and fields. Danny pulls back on the stick, and the fighter climbs into the sky with enormous power!

"Alpha Tango Bravo," Danny intones into his throat mike. "Returning to base. I’ve had a flameout and a successful restart.

"Roger that," Harry senses more than hears base control reply.

Fast forward. Danny surprises his young wife on Christmas Eve back in America. She can’t stop crying and kissing him.

Small jump ahead again. They’re in bed. She’s nestled in Danny’s arms.

"I prayed that you’d make it through your last mission safely," she whispers, kissing him in the neck. "And my prayers were answered. This is the happiest Christmas of my life."

Danny kisses her forehead.

"You must have some kind of clout with the Man upstairs," he murmurs.

"Really?" she says, pulling away a little and looking at his face with wide eyes. "Tell me!"

Danny stares through the low light, up at their bedroom ceiling.

"Not now," he answers gently. "Maybe someday. But tonight, let’s make a baby."

Harry is back at the Group Captain’s desk.

"Mission accomplished?" the Group Captain smiles up at him.

"Roger that," Harry grins.

Jeffrey Mathews, cub reporter for one of New England's largest newspapers, scooped up his pocket tape recorder and camera and headed for the apartment door. It was Sunday morning and supposedly his day off. But, if nothing else, Jeffrey was a hustler. He was convinced that the way to beat his peers was to bring in a human interest story that would catch the eye of the editor-in-chief.

"I don't know when I'll be back," he announced brusquely to his young wife, Peggy. "If I get onto something good, I could be gone all day."

Peggy smiled sadly at him and nodded that she understood. She knew it was futile to argue that it was Father's Day … to beg him to spend a little time with Richie just this once. He would only blow up in her face, accusing her of not wanting him to get ahead.

She had tried every way she could think of to please Jeff, but nothing had worked. He remained cold and aloof, even when they made love (if one could call it that).

Had Peggy known what was in her young husband's heart, she'd have been devastated. For when she'd become pregnant with Richie, Jeffrey had secretly decided that the whole marriage was a mistake. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he'd have to shed her and the kid. He needed to be free of encumbrances … free to follow the stories around the world, wherever they led him. Only that way did he stand a chance of gaining national fame.

Jeffrey's eyes scanned the apartment as his hand turned the doorknob. He was at least decent enough, when he nodded back at Peg, to mask the hatred he felt in his heart. On the floor little Richie played with a toy truck, oblivious to his Daddy's departure and to the fact that it was Father's Day. A card, barely glanced at by Jeff, lay on the counter. Peggy had guided Richie's hand to scrawl out "Love, Richie."

"Stupid," Jeffrey had thought when he'd read the card. But again the decent part of him had concealed the truth.

"Thanks, Richie!" he'd smiled. Little Richie had smiled back, uncertain of why his father was talking to him. He had already accepted the fact that the man called 'Daddy' didn't like him very much.

Jeffrey pulled the door shut behind himself, and with an angry sigh headed down the hall. How could he have gotten into this mess? He was indeed on the horns of a dilemma. He had to be free! Yet he knew that Peg would be crushed if and when he told her that he wanted a divorce.

Since before Richie's birth he'd been secretly building a case for why they should go their separate ways. He'd even toyed with the idea of claiming that Richie wasn't his. But the kid already favored him strongly. Ironically enough, he resented it.

He tossed his recorder into the front seat and headed north, out of the city. It was a lovely June day, and he decided to stop in Gloucester. There were pictures aplenty to be had in that venerable fishing port, and perhaps he'd get the human interest story that he was looking for.

By the time he'd entered Gloucester's city limits, Peggy and Richie had vanished from his thoughts. He was already thinking ahead to a seafood lunch in one of Gloucester's Mom and Pop restaurants. Who could say … maybe he'd find his story there, over a beer with an old salt.

Jeffrey found a parking spot down on the waterfront, and strolled out along a fishing pier. Fishing boats, large and small, nuzzled the pilings with their matted rope and discarded tire bumpers. The water made pleasant slapping sounds beneath him, and the air was redolent with the smell of the ocean. Barnacles and other crustacea festooned the pilings below waterline, and here and there a small crab held fast to them. Little needle-like fish plied the water.

This was the life for him! Free to chase the next story, wherever it waited to be found! Down the pier a young man and woman approached. They were talking and laughing, but Jeffrey couldn't yet make out their words. The man pushed a stroller, occupied by a little boy about Richie's age. The kid was having a conversation with himself, looking all around with new eyes filled with wonder.

"Boat!" Jeffrey heard him exclaim, pointing a chubby finger at one of the moored vessels. And then, "Bir'," as one of the countless seagulls sailed by. For an instant a pang of guilt tugged at Jeffrey's heart. This was how kids learned about the world … by getting introduced to it by their parents. He knew that Richie's world would be the apartment walls all day. Peg might make a quick run to the supermarket, but that would be it. There'd be no boats … no seagulls for Richie.

But … although the family life might work for some guys, Jeffrey reminded himself that it wasn't for him.

"Different strokes for different folks," he muttered.

He candidly studied the other man and his family as they approached.

"Probably an engineer," he thought to himself. It was the kind of job that accommodated a family life. The guy probably made a good living. His kid would go to college. But … engineers never became famous.

"Nothing is free. Everything has its price," Jeffrey rationalized, nobly thinking that it was the price he'd have to pay for his climb to the top. Somehow the idea that Peg and Richie would be the ones who really paid the price got lost in his feelings of grandiosity.

The happy family of three passed by, and Jeffrey continued on down the wharf. At its end an old man sat fishing, his back to Jeffrey and his legs dangling above the water, ten or more feet below. As Jeffrey approached, the old man spoke without even glancing over his shoulder.

"Sit down," he invited. "You look like you could use a story."

Jeffrey was startled. Was it that obvious that he was a reporter? The tape recorder lay hidden in his jacket pocket. And practically everybody carried a camera slung around their neck.

"As a matter of fact, I could," he smiled uneasily, carefully seating himself next to the gnarled old fisherman.

"Caught anything?" he asked, trying to gain the initiative.

"Not yet," the old man answered without giving him a glance.

"How did you know I was a reporter?" Jeffrey pressed. The old man didn't answer. His pale blue eyes looked out across the harbor.

Jeffrey studied the old boy's countenance. It seemed almost biblical with its long, flowing beard. The old man wasn't wearing a hat, and his white hair, unshorn for longer than Jeffrey could guess, cascaded down over his shoulders.

Again the old fisherman took Jeffrey by surprise.

"You must want a story pretty bad, to leave your family on Father's Day."

Wariness seized Jeffrey. The words smacked of a scolding. And again, how could this old geezer know …

"Well, here she is, then," the old man continued, pulling a folded paper from his vest pocket. Jeffrey mutely accepted the small wad. It had been folded on itself several times, and was reduced to a small, stained and yellowed packet. He began to unfold it carefully, lest he tear the fragile paper.

"Not here! Don't read it here!" the old man growled. "I'm done fishin' for the day."

Jeffrey nodded submissively at the wizened head and rose to his feet.

"Thanks," he mumbled. "I'll take a look."

"You do that, young fella," the old man answered with the trace of a chuckle in his voice. "You take a real good look!"

Jeffrey glanced back up the pier. Not far from the end was an empty bench, its back nailed to the pier's side rail. He shuffled over to it and took a seat, carefully unfolding the ancient sheet of paper. It was crisp, almost like parchment. The title puzzled him.

"To God's Young Earthly Surrogates," it read. What could that mean?

Jeffrey glanced back at the old fisherman. With a start he beheld only the empty pier's end!

"What the …" he exploded out loud. The old salt couldn't have slipped by him. Jeffrey sprang to his feet and raced back to the pier's end, fully expecting to see the old boy floating in the water. But there were only the pilings and barnacles and crabs.

Light headed and confused, he retraced his steps to the bench. He spied a middle aged couple approaching from far down the pier, and delayed re-opening the folded paper until they approached.

"Excuse me," he said sheepishly as they drew nigh. "Did you notice an elderly gentleman pass on your walk out here?"

"Nope," the middle aged man answered amiably. "You're the only person out here. We saw you sittin' alone on the end yonder when we started the walk out."

Jeffrey blinked and nodded mutely. Had he been half the reporter he thought he was, he'd have instantly realized that this was the story of a lifetime. but all he could think was that someone was playing a trick on him. Was this couple in cahoots with the old fisherman? Would they enjoy a good laugh, in some waterfront bar, at his expense?

Jeffrey remembered the piece of paper, and again unfolded it carefully. Beneath the title appeared to be a story written in verse. Slowly the look of skepticism in his eyes changed to one of interest as he read the words:

After reading the poem, Jeffrey gazed back at where the old man had sat. His eyes drifted out beyond the breakwater where the Atlantic stretched away to the horizon. Just as the thought occurred to him to fold the tattered piece of paper and tuck it into his pocket, a gust of wind pulled it from his fingers. Like an autumn leaf it fluttered away and settled on the harbor's surface. For an instant Jeffrey thought about plunging in to retrieve it. But one of the skinny little fishes rose and tugged at it. Jeffrey could see the sheet disintegrate into a hundred pieces, and these were eagerly snapped up by other little fish.

In a mild case of shock Jeffrey retreated from the pier, back to his car. Somehow he knew that he'd never return to this place. Once in the car he sat in a stupor, going over the events again and again in his mind. Any thoughts of a seafood lunch had vanished. Numbly he stabbed at the car's ignition and, without really thinking about where he was headed, steered the vehicle back toward the city.

As Gloucester faded behind him and the signs of a metropolitan area picked up, feelings of having been saved from some terrible mistake pervaded Jeffrey's soul. They crept in slowly at first, but then with greater and greater conviction. Although he couldn't know it at the time, he would never become the celebrated roving reporter he had dreamed about. But half a century later, after a lifetime of living and reflection, he would accept the Nobel Prize for literature in Sweden.

But … that all lay in the future. Early that afternoon Jeffrey pulled back into the apartment house parking lot. He hoped that Peg wouldn't be out shopping. When he opened the apartment door he felt a surge of gratitude that she was there.

"Hi!" she greeted with a puzzled smile, coming out of the bedroom with a hairbrush in her hand. "What a nice surprise!"

Without answering, Jeffrey laid his gear on the counter, crossed the room and took her in his arms. He kissed her tenderly on the mouth. At first she was stiff, but then her body melted in his embrace. When he pulled his face back, her eyes opened full of questions.

"What …" she began.

Jeffrey put his finger on her lips, stopping the question before it was asked.

"I love you, Peg," he murmured, pressing his cheek against her fragrant hair and hugging her tightly.

"R-r-r-oom!" little Richie exclaimed, pushing his toy truck along on the living room carpet. Jeffrey broke free of Peggy's arms and lifted his son off the floor. He sat down on the couch with little Richie in his lap.

"How about a story for my favorite little boy?" he said.

"Who, me?" Richie asked, his eyes full of amazement.

"Sure, you. Don't you know you're my favorite boy in all the world?"

"I am?" Richie answered in a little voice that seemed to say it was news to him.

Peggy sat down beside them and linked her arm into Jeffrey's

"You must have gotten quite a story," she murmured. "Do you think they'll print it?"

Jeffrey smiled at her.

"They'll never see it," he answered softly. "They'd never believe it."

Richie wiggled in Jeff's lap, his eyes still filled with wonder at this rush of attention from his Daddy. Jeffrey settled more deeply into the couch's cushions and pulled his son against his chest.

"Once upon a time there was a boy who loved to fish," he began. "He was a wonderful little boy, just like you …"

So long, my valley in the sun,

My Arizona days are done.

My daughter, Marge, will tarry there

To flourish in your desert air.

For me, it’s back to Lincoln town

To lay this weary, old head down.

It has its Arizona dreams

Of verdant links and putting greens

To warm it during coming times

In broad Nebraska’s cooler climes.

We lunched by Narragansett Bay,

Shared memory and sigh.

We’ll reminisce again one day

When time has passed me by.

Until that time I’d like to say

You’re loved by me, and why:

You were a fighter all the way!

My gallant Mom, ‘Bye ‘Bye.