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The Evil

I get the attention of the young waitress as I sit comfortably at a table refusing to sit at the terribly noisy bar. Anticipating what she'll ask I call out,

“a beer, a Bud Light, bottle.”

Smiling, she nods, “pretty noisy at the bar, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it sure is. At least here I can hear myself think and the view is a lot better from this vantage point, you know what I’m saying?”

With a smile , she accepts the compliment and relates a short story about herself and how she came to be working here at this establishment. Divorced and trying to make a new life for herself, Pam, as I understood her name to be, is a very attractive young lady and a very good prospect for anyone looking for a nice girl friend. Lighting a cigarette from a freshly-opened pack, Pam lights it for me and suggestively walks back to the bar.

I mutter silently, “good though.”

Pam slowly turns and smiles.

I sip sparingly from my cold beer as I begin to drift into another adventure, an experience, if you will, into the world of mystery, unlimited by time and space. It lies in the intangible limits of the mind, a world where fantasy and reality are one. It is none other than the unlimited world of the Supernatural.

“Come in, won’t you? Be my guest as we venture into the Spectrum of the Unknown.”

“I tell you, he is weird. Just by looking at you, he can make you do about anything.”

I listened intently as I realized that this was just one of many stories about the new school teacher at our country school that seemed to have a difficult time keeping teachers for any length of time.

Others claimed that Mr. James seemed to have an evil eye, and that he could instill illness by just looking at his victims and wishing it upon them. My personal opinion, not being skeptical, was that I possessed the ability to intimidate and to make people uncomfortable, but it was purely unintentional on my part.

This ability, as I thought it to be, was due to faith and confidence of one’s own being and the undeniable control of mind and thoughts. I simply accepted Mr. James’ ability to a very determined and a strong-willed mind. Though, I had never met the man, I anxiously waited for the opportunity, and in fact, looked forward to it. Though, I realized that I was not the bravest lad in the world, I knew that just the challenge and curiosity seemed to motivate my inner desire to investigate this strange phenomenon.

Weeks passed and the stories grew and grew, all about strange illnesses breaking out in the town; they all seemed to be related to a definite association with Mr. James. Now I begin to wonder about Mr. James and his uncanny ability. Many stories have been told in the community about witches and their ability to instill curses and to cause mental and physical misery. They were often called “the people possessed” or “the disciples of hell.” I would have to confront Mr. James to see for myself if any such power of the supernatural did, in fact, exist. Looking up into the Heavens and crossing myself in prayer, the words of Jesus echoed in my head, remembering as he spoke; “Believe in me, for through Me, all things are possible, your faith is your salvation.”

The following day I was notified by my aunt that my cousin was ill and asked if I could come to their house. I said I would and immediately was on my way. Upon arrival, I noticed that Tony was in bed and our Priest from the church was at his bedside. Tony was hysterical and his eyes were of a person that had seen something that terrified him beyond human endurance. The doctor could find nothing physically wrong with him but that his state of mind was causing serious vital sign changes that could eventually cost him his life. It was then that the church was called in to evaluate and to advise on his state of mind.

Our Priest was present and was in the process of exorcism, being quite sure that evil was causing this mental and physical anguish. I slowly made my way around the bedside and attempted to talk to Tony, looking deep into his eyes, I saw the fear that engulfed his being, our minds became one and he spoke with great emotion.

“I saw him!” he cried, “I saw his face!”

“Who did you see, Tony?” I asked, “What did you see?”

“I saw the…” never finishing, Tony collapses into a coma.

“He saw the Evil, he saw the Evil,” Father Vifquain responds.

“You mean the devil?” I asked timidly.

“Yes! The devil, Conde, or at least one of his disciples!”

Responding very sharp and to the point, Father Vifquain, continues splashing holy water throughout the room and following with the sign of the cross.

Exorcism, as I believed, was a ritual for the expulsion of evil from someone possessed, or in mental control of hell itself. This, indeed, was the first time I ever saw it done, as Father carefully, thumbing through the pages of the Bible, finds the appropriate passages, recites them and bows his head in prayer. Chills involuntarily run up and down my spine as I watch with great admiration at his unquestioned dedication and devotion to God.

Tony, now in a deep sleep, my Aunt asks if I could carry Tony’s books back to school, since Mr. James would be at the schoolhouse working late. Father Vifquain hands me a crucifix,

“here, you may need this. God be with you.”

Taking the cross into my hand, I feel frightened but confident and proceed on my way to see Mr. James at the Old School House.

Unwilling to back away from anyone, I have the utmost feeling that this Mr. James is going to be a very tough hombre to deal with. Nearing the schoolhouse, I continue evaluating the strange goings on in the community and the illnesses people have experienced. The light at the school is evident now as I approach the vicinity of the playground. With much apprehension, I open the large door and there behind the desk is the school master, Mr. James.

“How is Tony?” he asks, with a voice that could be heard for a square mile.

“Not very good,” I answer, thanking God I have finally found my voice and can at least talk. Shaking somewhat, I continue, “I’m returning Tony’s books.”

“I surmised as much, not a very strong boy, is he, Conde?” He speaks now with distinct and intentional malice.

“Come here, Conde.”

Somewhat frightened, I nervously walk towards his desk and watch the strange look in his eyes. The room is dark, except for the kerosene lamp on the desk. The shadows from our bodies are projected as distorted, eerie forms on the ceiling and walls, unlike I had ever seen. I instinctively reach into my pocket for the crucifix given to me by Father Vifquain and I hold it tightly in my grasp.

“Nothing can save you now, Conde.”

With that, he reaches for me with the strength of ten men. Sidestepping his lunge, and with the confidence of Divine Faith, I respond,

“you have taken away the symbol of faith, demon of the night.”

Pointing at the crucifix, laying at the corner of the room, I continue, “Yes, the most unquestioned symbol of faith. Look deep into my soul if you dare, look and you will see that I need not a symbol, for what I have you cannot destroy: Undeniable Faith!”

Raising my arms, I continue, as the words are projected with a power much greater than in my realm of physical existence.

“I am the word; I am the light; I am the truth; those that believe in me shall never die, but shall have everlasting life.” “Mr. James, look at me!”

With the fury of Heaven, the door swings open, a gust of wind blows wildly into the room as the night becomes day. And just as sudden as it started, it stopped. Lowering my arms, I realize we are in total darkness. Lighting the lamp I look about and see Mr. James covering his face and falls heavily to the floor. I can clearly see now that he is no longer the evil he was. Beaten and completely free of his living hell, I offer my hand in assistance. He calmly takes it and timidly whispers,

“I’m sorry…sorry,” and continues, with both hands at his face, to sob uncontrollably.

He shakily murmurs, “thank you, Conde,” and asks, “but how did you do it? No one, until now, has been able to stand up to the evil that possessed me. How?” With that, I look into Mr. James’ eyes and reply,

“I didn’t do anything, Mr. James, you see, your evil picked on the wrong person.”

“You?” Mr. James questions, “but how? Surely you…” Not finishing his sentence, he asks, “what if he comes back?”

Not answering his question, I mutter to myself, “Yeah, what if he does come back?”

Father Vifquain listens intently as I relate the confrontation with Mr. James. Consequently, we both agree that he is quite harmless now, but also agree that we should look for another School Teacher. Jokingly, Father adds,

“at least one without an evil eye, and working on our side.”

“Yeah, right Padre, on our side.”

Father Vifquain, preparing to leave, turns and asks,

“Conde, I probably know the answer but who is the person the evil picked on?”

“Oh, you know the answer, Father. Remember?” I ask, searching my soul for the correct wording. “That Which You Do To any of my Brethren; That Shall You Do Unto Me.”

Father Vifquain smiles and mutters on his way out, “yeah, that’s the wrong person to pick on, all right.”

Walking back to my aunt’s house, I know my cousin is fine now and the other people’s mysterious illnesses will or have disappeared.

“Why,” asking myself, “don’t people realize that it is much more difficult to dwell in evil than to believe in the decency of man?” Answering my own question, “I guess having the ability to reason makes it their choice. Poor Souls.”

“Want another Bud Lite, Conde?”

“Yeah, I guess so, Pam. Thank you.”

Taking another cigarette from a freshly-opened pack, Pam lights it for me and reaches for my crucifix hanging around my neck.

“Nice cross, Conde, but how did it get bent?”

“Well, Pam, it was a test of faith, I guess.”

“Looks like your cross lost the test, huh?”

“No, Pam, as a matter of fact, it won.”

With much obvious confusion, Pam adds, “it looks like it lost, all bent and all.”

Thinking how naïve people are, I respond silently, “Pam, you’re looking at the wrong place.” The faith is not in the cross, but in the Immortal Soul. This crucifix will tarnish and succumb to time, but the Soul will live forever.”

Picking up my cigarettes, I notice a very concerned look on Pam’s face as I add, “hold on to this cross, Pam,” holding it tightly into the palm of her hand. “It may one day save you from the Evil.”

“Goodnight, Pam.”

Walking toward the door, I turn and I see Pam, still staring at the crucifix, probably wondering about the Evil and what it is. Pam slowly places the crucifix into her pocket and smiles as she says goodnight and follows with,

“thank you, Conde, thank you.”

After entering my room, I notice the message light on and instinctively dial the front desk. The desk clerk acknowledging the light begins reading the message.

“Conde, it’s a gentleman that wants to meet with you tonight, rather about following on the last meeting with you.”

Interrupting her, I ask, “at what time and with whom?” The desk clerk pauses and continues, “at midnight and with a Mr. James.”

"Thank you," I reply and slowly place the receiver back into its cradle and then slowly remove my jacket and place it on a hanger.

Sometime later, the clock radio on my bedside stand, displays the 11:55 PM time. Lighting another cigarette and sipping at my Beer, I silently mutter,

“some people never learn.” A smile forms on my face as I repeat, “no, they never learn. I wonder if they ever will.”

I slowly pick up my Bible, mutter a prayer as I leave the room - quietly closing the door behind me.

Farewell to an Angel

Vivian Virginia Abeyta was an exceptional Wife, Mother, Grandmother, a loving Aunt, and truly a faithful and gentle friend.

Vivian passed away June 14th 2007 after a long courageous battle with Cancer that extended over a period of 22 years.

During this horrendous battle with the disease, she continued her career as a Registered Nurse. Vivian was considered by many to be what all the Sisters at Ottumwa Heights expected from all their students in an ongoing attempt to create the Perfect Nurse.

Well maybe she wasn’t the perfect Nurse but I can tell you, she wasn’t far from it. Yeah, she was one of a kind, a professional in every fashion of the word. Her loyalty and dedication was far beyond what was expected of her. She had an extraordinary way of relating to the patient by simply utilizing her natural ability of promoting and encouraging self-confidence and hope. Her ability to care for the patient and work amiably with auxiliary staff was remarkable. Vivian expected nothing less than a hundred percent from her coworkers when it came to patient care and reciprocated with a hundred and ten percent of herself in return. She was a remarkable Nurse and a very effective Supervisor.

She practiced as a Registered Nurse in a career that

extended over 45 years and after retirement she continued,

in a part time status, assisting the elderly.

She was a member of the Avondale United Methodist

Church and thought highly of Pastor Gary and the extremely

compassionate and friendly Congregation.

Vivian thought highly of her neighbors at Carriage

Commons and enjoyed participating in the Board of

Director’s meetings and holding office when she was able

to do so. The Carriage Commons Homeowners

Association’s Board of Directors, she believed, played a vital

role in maintaining conditions and regulations governing

complex.

She looked forward to the neighborhood Bible studies. She read the Bible daily.

Thank you Marlene and Loma, Nancy, Jerrie, Millie, Al and Shirley, Bill and Doris and, of course, all of Vivian’s neighbors at Carriage Commons for the prayers and on going concerns for Vivian. I’ll never forget.

A significant quality of Vivian’s character was her love for life, her pride in caring and helping others and, of course, her love and appreciation for her wonderful family and friends.

Vivian’s family was extremely important to her and she spoke highly of them. Her children Scott, David, Jennifer and her five grandchildren were absolute delights in her life. Her niece Cheryl was very special to her, and nephew Chad who she thought was quite a gentleman, Brother Bill with whom she enjoyed the differences of opinion and loved every minute of it; Uncle Beaner and Aunt Evelyn, cousin Denny and of course her precious Cousin Marcy. Then there was Barb and Gaylord of whom she had always considered to be part of her family. Barb was like a sister to Vivian.

Pat Thomas was not only a special childhood friend but she had also suffered with the same dreadful disease. They would occasionally discuss their affliction then finally conclude with, “It must have been the water.” Thank you for being there, Pat.

A pleasant surprise for Vivian was the short visit by Jan and Fred Wright on their way to Eldon and the alumnae reunion. Jan, a friend of Vivian’s since childhood, stood at Vivian’s bedside and they talked quietly. The sparkle in Vivian’s eyes told me that it had been a wonderful exchange. Tears welled in Vivian’s eyes as she later related how close they had been during their childhood in Eldon. “We did everything together.” She said.

A very special friend Pat Braxdale, with whom she had worked with at Trinity Lutheran Hospital, spent much time visiting with Vivian. If they didn’t have a set lunch plan for the day, they would decide on what they wanted to eat and that decision would usually determine which restaurant they would patronize. Pat is an Angel; she was always there for Vivian. Thank you, Pat.

Vivian certainly enjoyed the Lexington and other excursions with Johna Wells not to mention the long conversations they had on the telephone. Johna, another of Vivian’s Angels, was also there for Vivian. Thank you Johna.

Marian Johnson, also an RN had always been a close friend of Vivian’s, their friendship went back to Iowa City’s Veteran Hospital and the University of Iowa early in their career. Vivian considered Marian and her late husband Bernie very special friends. They spoke occasionally recalling the good times and would emphasize frequently that they were indeed just a phone call away. Through the years Vivian never lost track of Marian. She always enjoyed and looked forward to their phone conversations. Thanks Marian.

Vivian was a wonderful example of God’s given spirit. She refused to give up and always embraced hope with a full understanding of the distinguished circumstances.

Even when she was told Chemotherapy was no longer an option, Vivian stared blankly at the wall for a moment and then turned and quietly whispered, “Conde please tell the Doctors and the staff here at Dr. De Wolfe’s office and the treatment unit that I am very grateful for their efforts. I am especially grateful for the wonderful smiles that so lifted my spirit and, of course, the spirit of the many that have undergone Chemo or are currently being treated. I guess this is where my Lord wants me to be.”

Vivian dried a tear trickling down her cheek and pointed at the Nurses tending to their patients and then toward the Lab and the front Office. “They were,” she nodded, “and they always will be my Angels, thank them for me.”

“Thank you, Dr. De Wolfe, Annette, Denise, Mary, Tammy, Janice, Cheryl, Shirley and the entire staff in Dr. De Wolfe’s office and of course in the treatment room where friendship and smiles brought the light of hope to darkness and despair. Again, thank you for being there, we will never forget you.”

There was pain and unbearable discomfort for Dear Vivian but there was also hope and with this hope there was a smile and when asked, “How are you, Vivian?” She would calmly look up, a smile forming on her beautiful face and with the usual positive expression, invariably say, ”I’m okay, I’m fine.”

Scott, Dave, Jenny and I will take Vivian’s remains home to Eldon, Iowa as she had instructed. She will take her place next to her parents Van and Helen Canaday in the Eldon Cemetary.

We were all with her when she passed. We’ll never forget…

“Goodnight dear Vivian, we’ll see you in the morning.”

Guest Book Entry for Tommy Ronan

An excerpt from the writings - 'We'll Always Get There -Somehow.' A narrative based on Thomas Ronan's arrival and involvement in the on going World War II in Europe. His arrival was in coincident to a massive German offensive launched through the densely forested Ardennes, region of Wallonia in Belgium that would eventually be known as the 'Battle of the Bulge.' This surprise offensive would place the 75th Infantry Division in the midst of a very powerful and determined last resort German offensive by 26 Divisions with Allied Divisions, in opposition, of only four. It became a more intensified and determined battle and the casualties would number in the thousands. It was quite difficult for the Engineers of the 75th who had to accomplish their objectives in extremely hostile conditions. Shells going off in close proximity with constant rifle and machine gun fire but as committed by the 75th, their job would get done at any cost.

We dug in and waited for the 3rd Army under General Patton to come to the rescue. These guys were remarkable and absolutely nothing could stop 'Old Blood and guts and his battle-hardened infantry including his Armor Division and Artillery.

Tommy smiled when he thought about General Patton and his

ability to win battles. There was no comparison to the General's

loyalty and dedication, he was, undoubtedly, a gifted General

and his commitment was not to die for his country but to make

the enemy die for his.

Tommy, totally exhausted sat in a fetal position and

waited for orders to move out and prepare for continued counter

attacks that would hopefully slow the German Offensive and

eventually stop the monstrous Horde spear heading through Allied

lines.

There were moments when Tommy's thoughts would wander and his thoughts were of home and his beloved Inez Mae. He thought about their wedding and about their belated honeymoon to New Orleans, a day he would never forget. He thought about the news that Inez Mae was pregnant and finally about the wonderful announcement that he was a proud father of a baby girl. Nancy Jean, the prettiest girl in the world or like only Tommy could express, "or damn close!" Tommy closed his eyes and whispered, "I hope she can play Baseball and Basketball," he smiled, "at the very least," he continued, "I'll have two of the prettiest girls in the world in my life.

I know that my Inez Mae will be waiting for me when I come home," he continued with tears collecting at the corner of his eyes. "No matter where I am, she'll always be there waiting. I can almost see her with open arms saying gracefully.

"Welcome home Tommy Ronan, you're home at last."

___________________

Our Sincere Condolences to the Ronan Family..

Abe C. Abeyta . . .

I Remember When

One day, back a few years, my son Scott and his cousin Cheryl slept soundly and I the father and uncle of the two, respectively, was in charge or simply babysitting with them while the mothers Vivian and Betty entertained a shopping excursion. Since my job was to watch the two little precious babies, I would, certainly, watch them responsibly and definitely believed that I was well capable of babysitting the two.

I was sitting back reading the newspaper when I decided on a cup of coffee and wandered on into the kitchen. I, expertly, prepared the coffee and waited for the quick response of the automatic coffee maker.

I thought about the old percolator and waiting for the boiling

requirement after placing the pot on a hot stove. I pleasantly

remembered mom brewing a pot and, of course, my drinking a hot cup

with an abundance of Pet milk and sugar. It was good but not as good

as the company.

After pouring myself a hot cup of coffee and tending it with

plenty of sugar and milk, I continued on into the living room where

I would watch the little angels and watch a little TV as well.

I was suddenly shaken, as a dreaded fear enveloped me, when I saw the baby blanket that covered Cheryl pulled over her head. I was in a state of panic when I suddenly tripped over the protruding leg of an end table and fell with a thud, spilling coffee on the floor before me. I tried desperately to regain my composure and get up but I would slip on the wet floor and then finally, I crawled toward the bed and, in an act of desperation, took the baby blanket from Cheryl’s face.

I believe, I heard the sound of a celestial hymn when I saw the big angelic smile on my little niece’s face.

With a sigh that could have been heard a mile, I sat back and tried desperately to relax and to calm my shaking body while watching two beautiful babies as they waved their little hands and smiled beautifully at their world ahead.

Somehow, I find it very entertaining to relate this short narrative but, you know? It’s nice to ‘Remember When.’

“It Was Like a Journey – A Wonderful Journey.”

One morning down-home in Mulberry, Kansas, Mom, as always, had breakfast ready and waiting. Dad and my brothers, Sam and Bill, were already sitting at the table talking quietly when my sister Pauline and I walked into the kitchen. My sister, Hazel, would follow a short time later, lumbering groggily and rubbing her unfocused eyes.

Mom’s apron, an essential part of her apparel, hung neatly with numerous knots tied to the apron strings behind her. This was an ongoing mischief on the part of fun-loving brother, Bill. Pauline and I pointed repeatedly at mom’s apron but fell short of telling her about something we were quite sure she already knew. Sam, with a smirk, would turn toward Bill, shake his head and return to his breakfast. He wasn’t going to get involved and he never did. It was certainly fun to be around the family; it was wonderful to be together.

A pan of biscuits always seemed to be complemented by delicious

gravy. The eggs and fried potatoes that followed would include a

batch of oatmeal. Dad, as far back as I could remember, always

preferred oatmeal, at least for a starter, for breakfast. We ate

vigorously and talked quietly while Mom looked on with a big

smile. She was a marvelous lady.

My school days were something out of believe it or not. Could

you imagine that the school I attended was directly across the

street from where we lived? It was not only unbelievably

convenient, especially during the winter months, but the

playground was simply fantastic.

I remember when I was in high school, getting ready for school became an early morning ritual. A girl’s appearance suddenly became very important. There was that crucial necessity to attract some good looking boy’s attention and then go for the jugular. Raised in a small town and attending the common small school, boys were at a premium and if you had one, well – you better hold on to him, ‘cause you might not get another chance.

Even though we were at the threshold to the Great Depression, an extremely difficult time for our country, I knew that this particular day was going to be special and I could feel the excitement building up when Mom called me into the kitchen for a mother-to-daughter talk which didn’t happen very often unless it was something extremely important. She looked concerned and somewhat taken when she finally took my hand and began.

“Dolly,” she said, “I talked to your dad and we both agreed that you could, if you want to, work at your sister Ann’s restaurant in Kansas City. Even though it’s not very far away, honey, we would sure miss you.”

I was flabbergasted; I would be working at my sister’s restaurant in the big city? It was just great, a chance to earn my own money and – well, it would be just great.

“Oh mom,” I said, “I’ll miss all of you. And most importantly, I’ll be helping Ann and saving my money for clothes and school stuff. And maybe I can help you a little, huh?”

Mom didn’t say much but I could see in her eyes that she was happy for me and wanted me to get out into the world and see things. At least before I had numerous kids and was hopelessly tied down to a busy kitchen like she had been. Mom gave birth to ten children, but three died in infancy. She went on to raise her own seven besides three by dad’s previous marriage. My sister, Nora, passed away from a lung condition at the age of seventeen. Much later, I would still occasionally see Mom’s tears rolling down her cheeks while sitting at her sewing and handily creating another dress or a needed garment for one of us. I didn’t know why she cried then – but now, I’m almost sure that it had been some disheartening thoughts about her three babies and Nora that she so sorrowfully lost. Even today, a train whistle reminds me of that fateful day, when we waited heartbroken for Nora’s body to return to her final resting place.

I never forgot the talk that my Mother and I had back in June of 1929. The mother-daughter talks in those days were not a very frequent occurrence. If there was confrontation other than normal daily activities, it was usually dad, a gun-toting Mulberry lawman, that set the mood or dictated how it was to be done and what he expected. My wonderful experiences at my sister Ann’s restaurant would become very special to me through the years. The customers, for the most part, were employees from the surrounding businesses that were walking distance of Ann’s eatery at 7th and Highland in Kansas City, Missouri.

It was lunch hour at Ann’s and the customers poured in; we were extremely busy. The aroma of corned beef and cabbage were prevalent and it just happened to be the special for lunch. Ann with her expertise delivered ordered food to the waiting tables. I was eager to learn and quickly made my way to a waiting customer with a plate filled to the brim with the lunch special and a hot cup of coffee. Well, my day as a waitress was short-lived after Ann and I continually apologized while cleaning my customer’s shirt and trousers.

After graduation from High School, I continued to work for Ann and eventually attended Business School in Kansas City, Missouri.

Through the years following my career as an Accountant for the Corps of Engineers that I so enjoyed, I would overcome some very difficult and heartbreaking times. But I would always look at my life as a special gift that allowed me to meet some very wonderful people and the God-given privilege of touching shoulders with them.

It was quite a journey and I’ll always remember when…

In memory of Dolly Endicott Anderson, (1914-2005) ‘My very dear friend’

Keys to the Kingdom

The feeling of the cold beer is refreshing as I light a cigarette and continue enjoying the refreshment that eventually neutralizes my overwhelming thirst. While chatting with Dan, the bartender, I also take advantage of the happy hour snacks being served. Which were not too bad and somewhat tasty as well.

Another trip and another experience, as once again I am about to spend another chilly night without my family and that roaring warm fire in the fireplace that I so enjoy. I accept the responsibilities of my profession and realize its hard but necessary demands.

At the other end of the bar, a gentleman is loading up on happy hour snacks and is being watched carefully. If he can’t pay for a drink, out he goes. Picking up my beer and cigarettes, I calmly walked over to the seat next to the gentleman. Assured by him that the seat was not taken, I joined him. I Ordered him a drink, and sat back and listened to his story, which was very similar to the hard luck stories I had heard before. As he talked, I wondered how it would feel to live the life of despair and the forgotten. I wondered if people really knew the reason and circumstances for their demise. There had to be some explanation.

After a nice visit and a very interesting story about his, as he called it, unwarranted hell, I handed him a five dollar bill and the rest of the cigarettes in the pack. He thanked me as he lit a cigarette and placed the bill carefully into his pocket. He finished his beer, then he respectfully said goodnight and quietly whispered,

“God bless you.”

When he got up from the bar, I noticed his badly tattered clothing and very-worn shoes. His coat was light and not very appropriate for the subzero temperatures. Hoping he would find some suitable shelter for the night, I sadly knew that a cheap bottle of wine and a pasteboard box in a corner of some isolated alley is where he will spend the night. Sadly, I pick up another cigarette from a freshly-opened pack, lit it and stared at the glow of the match and watched it billow and drift up toward the ceiling. I once again felt myself being drawn back into time, another adventure, another experience, if you will, into the unknown. Slowly, I began to drift back into the realm of time, into the world, where dreams and reality are one, into the intangible limits of the mind.

It was a cold night, and once again, I found myself striving to survive, tightening up my coat, I pull at the pasteboard box that protects me from the freezing temperature of another wintery night. Taking another drink from a bottle of cheap burgundy wine, I shudder at the thought of being without it. My feet have lost all feeling and I wonder if my body will last the night. I can hear other people moaning and crying as they succumb to the freezing weather, praying that imminent death will be more merciful than the agony of living in the depths of despair and in the rolls of the forgotten, the homeless.

Shaking uncontrollably, my mind wandered back into pleasant memories, the time of contentment, the time when there was hope and a future. Tears flowed easily now as I remembered happy days with my wonderful wife and children. The wonderful holidays when we were all together, the laughter, the rewards of hard work and dedication. This was indeed the Heaven that we all strive for; the Heaven in a cruel but beloved Earth.

Then it happened, how I’ll never know and why, when all was so wonderful, so satisfying. Tearfully, I took another drink from my elixir of life and wrapped my bottle carefully in fear of what might happen if the other people sleeping in this alley discover my reluctance to share the juice of life, the juice that allows tolerance to pain and the inevitable death. My hands refuse to beckon to my mind’s commands as I allow the bottle to lay precariously beside me as the feelings in my fingers have ceased to exist. The numbness has now progressed from my feet to my hands as I submit to the desire of surrender.

I remember stopping at the local tavern on my way home from the office, not an every night occurrence, since it only happened once or twice a week. I never had any more than three or four drinks, a lot of conversation, and I’d head for home. This night was different, though, after having had four beers, a lot of conversation and laughter, I reluctantly prepared to leave. Picking up my cigarettes and leaving a nice tip for the bartender, a stranger suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. I remember turning around and looking into his eyes that was like looking at the devil himself. He politely asked if I had dropped my key. Passively, I took the key and placed it in my pocket and never thought much more about it until I got home and found that my wife and children were gone. A letter stating briefly the grounds of the pending divorce and the custody of my beloved children. Staring at the documents in disbelief, I took the key in my hand and blankly read the inscription. Recognizing and accepting the metamorphosis of my being was totally unbearable as I realized that the life I knew was gone forever.

The next year was almost beyond recall as I was admitted to detoxification repeatedly. My job was consequently gone and all my assets were completely exhausted. I took another drink from my precious bottle, I dried the almost frozen tears on my cheeks, fumbling through my pockets, I took the key that had been with me since it was given to me. The unbearable temperature is well below zero and the moaning has stopped. My legs are numb now and I wonder how many of us will be alive tomorrow. How many of us will receive the gift

of mercy and leave the life of the forgotten? I took another

drink from my bottle and read the inscription on the key, “This

key unlocks the gates to Hell.”

Numbness has steadily progressed to my shoulders now and the

feeling of peace is overwhelming as I feel myself drifting slowly into

unconsciousness.

A light suddenly shined brightly into my

pasteboard enclosure and a figure bent down and removed

it from around me. The glow of this figure standing before

me was warming to my frozen limbs as the feeling of peace

replaced pain and despair. He reached into my open hand,

removed the key and replaced it with another, unable to move,

I accepted it and drifted into oblivion.

“Hey Sam! Better call the meat wagon! Another bum didn’t

make it. Too cold last night, I guess.” He still had about a half bottle of wine left. It must have frozen, poor son of a bitch.”

“That makes three of them that didn’t make it in this alley. I wonder how many more we’ll find.” Sam, wait! He’s got a key in his hand. It’s got an inscription on it. Yeah, it does. It says, This key unlocks the gate to Heaven, welcome.”

“Where’s the key?” The police officer asks, “let me see it?”

“Over there in that box, Sam, he still has it in his hand.”

“What in the hell are you talking about? There’s nothing in this box.”

“But Sam, there was a body in that box. I swear it, and he was holding a key.

a key to Heaven or something like that. Hell, Sam, you heard me. I read it to you.”

The police officer and his partner walk slowly away as they frequently turn and look towards the now-empty box.

The alley is quiet now, paste board boxes are scattered throughout the area. A crude, rigid shelter stands empty by a commercial trash bin. A stray cat sniffs instinctively at a photograph, depicting a young boy and a little girl and on the lower-right side of the picture, an inscription that says, “we love you, Daddy.”

Paste board boxes are all that remain of a night of horror and painful death, the testament to life and its ultimate conclusion. The wind begins to blow as the freezing temperature secures its foothold and waits patiently for the invading forgotten, the homeless. A place where they will make a futile attempt at survival; some will prevail and others will succumb to mercy and life in their imminent death.

“Well, are you going to have another drink or aren’t you, Conde?”

“Yeah, I guess I will,” responding quietly to the bartender’s words. “Give me another beer, won’t you, Dan?”

Lighting a fresh cigarette from an almost-empty pack, I inhale deeply as I slowly sip at my cold brew. A young lady sits quietly at a table near the bar and as she takes a cigarette from her purse, I instinctively reach over and light it. She looks up at me with a smile and politely thanks me She asks if I would care to join her. Not wanting to sit alone, I eagerly accept and catch the thumbs up indicated to me by the bartender. I could see the freckles not hidden by the dark-rimmed glasses. Her eyes only complimented her dark red hair. Ordering another round of drinks, we finally decide to conclude the noisy environment of the bar and agree on continuing our drinking in the privacy of her room.

Saying goodnight to Dan and to the local clientele at the bar, we prepare to leave to her room. A voice calls out to me and says,

“Conde, I think you dropped this.” A key is placed into the palm of my hands. He adds, “you dropped it as you were leaving the bar.”

A feeling of terror overcomes me as I, with much hesitation, read the inscription on the key. Eyes blurred with fear and anticipation, I hold the key very close and read, “This key unlocks the gates to the Kingdoms. It’s your choice.”

With a rejuvenated sigh of relief, we continue the walk to Julie’s room. I could see and feel the desire in both of us as she hands me her drink and unlocks her door. Entering her room, she excuses herself and goes into the bathroom, asking me to turn on the television set. Finding a late movie, I sip at my drink and place hers on the small bedside table. Moving her purse away from the bed, I inadvertently spill some of her personal belongings, realizing late that it was open. While picking up the spilled items, and placing them back in her purse, a key catches my eye. Reading the inscription, I quietly place it back into her purse and quietly close the door as I silently leave.

Back in my room, I sip at my drink and light a cigarette and, instinctively, take out the key from my pocket. I lay it down on the table. Thinking about the key in Julie’s purse and finishing off the last of my drink, I silently mutter,

“at least I have a choice.”

The Looking Glass

It was a wonderful Birthday Party and the young girl seemed to have gotten everything she could have possibly wanted. I approached her to ask if she was satisfied with all the gifts she had received.

“Well,” she said turning from the many gifts that surrounded her. “I really like all my presents, except for one that I can’t quite understand.”

“And which one don’t you understand?” I asked.

“This one.” She said, reaching for a small package. “I just don’t understand why anyone would give me an old looking glass like this.”

She took the wrapping off and handed it to me. I took the mirror, which was an old looking glass that had a note attached to it.

“There’s a note for you,” I said, as I handed it to her.

“Don’t you want to read it?”

“Would you read it for me?” She smiled.

“Of course I will,” I replied and took the note. “It says,” I began, positioning the note towards a lighted table lamp.

“Dear Joni,

There are many presents that you will receive for your Birthday, but none will ever be as special as this ‘Looking Glass.’ I want you to have it and understand the meaning of its image. Look into it and see the beautiful gift.

Then, watch many of your questions disappear, and in their place, an understanding that will comfort you and guide you through life.”

The young girl’s eyes widened with surprise and question.

“What does it mean?” She asked.

I looked at the mirror and smiled at her enthusiasm.

“We’ll finish reading the note and then we’ll see what it means, OK?”

The little girl agreed and sat back to listen to the rest of the note.

“For this looking glass, young lady, is the greatest gift you will ever receive.”

“Let me see!” She cried and took the looking glass. “I want to see the gift.”

The girl looked into its reflection and frowned.

“All I see is me. What is the gift?”

I slowly pointed to the bottom of the mirror. “Can you read what is printed there?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “It says, ‘In His Image.’”

The young girl looked closely at the image and a smile

swelled on her face.

“Have a wonderful Birthday, Joni.” I smiled and then

slowly turned and wandered towards the other children

who were completely absorbed in their games.

I turned and waved at Joni, who took a moment

to wave back, then continued looking into her wonderful

gift.

The girl’s father, my long-time neighbor, shook my hand

and thanked me for coming over to see Joni on her birthday.

“She would have been disappointed if you hadn’t. You’re

her friend, you know?”

“And she is mine,” I replied. “Oh,” I continued.

“Take a look at the gift I brought Joni, better yet, have all the family look at it. You’ll find it quite enlightening and I’m sure you’ll all agree that it is a very special gift.”

Joni’s father looked somewhat confused at my suggestion but smiled and walked towards Joni, who, unblinkingly stared into her looking glass.

“Hi honey, what do you think about all your presents? Nice huh?”

“Yup, but you know dad, this one is my favorite.”

Joni handed the looking glass to him and continued.

“I don’t know who sent this one but it’s special. Go ahead, Dad, look into it! It’s supposed to be the greatest gift I would ever receive.”

Joni’s father looked into their mirror and saw his image along with a panoramic view of the decorated room. He also saw the other children, and his beloved wife. He thought about how lucky he was to have such a family and immediately thanked God for his wonderful blessings.

“Well, Dad, what do you think of it?”

“Well, Joni, it certainly opens your eyes. What do you think of it?”

“You know, Dad, when I first looked into it, I only saw me. But that’s it, you see, it was only me. Then I continued looking into this wonderful looking glass and I saw how important I am to all my friends and family. Then I thought about the note and finally realized that God did create us in His own image and how special we all are in our own way.

“You see, Dad,” Joni continued, “God gave use our own image so that we could all be different. And then, learn to get along with one another and then finally, to help one another. Dad, I believe that the image of God is within all of us. When we learn to love, to help and to give of ourselves for God, then we are indeed created in His image. You know, Dad,” she said with a big smile, “this looking glass has to be… the greatest gift I will ever receive.”

Joni’s father, placing the looking glass back on Joni’s lap, nodded while reading the note.

“Yes, Joni, I expect it will be.”

“Who is it from, Dad? Must be from somebody pretty special, huh?”

“Oh,” he said turning to face his daughter, “from a friend, Joni – from a very special friend.”

Love One Another

Two elderly ladies walked into a family restaurant. They walked slowly and carefully toward a designated table. One walked with a cane and the other hung on firmly to her arm. As they neared the table, the one with the cane extended her arm and guided her friend into a chair and then carefully seated herself in the other. They smiled lovingly toward one another and studied the menu carefully before deciding on their order.

I watched them with an amazing growing awareness; for as I thought about these two beautiful people sitting right across from me at the next table, I suddenly realized that I could not determine which one of them was being helped by the other. Which one needed assistance and which one offered the assistance? Then I remembered what Jesus lovingly said when he spoke to the people.

“Love one another even as I have loved you.”

“It is more Blessed to give than receive.”

It was then that I realized that – if one is in the act of helping someone

in need and he or she questions whether they are helping or are –

being helped. Then and only then – have we become true disciples of

Our Lord Jesus. For there is no greater reward, I surmised, than being

in His Grace when we help one another.

Therefore – when we offer a coat for warmth, food for hunger and for the lost, deliverance; we must remember that for that sparkle in their eyes or the relief on their faces, there is no greater reward than the Divine goodness flowing through your body when you have helped someone in need and they respond with a “God Bless You.” You can respond with a “Thank You” and feel assuredly that He has.

“That which you do to any of my Brethren – that shall you do unto me.”

The Magnificent Conversion

Elvera T. Hensley - Her praise and glory to the Holy Spirit has to be one of the most remarkable acts of conversion, I have ever read or seen. While I am certainly a faithful follower of Jesus Christ and devout Catholic, I am broad minded enough to know that there will always be controversy pertaining to Biblical interpretations. Certainly, believing is one thing but seeing and feeling the state of Grace is . . . well pretty hard to set aside.

I have read Deacon, Justin McMenemy’s exposition and found it quite inspirational. Not only in the history of Elvera's life but the circumstances that she had to endure. The struggle for bare necessities including food was a daily challenge and sometimes a question of survival. I do have to give

Elvera credit for her determination and relentless mind sets in her

ongoing struggle and basically solving the most difficult and desperate

state of affairs. Having to cope with her father's traveling to provide food

and shelter was very difficult for a child. Not only in adjustment to different

schools but to the conditions at home as well. It was certainly a hardship

for this family and their only child but it was a time of uncertainties and

struggle. Elvera's mother was certainly a very firm and determined lady

(much like Elvera turned out to be)

What I found quite fascinating was the conversion. The desperate

appeal to Jesus and to the Holy Spirit, the absolute turn to the only one

that could solve her problems. And the most inspirational point to this

conversion, is that Evera knew instantly that Jesus had not forgotten her.

The Holy Spirit was there all this time and all she had to do was ask and

to place her absolute trust in the Father.

And as I have always believed 'Allow the winds of God's spirit to lift you, for there is no obstacle too great to overcome.'

Thanks, Nancy, for sharing such a beautiful and inspirational writing of Alvera’s life. I just had to respond to such a Conversion, certainly a Magnificent Conversion.

Abe C Abeyta

-section 2-

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My Sanctuary

This letter was found in the attic of an abandoned farmhouse in central Iowa. It was so heartwarming and its realism, I know, will touch the hearts of many. I thought, because of its human reaction toward uncertainties that it would be a wonderful experience to share with one and all. Even though the identity of the recipient and sender remains a mystery.

Padre,

The talk we had while serving in Europe, during the Second World War, has always been an inspiration to me. Especially, Padre, when we discussed the story of Christ, his predetermined suffering and death. I guess what really opened my eyes were the denials by his apostles; Peter, the foundation of his church, the rock, as he was called, Judas, who became the symbol of betrayal and Thomas, who had to see before he believed. Not one hand was raised to defend him. His own people chose the mode of punishment, crucifixion. What were his crimes? They were nothing more than preaching and demonstrating compassion and love. And this may sound a little corny, Padre, but I think I understand why Jesus didn’t punish them or

subsequently deny them. You see, Padre; he didn’t turn his back on them

because he knew the human emotion, fear. Even Jesus, fulfilling his Father’s

sacrifice to the world, showed this emotion. In the garden when he spoke,

“Take this cup from me and on the cross, when he said,

“Father, why have you forsaken me?”

So you see, Padre, I have been able to accept the overpowering fear that I

harbored when I was there at the front lines. The desire to run was so

intense, that is, until I talked to you. I since have found the fear is not a crime,

nor is it something to be ashamed of. It is merely a human state of mind that

triggers the body to invoke a condition of survival: self-preservation. This state of survival compels us to seek refuge. And as you know, Padre, we can search forever and never find a refuge more secure nor any state more self-preserving, than ‘in the grace’ of being touched by the hand of God.

You gave me that, Padre.

Thank you.

No One Cared

It was cool, but a nice day. At last – spring had arrived. The land of the eastern Rocky Mountains took on light green attire. Though it remained rather grim in its dry and desolate appearance, but beautiful nonetheless. It would be a difficult year for the boy, but difficult as it would be, it was a challenge at survival.

Abe was ten years old; tears rolled down his unwashed face as he held the two-dollar bills his father had just given him.

“I can’t take care of you anymore, you must find your mother and I’m sure she will be glad to see you.”

“But dad,” he questioned, “how will I find her?”

There is no answer but a blank stare, as the boy’s father places his hand on the boy’s head and tearfully says, “I’m sorry, Abe.”

Tears flow from his father’s swollen eyes as he would inevitably surrender to the pain and devastation of alcoholism. Fear grips young Abe as he listens to his father’s directions that would, with difficulty, take him to the home of his mother and sisters. It would be a difficult search, for the instructions would only take him to the approximate area of the city.

Abe’s father, Abraham, was a very resourceful and innovative man. He was well liked and appreciated by the community of Abeyta, a small town east of Trinidad, Colorado. His contribution toward the community was enormous. He was a schoolteacher at the local school, a builder that included the construction of the local church. He was as responsible as any well-respected individual of the time. What happened after that? Well, along with an unstable economy, alcoholism took its toll. Consequently, Abe’s mother and father were divorced and the children remained in the custody of their mother. Abe’s three older brothers, John, Raymond, and Eugene were either married or were self-supporting. Ben, Abe’s fourth older brother, remained in the general area and worked as a contractor of farmer’s chores, weeding fields, and working in the fields at harvest. This type of work was essential for many people’s survival. Even though the pay was next to nothing, the crop that was harvested was edible. This vegetable crop, for the most part, was sometimes the difference between sustenance and painful hunger. Nevertheless, Abe was left with his father but now finds himself being shuffled back to his mother. A shuffling that this ten-year old boy would find very hard to understand and eventually conclude that he, simply, was not loved.

With two dollars in his pocket, Abe decides to buy a pack of cigarettes then smartly hides the dollar and ninety cents. He walks slowly towards the railroad yard, lights a cigarette and solemnly waits for a freight train heading east. It was a long trip, but Abe finally arrived in Omaha, Nebraska. He scans the city in disbelief. The thought of futility is prevalent, for the city is large and probability of finding his mother is almost nothing. The thought of getting back on the train is a thought, a very serious thought. But then, he remembers the bums in the boxcar, their cheap whiskey, the knives they brandished and the stench of unclean bodies. He remembers the threats, as they searched him for anything of value. Then throwing him helplessly aside, satisfied that he had nothing. Abe felt somewhat grateful that his clothes were much too small for the grown men and that they did not find the dollar and ninety cents he smartly placed in the brim of his hat. Abe lights a cigarette and smiles as he has outdone his aggressors, for in his pocket, coins jingle and he expertly places the pack of camel cigarettes back in his pocket. The thought of futility still prevails, for the possibility of finding his mother and sisters is quite remote. Still, he sets out on the search, a search that, even if successful, he knows that mother would probably not accept him. He wonders about the reason for being the only one left with his dad, especially when his dad was not able to care for him.

“Maybe,” he concluded, “no one cares.”

A tear finds its way onto his cheek and quickly brushes it away. His loneliness is overwhelming as the day is gone and the night finds him snuggling in a corner of an old building, trying desperately to stay warm. He thinks of the comforts of home and longs for their warmth and security. Abe lights another cigarette and huddles closer to the building. The paper he has stuffed into his pants and shirt gives him the appearance of a much heavier boy. But what it looks like is the farthest thing from his mind, as he draws heavily from his cigarette and tucks his left hand into the bib of his overalls. The night is long and he wonders how many more nights he will have to spend in back streets or alleys. Shivering from the cold, Abe realizes that if it gets cold enough, he would never awaken from the sleep he is slipping into.

“But then, why should I care?” He says, “It can’t be any worse than this.”

But as the young boy drifts into the unconsciousness of sleep, his voice calls out in an instinctive cry of desperation, “mommy.”

The next morning, the hunt continues as Abe lights a cigarette and drinks coffee from a tin cup. His hunger is, somewhat, satisfied for he has been successful begging for food at a nearby grocery store. The bologna and bread tastes good as the warm coffee satisfies, at least for now, the ever-present hunger. The searching for his mother continues. Children at a nearby-playground tease and call him “tramp” and other humiliating names. Somewhat hurt, he acknowledges the premise that he is becoming immune to the frequent teasing and name-calling. After several days of searching many big city neighborhoods, his search comes to an end. Walking slow and now, with much doubt about finding his smother and sisters, a young girl catches his eye, a girl who strongly resembles his little sister, Anna.

“Abe!” Anna cries.

“Thank God, I found them,” he murmurs.

He wipes a tear away from his eye, then takes Anna by the hand and walks slowly into the home to confront his mother. The reunion, however, would be something less than a homecoming, for the next day, Abe would be back on the road. His mother, a very stern woman was something less than excited about his unexpected arrival. She, without a hint of compassion, sends for her son, Eugene, who has the task of sending young Abe on his way. He explains to his young brother that there is no way they could care for him and Abe, and that he would have to leave. Eugene takes several coins from his pocket, gives them to Abe and sends him to his brother, Raymond’s home in Neosho, Missouri. The only explanation was the Raymond was in a better position to care for him or to help him get a job. So with a pocket full of money, in change, Abe sets off to catch another freight. This time, it was a freight heading south. He wondered about Eugene, how he always had plenty of change around. And he thought about his mother, her piercing eyes, and lack of interest toward him. But he didn’t seem to show any resentment, or maybe, he had just built a barrier against disappointment and hope. At any rate, he seemed to have adjusted well to the loneliness and rejection. A resentment he would hold for a very long time.

Sitting in a corner of the boxcar, Abe stares, unblinking, at the moving countryside. Closing his eyes, he dries the tears and whispers, “no one cares.”

Abe brushes his clothes and reluctantly jumps from the

slow-moving freight train. Not as successful as the previous

ride, the bums in the boxcar found the cigarettes he had

hidden in his hat. The money lay safely in his shoes, secured

by spats. The spats cost him a dollar and a quarter and

looked very tattered and dirty, but he loved them and liked

how they looked. He knew that important people wore spats.

At least, that’s what he saw in the movies. George Raft always

looked well with his pin striped suit and white spats. He

thought about his brother, Raymond.

“Would he be happy to see me?”

A question he probably knew the answer to, for no one seemed to be happy to see him, much less allow him to stay in his or her home.

“I guess dad is the only one who, it seems, really cares about me,” he mutters, as he walks slowly in search of his Brother, Raymond.

Abe follows Eugene’s directions and eventually finds the white house described to him. Walking up the road leading to his brother’s house, he mentally prepares to meet a niece that is probably no younger than he is. Since he had never seen the young girl, he wondered what she looked like and if she would be friendly towards him. A young girl looks out of the door as he walks nervously onto the porch. Getting a good look at Abe in the doorway, she cries out,

“Mom, there’s a tramp at the door.”

The girl’s mother arrives at the front door and asks Abe what he wants and what he is doing there. After a brief explanation of his identity and reason for being there, the bewildered mother asks Abe to sit outdoors and to wait for his brother, Raymond. The little girl continues the stare and constant questioning;

“Is he a tramp, mom?”

Abe puts his hands up to his face and sobs; the immunity of degradation did not include family members. And he cries uncontrollably as he questions the Lord.

“Why must I endure this life of hurt and constant despair?”

He looks closely at his ragged clothes and badly-worn shoes and understands the little girl’s word: tramp. He knew that he would not be allowed to stay and wondered when he would be put back on the freight train. He thought about his dad and wanted so much to be there. At least when he wasn’t drinking, they could talk and everything seemed to be all right. His hand reaches nervously for a cigarette but remembers he doesn’t have any and mutters

“I’ll have to buy some.” His hand reaches into his pocket and holds the coins tightly as he whispers tearfully, “I’ve got money in my pocket, and tramps don’t.”

The exterior of the house was very nice. The outbuildings and the many trees gave the house a farm or orchard appearance. A drink of water from the outdoor pump tasted good as hunger rumbles in his empty stomach. After waiting, for what seemed to be several hours, Raymond arrives. He instantly recognized his younger brother.

“Hi Abe!” he called and enthusiastically embraced his brother Abe and directed him into the yard.

“What are you doing here? How’s pop?”

“Well,” Abe stammers and briefly explains the last several days and bows his head in tears.

“I guess I’ll go back home with dad.”

“Is dad still drinking?” Raymond asks.

“Yeah, but at least I can talk to him and take care of him. He thought,” Abe continued, “that I could go back to school if I was with mom. I guess he was wrong because she doesn’t want me.”

Raymond, obviously hurt, hugs his little brother. “Abe,” he whispers with difficulty, “I can’t take care of you. You will have to go back to dad. Do what you can for him, you know he loves you very much.”

“I know he does and I do want to be there with him. I want to be there now. I’m tired of the name-calling. You know just as well as I do, Ray, no one cares except maybe dad.”

Raymond doesn’t say a word just shakes his head and mutters, “you sure don’t deserve all this crap.” He then asks Abe, “do you have any money?”

Young Abe finds himself back on the freight train heading for Colorado. The brief encounter with brother Raymond was just enough time to have Raymond lose young Abe’s money in a local bar. Yeah, Raymond was a gambler but obviously not a very good one. Abe feels thankful that he bought a pack of cigarettes before he gave his brother the money he had. The search by the bums in the boxcar is uneventful for there was nothing to find. His cigarettes, well hidden in his shirt, survive the ordeal. Recalling the events of the last few days, Abe tries to place all his family in some kind of perspective. Being objective is somewhat difficult for the events of the last ten days were something less than a happy reunion of love and care. Still, he submitted to the premise that at least his father would be glad to see him. And that young Abe was not completely alone after his recent rejections. The smell in the boxcar was awful but he managed to sleep, thinking about food and his father at home.

The train slowed down to a crawl and he realized that he was in Colorado. The dry, barren countryside looked terrific. Even the cactus along the tracks looked good. In the farmer’s fields, he could see the men and the boys working. “Probably weeding,” he thought, as he jumped from the slow-moving freight and ran excitedly towards home and to his father.

The Ogre of Windrose Woods

Her eyes bulged in terror as the wind cruelly embraced the horrific moaning and howling that came from the nearby woods. Refusing to turn, she continued on, quickening her pace with every beat of her pounding heart.

“What am I doing here?” She screamed.

“Help me! Help me!” She cried.”

Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks and her long blond hair whipped at her terror-stricken face as she ran faster and faster. The wailing had now become a high-pitched laughter and seemed to be getting closer and closer.

“The Ogre!” she screamed. “It’s the Ogre!”

She felt the long claws cutting deep into her heavy coat. But just before surrendering to what seemed to be the inevitable, she heard a crack and then another as she looked up to find her father wielding a rifle and looking disappointedly towards the woods.

“Missed the varmint,” he said with disgust, “I thought I had him good too. You all right honey?” he asked while examining his daughter’s claw shredded coat.

“Yeah, dad, I’m OK now.” Cheryl held her father tightly and trembled at the thought of being caught by that horrible little monster. But now she knew she was safe and hugged her father even tighter.

She wiped tears that were still flowing and slowly turned towards the woods.

“But I’m sure glad you came when you did. The Ogre would’ve caught me, if you hadn’t.”

“The what? questioned her surprised father.

“The Ogre, dad, you know the monster

in the woods.”

“The Ogre,” he muttered quietly.

He remembered the stories about an

Ogre living here in Windrose Woods, but he had

always assumed they were just stories to keep

children close to home. Now even his own daughter

had heard and obviously believed the tales

about a small vicious monster inhabiting the dense

eerie woods at Windrose.

He thought about the Ogre and recalled

that the varmint he shot at, was kinda weird looking and it was small and stocky but then he had him in his sights for a only a few seconds. He shuddered when he thought, that this creature of sorts might have caught his daughter.

He frowned at the possibility while running his hand through the back of Cheryl’s shredded coat. Cheryl walked close to her father and frequently looked behind them as they quickened their pace towards the truck parked in the near distance.

“You know Dad? I think I’ll take another route home from the library from now on.”

“Yeah Cheryl, it gets dark early this time of year and you have no business near these woods. Creature or whatever just stay clear of this area, OK?

And when I tell you to wait for me at the Library, I mean the library and not somewhere along the way home.

Jeez Cheryl,” he continued, “what if I hadn’t gone looking for you?”

Cheryl looked up at her father, pressed her head against his shoulder and nodded.

“I promise dad, no more short cuts.”

Nature continued its cycle of the seasons as spring began to show its presence with a display of budding trees and a tint of green to the nearby fields. It was a wonderful time of year and, of course, the eagerness for summer vacation was quite apparent as plans for camp and other activities were beginning to blossom.

The Ogre episode, however, was still high in Cheryl’s conversations and quite active in her recurring nightmares. Her friends, of course, supported her suspicions and were quite determined to see the monster for themselves.

“Maybe, we can walk through the woods tonight and see for

ourselves.”

Cheryl shrugged her shoulders angrily.

“Dick, you know I can’t go near those woods, even if I wanted too! And I don’t!”

“Aww, come on Cheryl, I’ll protect you. Anyway, your folks will never know. We can be in and out of the woods before anyone would ever know we were gone. OK?”

Cheryl, shaking her head, looked up at her friend Nancy, “How about you, Nancy? “Do you wanna go with the boys?”

“I don’t know Cheryl; I couldn’t go without asking Mom.”

“What? Well for the love of . . . Aw – come on Tom, tell Nancy that all that permission stuff is social suicide! You definitely do not ask mom for permission to look for a little monster, know what I’m saying?

“Dick’s right Nancy.” Tom lifted his arm and lightly placed it around Nancy’s shoulders and whispered.

“Come on honey let’s go with them, it sounds like fun.”

“Ummm,” murmured Nancy. Her voice was muffled as Tom concluded his persuasion

with a passionate kiss.

“OK, we’re in.” Said Tom with a grin and waved a flexed fist in a sign of victory.

Cheryl thought about her ordeal with the Ogre, or at least who she believed it to be. And she somehow, though frightened, was game for the woods trek. She believed she should know once and for all that what she was confronted with that night wasn’t just a common animal that naturally lives in the woods. Her dad would not know anything about the trip, of that she was certain.

“Then it’s set, we’ll meet here tomorrow night at five. Bring a flash light matches a couple of candles and a can of that patio torch oil.”

“What’s the oil for, Dick?”

“Jeeez, Tom, haven’t you ever-watched Indiana Jones? The

oil is for torches if our flash lights give out. Know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Tom replied sheepishly. “Anyway Tom, the days are a little longer,

it doesn’t get dark now till about six-thirty, so it’ll give us a little time to get into the woods before dark.”

Tom nodded and with a smirk whispered,

“Let’s see how brave you are when we find the Ogre, Mr know it all.”

The next evening Nancy and Cheryl arrived at the designated meeting place where Dick was waiting.

“Well, where is he? Asked Dick with a hint of anger in his voice and shook his head while glancing at his watch.

"Come on Nancy, didn’t you see Tom at school today?”

“Well yeah, I did, but all we talked about was the trip tonight. He was really excited about going into the woods.”

Nancy looked at Cheryl and added.

“I don’t know why he isn’t here.”

“Aww, let’s give him another ten minutes.” Pleaded Cheryl.

“Ten minutes and then were out of here, Tom or no Tom!”

Growled Dick, and turned towards Nancy and repeated.

“Ten minutes!”

Nancy looked up and pointed to a figure approaching in

the distance.

“Here he comes now.”

“Finally,” Dick whispered.

Tom in a definite jog was quickly approaching the

concerned group.

“Dick, you guys were going to leave without me?

For crissakes. I’m only fifteen minutes late!”

“Yeah Tom, that’s fifteen minutes of daylight.

Now let’s get going!”

The shadows lengthened as they entered the dense growth of Windrose Woods. The woods were darkened by the thick growth of the tall trees. Dick and Cheryl took the lead and walked quickly but carefully over dead tree branches and through high grass.

Tom followed behind Nancy and grinned when he thought about the thirty-eight special, he took from his father’s gun cabinet. He felt good and certainly confident when he ran his fingers over the fully loaded pistol sitting snugly in his insulated vest pocket. And quite frankly, just dared the Ogre to even show himself.

Nancy walked behind Cheryl and occasionally turned to make sure that Tom was still there.

Cheryl on the other hand, continued to search the surrounding shrubbery and trees, as if she expected the Ogre to jump out of the dense growth at every turn of the path.

She trembled at the thought of claws ripping at her insulated coat and then her father coming to her rescue. She hated her decision of coming on this trip against his strict orders of ‘staying away from these woods.

“But I had too,” she thought.

“I had to find out for myself, didn’t I?”

Cheryl tried desperately to justify her presence in the woods but found it difficult to do. She was certainly doing something that she was adamantly instructed not to do.

She remembered the story about the two young boys that disappeared while playing near the woods. The search was thorough and continued for a month after the disappearance. They combed the area for shallow graves, pieces of clothing and just anything that would give them a clue to their disappearance. But nothing was ever found. She shuddered at the thought that experts concluded that the children were probably devoured and nothing would ever be found.

“Dick, what if the Ogre comes after us, what do we do then?”

“Yeah, what do we do,” echoed Nancy.

“Well, girls,” replied Dick with a grin, “we can run like hell or hold

our ground and shoot the south side of him heading north.”

“Sounds good to me,” agreed Tom. “I’ll take care of that short, long

haired hippy.”

“Not if I get him first,” challenged Dick.

Tom smiled as he touched the gun in his pocket. Dick, with some relief, now realized that he wasn’t the only one with a gun.

“The Ogre doesn’t have a chance!” He yelled.

Then after a brief display of a high five and a final enthusiastic,

“awright!”

The group continued on into Windrose Woods, but now, with just a bit more confidence.

The path widened and the grass thinned to an occasional patch. The dry leaves on the ground, made a crunching sound as they walked.

“Hey take a look at this print!” Cried Dick.

“Looks like a cat print,” said Tom as he knelt down to get a better

look.

“Yeah, it probably is a cat’s paw print.”

“It sure isn’t a wild turkey print,” laughed Dick.

Tom frowned and was obviously provoked by Dick’s comment.

“What did you think it was, Dick, an elephant’s print!?” Quipped Tom waving his arms in frustration.

Cheryl and Nancy were noticeably frightened and just stared at the, what seemed to be a paw print on the ground.

“What kind of cat would leave a print that size?” Asked Cheryl.

“Well, it could be a bobcat, maybe.” Replied Dick with a bit of uncertainty in his voice.

Tom bent over and looked at the paw print a little closer and quipped.

“Well if we were out west, I’d say it was a mountain lion.” Laughed Tom.

“Dam it, Tom. Be serious that’s too big of a print for the average cat. And just be ready for what ever it might be. OK, Tom?”

Tom’s hand instinctively reached to his pocket and confirmed that the weapon was still nestled snugly in his vest.

Darkness came and the group continued on their quest of the Ogre.

“Hey Tom! Bring your light over here!”

“What in the world is it? Asked Cheryl.

“Something hanging from that tree. See it?”

“Yeah Dick, it looks like a bunch of sticks tied to that branch.”

“Think again Cheryl, they’re not sticks they’re bones and if I’m not mistaken, they look like human bones.”

Cheryl’s eyes widened and backed away from the small bundle in the tree.

“What do you suppose they’re doing there?” Asked Nancy.

Tom held his light steady, grimaced, then reached deep into his pocket to confirm the presence of his gun. He didn’t take it out but merely held it for a renewed sense of security.

“Looks like maybe . . . he or she might have been eaten.”

Dick nodded and held one hand on the gun in his coat pocket.

“From the length of the bones, they might be the remains of a child or a very small person. What do you think, Tom?” “Yeah, . . . I think you're right, a real small person.”

Cheryl and Nancy quite unnerved by the theorized scenario began to make small suggestions about leaving the woods while they were still capable.

“I think we should head back home; it’s getting late.

We could come back this weekend when we have more daylight. Don’t you think so guys?” Asked Cheryl. Knowing that she had no intention of ever coming back.

“That sure sounds like a good idea, if you ask me.” Agreed Nancy.

Dick and Tom looked at each other and reluctantly agreed.

“Yeah, I guess we’d better call it a night. It’s getting late.” Dick brought the light close to his watch and added.

“It’s about eight thirty and it’ll take us about forty minutes to get back to where we started.”

“Anyway, we don’t want to get grounded if we intend to come back. See what I’m saying?” Added Tom.

The walk back to their starting point was uneventful. No moaning shrieking or even a low growl broke the silence.

Cheryl began to think that maybe she was imagining her run from the Ogre. But then, she thought, her father had shot at something. Then she remembered the human bones that they had come upon. Were they the remains of the children that disappeared and never heard from again? I wonder, she thought and if they were the bones of the missing children, who put them there? Questions reeled in her mind as she tried to place all the events into some kind of logical perspective.

Nancy tried to put the, in the woods, experience as a display of courage, but she knew it wasn’t so. She was terrified after the first step into the eerie woods. She also concluded there would be no return trip, at least, for her. “And the bones we saw only confirm my intention,” she whispered silently to herself.

“Come on girls, perk up!” Said Dick with a grin.

“Sure, wish we had more daylight left. I’m sure we would have

gotten that little creep.”

“Yeah Dick, know what you’re saying. With a little more daylight, we would have got him good.” Tom said while removing the shells from his pistol.

“Now,” continued Tom, “I’ve got to get this gun back into my father’s gun cabinet before he realizes it’s missing.”

“Yeah, me too.” Added Dick.

“Well I did promise my dad not to go near or around the woods and no more shortcuts, “said Cheryl with a serious look on her face.

“I didn’t go near or around the woods, I went into them. And it certainly wasn’t a shortcut.”

Nancy decided the truth was the best solution. So, she decided that if her mother would ask about her whereabouts, she would simply say.

“Mom, I just went for a walk, with my friends.”

The woods suddenly became alive with a horrible blood curdling screeching and moaning that was reminiscent of what Cheryl had heard. Cheryl screamed and cried out. “It’s the Ogre!” Dick turned and cried out.

“Holy cow! Let’s get outta here!”

The creature glared viciously from a high perch in a large tree and watched.

His eyes were slanted slits. His ears, large and pointed cradled his long red hair. His long arms, unlike his short dwarf legs, were muscular and noticeably strong as he pulled himself easily to a higher level in the tree. His nose, large and sensitive to nature’s law of survival, twitched with the detection of the four running in the distance.

The creature stirred as he watched his would-be assassins then

hungrily licked his lips and slurped saliva that ran freely from his razor-

sharp fangs.

Abe C Abeyta ©

The Padre

Somehow, I feel very comfortable as I sip at my drink and munch at the happy hour goodies sitting before me. I take a cigarette from a freshly opened pack and light it as I watch the glow of the match and I slowly blow it out.

“Bring me another drink, Pat,”

I call out to the waitress or bartender (whichever, because she seems to be doing it all). She’s quite a young lady, I think to myself. She has dark auburn hair, blue eyes, and the south 40 is really in its place. Enough of the good things in life, I smile to myself, as Pat smiles placing my drink before me and acknowledging that she is also a mind reader.

After another drink and lighting another smoke, I find myself drifting into another adventure, or an experience if you will, into the Supernatural. A place where physical existence has no boundaries, a black hole, a warp in time, a section of the mind where reality is nothing more than a dream.

Quickening my pace, I shudder as I anticipate passing near the old bridge, where strange phenomena have taken place. Trying not to think of them, my mind passively submits to the overwhelming fear that controls every aspect of my thoughts. Strange occurrences have been reported throughout the area, especially around the bridge that is partially hidden by the tall overhang of the trees surrounding it. The darkness only adds to the terrifying experiences that have been related and fully accepted by the people of this community.

Father Vifquain, the priest from the community church, they say, was overwhelmed one night by something evil. They say he lost his faith and the demon recognizing the weakness, succeeded in forcing the Priest to denounce the Lord himself. Father Vifquain was found the following morning raving incoherently about witches and demons. He was immediately committed to an asylum where he resided for several years until his death. They say he still talked about the evil he encountered and of the penance for his denunciation of the Lord, which was to forever walk the Valley, as guardian of the creatures, and the children of God.

Some people say that they have seen the man walking the valley. Others say, that they themselves were confronted by evil beings and the Padre, suddenly appeared to ward them off. They swear to his existence. They describe him as a stern, gray-haired man with long hair protruding from beneath his black hat. Dark set eyes that could look into the soul itself. He wears a black suit with the collar of a priest, his boots are

well-worn and dusty, as he prefers to walk the entire valley.

His graying mustache only adds to his stern and

unmistakable appearance of strength and confidence.

He walks with a gait of determination in his

total dedication to work. He lives the undeniable

commitment to protect the people of the community in the

valley of lost souls. His black suit, hat, and boots are dusty

from the trails he walks. His left hand tightly clings to his

Bible as his right hand swings freely at his side. He stops

occasionally, retrieves a kerchief, wipes his brow, and

continues on his journey. A crucifix on a long chain dangles

at his side, brightly glittering in the sunlight and swinging

rhythmically as he walks.

Nearing the bridge, I am suddenly aware that a dark figure has just climbed from below the bridge and I must pass near him. Somehow I manage to keep walking, even though the figure seems to be walking towards me. My fear is overwhelming now as I begin to lose confidence in my being. I realize there is nowhere to go, nowhere to run; I am trapped. This is the evil that the people have dreaded, the evil that I am about to encounter. Tears flow freely as my body begins to shake uncontrollably, as I come face-to-face with a being beyond anyone’s imagination. His face, a hideous expression of death itself, red eyes protrude from the bony sockets of his demonic head. Large fangs are evident in his saliva dripping, distorted mouth.

“God, help me!” I scream in desperation, as I feel a hand on my shoulder, “please help me.”

Falling to my knees, I brace for the imminent disaster, the pain that will usher me into oblivion, into death itself.

Suddenly, I feel myself lifted into the air. I am overcome by the tranquility and peace of death itself. I look down into the person I was, and the demon that is about to consume my existence. Time seems to have stopped, the beast and my body seem to have frozen in the imminent course of violence, my destruction. Not a sound, if this be death, then no one could ever imagine the feeling of peace that I feel at this moment. A voice breaks the silence,

“Conde, are you all right?”

There before me is my mom. “You were dreaming. Are you okay?”

“I guess so,” I respond sleepily.

“You were sure screaming for help. It must have been a nightmare, huh? Do you want to talk about it?”

Not wanting to recall any of the nightmare, I roll over in bed and mom pulls the blanket over my shoulders and whispers,

“You’re all right now. Go back to sleep; God Bless You.”

I lay awake for a long time, thinking about the dream, how real it was, and to really convince myself that it was just a dream.

Doing odd jobs at the town tavern was not my Mom’s choice as far as an after-school job was concerned, but as long as her own brother, Uncle Alfred, was proprietor, she accepted it. Anyway, it sure was interesting, watching all the customers drinking, and of course, listening to some of the conversations that certainly could curl your hair. This evening was no exception, grinning to myself. I wondered if women were that special. Anyway, I’d find out in the near future. I was twelve now and I’d be thirteen in August. I knew that some girls has been married at that age. Or at least, I heard that they had or I read about it somewhere. Taking a pencil from my pocket, I cheerfully calculated the number of days and thought twice about the hours.

Drinking is still going on and the conversations become louder and louder. I direct my attention to one in particular, as the Padre has been mentioned several times.

“Gus, goddammit, this Padre doesn’t exist and you know it! That’s all I hear from you is all the superstition bullshit about ghosts and crap. Why haven’t I seen all these people you say exist?” he asks, slamming his beer bottle on the table, “Why?!” he repeats, challenging the storyteller, Gus.

Uncle Alfred responds in a way I never expected. It was true that I did have a terrible nightmare, but I believed that the survival of the human mind was to find a practical explanation to all unexplained phenomenon. I simply accepted mine as a bad dream and nothing more. But doubts about the Padre being a figment of someone’s imagination was simply not in my realm of thinking. I knew, if for no other reason but to equalize the balance of good and evil, the Padre did undoubtedly exist. Uncle Alfred’s response only confirmed my belief. He spoke in a saddened voice.

“Father Vifquain was my friend as well as our priest. He gave his life for his community, his footprints, even today, are seen on the road that he so devotedly walked. I was there when he died. I was there when he promised to watch over his people and if people have seen him walking the roads once more, then I believe the Padre does exist.”

As if I were hypnotized, I listened intently, and watched through the slight opening in the door. Gus, with the look of “I told you so,” takes the last drink from his beer and glares at his foremost critic.

“Tom, you may not believe what we tell you but, if you ever see something or someone, for your sake, I hope it’s the Padre and not the evil that lurks out in the darkness. I hope not,” Gus continues, as he opens the door to leave.

“Good night, Gus!” the fellas yell out at him as the door closes.

“Conde, I’m gonna have to leave early tonight, finish up the glasses, sweep the floor, and Flora will walk you home, okay?”

Nodding my head, I continue my trend of thought, Father Vifquain, the Padre, the evil out there. My dream comes back and I feel somewhat uneasy as fear finds its way back into the scope of reality. Flora asks if I’m ready to go as I quickly slip on my coat and make a quick check to see if all my duties are accomplished. Flora, a nice looking young lady, asks about school and quickly relates her life history. It seems she was unmarried and was hoping to leave town as soon as she reached her next birthday at eighteen. Holding her hand as we walked, I could feel her extremely long fingernails digging into the back of my hand. Hoping she would loosen her grip, I let out a painful “oww!” but her grip increases as I feel blood running into the palm of my hand.

“Flora, you’re hurting me!” I exclaimed, trying desperately to free my hand from her powerful grip.

I could feel her other hand reaching for my throat, unsuccessfully, as my coat is buttoned tightly around my neck. I could see her eyes now, a crimson red with fangs protruding from her once pretty face.

Suddenly on my knees, I feel a hand on my shoulder and a voice, unlike I had ever heard, speaks,

“Conde, get up and be on your way home.”

There before me is a man clad in black and Flora is nowhere to be seen. The fear that was so overwhelming is gone. Looking closer at the stranger, I see he wears a dark suit, the collar of a priest, long gray hair protrudes from beneath his black hat, his eyes are set deep and determined. He holds a bible in his left hand, a crucifix dangles from a long chain at his side. His gray mustache wild and turns downward at the corners of his mouth.

“Go home now, Conde,” pointing to my house in the near distance. “You will be fine now. Tell your Uncle Alfred hello for me. He’ll know who I am and who I was and tell him we’ll always be friends.”

Turning, the stranger walks away into the darkness and I could see his right arm swinging freely at his side. I could see the crucifix dangling from a long chain that glimmers in the moonlight, swinging rhythmically as he walked.

“Where have you been, Conde? Flora was just here. She said you left without her. Weren’t you afraid?”

“Mom, tell Flora I’m sorry, but I really thought I left with her. As for Uncle Alfred, I’ll talk to him, but if you see him before I do, tell him a very close friend of his brought me home. He’ll understand. As for being afraid, I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid again, not in this valley anyway, the Valley of the Purgatoire, or the Valley of Lost Souls.”

Trying to logically put all that happened into perspective, I finally determined that some things are best left unexplained, lest you dwell into another time, another place.

“You see, our physical existence is determined by our five senses, but our spiritual existence unharnessed by the limitations of time, is determined by the gateway to the soul itself, the immortal mind.”

“Give me a light, will you Pat?” Lighting my cigarette, she asks if I’m ready for another drink.

“I’d better have one more.”

“Okay,” she responds, “I’m getting off duty in a few minutes anyway.”

“Who’s coming on?” I ask.

“She’s a new girl, just started today. Her name is Flora. Why don’t you wait around and meet her? She seems like a very nice girl.”

Pat smiles and adds, “she may even walk you home after closing.”

Picking up my change and cigarettes, “no thanks, Pat,” smiling, I add, “I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.”

Walking away from the bar, I add smiling,

“I think I already met her anyway. Good night.”

Rummaging around for my room key, I inadvertently take out a long, shiny gold chain. At the end of the chain, a golden crucifix dangles loosely, glimmering in the moonlight and swings rhythmically as I walk.

Goodnight sweet dreams, hmm?

The Quarter

The door closed slowly behind me as I carefully made my way to the bar. My eyes adjusted slowly to the dimly lighted room. The mood was loud with talk and forced laughter. The bar reeked of ozone and booze, tainted slightly, with an aroma of cheap perfume. I reached for cigarettes from my shirt pocket and placed them on the bar before me. A waitress with a forced smile brought me a beer and asked if there would be anything else. I shook my head and noticed the hurt and anxiety in her eyes. I soon learned that as a mother of two, she struggled desperately to support a deadbeat husband and an invalid mother. She got some assistance from various government agencies and just managed to make ends meet.

“Sometimes I wonder,” she said as she brought me another beer and poured it slowly into my glass.

“The harder I try, the worse it gets for me. I’m so tired…so tired…I don’t know how long I can do this.”

“You know, Sarah, sometimes we’re dealt hands that don’t make sense or they just don’t seem to be fair, but we somehow have to do the best we can.”

I took her hand and held it as I spoke.

“Sometimes,” I continued, “the clouds of despair shadow our ability to see a solution or even to make good decisions. You see Sarah, your decisions will govern your destiny, your happiness, and yes, even your unhappiness.”

I felt the warmth of her hands in mine and knew that she would be fine. She looked up and smiled.

“Thank you for the shoulder and your kind words.”

“Sarah, how long have you been married?” I asked.

She shook her head and then looked toward the ceiling.

“I don’t know, maybe about ten years, yeah about ten years. It was May the fourteenth, nineteen eighty-eight. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget how nice and considerate he was. But time changes things and it’s so difficult for me to believe that this is the same man I married.”

“Would you do it again? Marry him, I mean. You know, if you had a chance to go back ten years, would you marry him?”

“No way, man. I wouldn’t do it again for anything. You just don’t know how many times I’ve thought about it. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, Sarah, I know what you’re saying. This may sound a little weird to you, but I want you to do as I say, okay?”

Sarah listened and though somewhat confused, agreed.

“Here, take this shiny new quarter, dated 1988. I want you to place it under your pillow tonight. Then let your mind search that year for something that made you happy, something that you would like to live through again, and it has to be before your wedding. Can you do that, Sarah?”

Sarah, with a wide grin, almost to a point of laughter cried.

“You bet I can do it! I’ll do it tonight, okay?”

I nodded and smiled at Sarah as I

downed the last of my beer and turned to leave.

“Oh, by the way Sarah, I’ll see you tomorrow evening

, right here, and about the same time, okay? And

remember what I said about decisions.”

Sarah smiled and with a gesture of agreement, nodded.

“You bet. See you tomorrow.”

The lounge was busy and the lighting was somewhat better, as I made my way to the bar. The bartender looked up.

“Bud lite,” I cried and searched my pocket for the price of a beer.

“It’s on the house, your money isn’t good here.”

Startled, I looked up, and there at a dimly lighted table was Sarah.

“Well, thank you, Sarah,” I said, not knowing what to expect. “How are you?”

Sarah stood up from the table and walked slowly towards the bar where I was sitting.

“I’m doing just fine now.” Sarah lifted her hand and pointed at the bartender, “this is my husband, Tom.”

“Glad to meet you, Tom,” I said and turned. “How about your mom, Sarah, how is she?” Sarah’s eyes brightened and she spoke.

“Well, after her bout with arthritis, we got her a place in Arizona. The doctor thought it would help her or at least slow the crippling effect of the arthritis. So far, it has worked and Mom is really enjoying the climate.”

Sarah, with a look of gratitude quietly spoke,

“I don’t understand what happened. All I know is, I have a nineteen eighty-eight quarter that belongs to you and I knew you would be here to pick it up.”

“Are you happy, Sarah?” I asked.

“Yes, very” she whispered.

“If you could go back ten years, Sarah, what would you change, if anything?” I asked, holding the quarter in the palm of my hand.

Sarah thought for a moment and with a big smile on her face, replied.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. You see, when I kicked my first husband out, I met the most wonderful man in the world. I wouldn’t trade Tom for anything.”

Sarah looked up with a big smile.

“We’ve been married eight years and I love him very much.”

Tom leaned on the bar and held Sarah’s hand as he whispered, “I love you too, honey.”

The quarter fell silently into my pocket as I walked slowly away from the bar and made my way to the door. I turned and waved at Sarah and tom and could clearly make out Sarah’s words.

“Thank you,” she said, drying a tear from the corner of her eye. “Thank you.”

I smiled and drew deeply from my smoke as I walked. And then came the calling, the wailing of the wind and the serenity of the sound so intense that it brushed the fringes of my soul. I felt myself drifting into another time, another place, into the realm of spiritual existence where reality is nothing more than a dream. A world where we “live to die” and most certainly “die to live.” Yes, an adventure into the unlimited world of the “Imagination,” and on into the Spectrum of the Unknown.

The Weeping Woman

'La LLorona'

Acknowledging my request, the waitress nods and prepares to bring me a cold one. On the road again and another Motel. Well, here I am trying to make the best of it.

The waitress places the beer before me and asks if there is anything else she can do for me and smiles politely. As I prepare to light a cigarette, she takes out a book of matches and lights it for me.

“Well thanks,” I mutter as I try to keep the cigarette steady while she lights it. That was nice of her, I think to my self, certainly a good way to get a nice tip. "Thanks again!"

Inhaling deeply, I watch the smoke blossoming and slowly rising toward the ceiling and instinctively I take a big swallow from my cold beer. Feeling somewhat relaxed, I feel myself drifting slowly into an adventure, or an experience if you will. An experience into the supernatural, filled with mystery and at times, a mystifying journey into the unknown, where dreams and reality are one. I call this experience, “THE WEEPING WOMAN,” so bear with me as I relate to you the tale of the Weeping Woman which is in legend and translated from its Spanish term of 'La LLorona.'

I tap the ashes from my cigarette into an ashtray and sip sparingly from my beer.

It began in Trinchera, Colorado. What a glorious time we had there in that small but picturesque community. A community so filled with superstition that about the only stories we ever heard were of ghosts and their evil origin.

One evening, while we were out playing, darkness put a damper to our fun so we reluctantly decided to call it a day. I walked home with my friend and helped him with some of his chores. Refusing an invitation to have supper with them, I excused myself and began my walk home.

My walk would take me along the main road and a wooden bridge that crossed a small stream. The trees along the road swayed with the evening breeze casting dark eerie shadows across the bridge and left it in almost total darkness. I was fast approaching this area in my walk home, when I heard a woman scream and cry almost at the same time. It seemed to be coming from a ravine down below the bridge. I started down, through difficult at first because of the tall weeds and grass, I finally made my way to the edge of the stream. There I saw the woman, clad in black, her face well lighted by the full moon, showed distress and sorrow. She cried with the sound of a howling wolf and yet the sobbing of a heartbroken mother.

“Please,” she pleaded, “help me find my baby, I know he’s here, help me please.”

“What happened?”, I asked, “Did you fall?”

The woman as though she had not heard, continues

to cry and pointed toward the stream. I stumbled

and made my way into the shallow stream which

was now well-lighted by the full moon. Nowhere

could I see a baby. Suddenly an eerie feeling ran

through me. I shuddered, and I could feel the

chills run up and down my spine. The hair at the

nape of my neck seemed to stand, and just as the

woman had begun to scream and cry, there was

silence. I turned, and the woman was gone.

Not a trace,

“But how?” I asked myself, “She was there, I saw her, I heard her!”

But all was quiet now. Not even the crickets and frogs would break the eerie silence. Except for the trickle of the water in the stream, all was silent. The wind seemed to die down and once again total darkness began to settle over the countryside. I made my way back to the road, stumbling but not wasting any time. I quickly ran across the bridge and desperately thought of the safety of home. I could feel my heart pounding as I ran through the darkness. The wind picked up again casting unwelcome shadows on the road ahead. Then suddenly, as if the woman was right beside me, I heard her scream, the cry, the pleading. My fear was overwhelming. I dared not look back, for almost panic-stricken, I ran and ran. Finally, up ahead, I could see our house.

“Safety! Home!” I screamed and the tears flowed.

I managed to dry the tears and to somewhat control the shaking of my body as I walked into the house. Mom could see the fear in my eyes, and asked, probably knowing how I would answer,

“You heard her, didn’t you? And did you see her?”

I told her I had and described my brief encounter and the woman’s sudden disappearance.

“Yes,” Mom said, as she proceeded to tell me of a woman who had lived in the community many years ago. How she had such a lovely child, a boy whom she loved very much. Well, the boy was still a baby when the flu epidemic devastated the community. Many people died of the disease, including the woman’s child. The woman so suffered with hurt and disbelief that she failed to accept the fact that her child was gone. She eventually died, still believing that her child was still alive somewhere, and vowed to search forever.

Years have gone by and people say that the woman still mourns and looks for her son. She screams and sobs as she walks the road that leads into the dark countryside looking for her baby. People of the community have given her the name of The Weeping Woman or 'La Llorona.' As Mom was finishing the story, fear again enveloped me as I remembered the woman, her black dress, her long hair, and the look in her eyes as she pointed toward the stream. The eerie cry and scream, the sobbing, the pleading, yes, people swear to her existence.

When the moon is full, the wind begins to blow across the land, the trees cast their haunting shadows across the road below. When the crickets, frogs, and insects cease their nightly chatter, and the wind dies to a whisper while total darkness settles over the countryside, a shadow takes the form of a woman and it moves along the road. It stops near a bridge, a hand reaches out and points down the ravine near the stream. A baby kicking frantically in the shallow stream cries, the woman screams and sobs and they say they hear her say

“I found him, I found him, I found my baby.”

Then the crickets start their evening chatter and peace once again returns to the valley.

The waitress touches my shoulder and asks me if I want another drink. I look down and unknowingly have gone through a pack of cigarettes, with one burning on the ashtray.

“Yes, I’ll take one for the road.”

I pay for my drink and buy another pack of cigarettes. The waitress looks up and kiddingly says,

“It’s still pretty early. What’s the matter, afraid of the dark?”

Smiling, I pick up my drink and head toward the door.

“Who me?”

The waitress laughs. "Yes you! Are you afraid of the dark?"

While walking through the garden area of the motel, crickets began to chatter and I think of Trinchera. I fumble through my pocket and finally find my door key. The door opens easily as I walk into the room, turning on the TV. I prepare to watch a feature movie. I light a cigarette and sip at my drink.

“Afraid of the dark, who me? Well,” I mutter to myself, “maybe, maybe just a little, huh?”

The Smoke at St. Peter's Square

The great crowd in St Peter's Square waited for the sign that would tell them that they had elected a New Pope. The black smoke would signify that no Cardinal received the 77 votes needed to be elected. The white smoke would tell the crowd that 77 votes were received by one of the Cardinals and that a POPE was elected. And the crowd waited -

The smoke billowed from the chimney . . . but it was black and out in the square the crowd thinned somewhat but the majority remained. And once again the vote was cast

and again the smoke from the chimney was black. The crowd in the

square remained and patiently waited for the white smoke that would

tell them the news that they were waiting for. . .

In anticipation the crowd waited when finally, the smoke from the chimney

became white and the crowd cheered pointing their umbrellas high into

the sky. They hugged one another while tears rolled from some while

others waved happily for Pope Francis was elected. He would, with the

Spiritual help of Jesus reign over the world of Catholicism.

With tears in my eyes, I thought of kissing the ring on the New Pope's

finger. I was suddenly overcome with a strange passion that was not

unlike kissing the Blessed hand of our Dear Jesus. And once again the words of Jesus, so

long ago, rang in my head, "Upon this rock I shall build my Church."

The people in the Square cheered and waved their umbrellas up high into the sky in remembrance of non other than St. Peter himself when he became the first Pope. And yet I'd like to think that Jesus himself smiled on this new selected Pope who would reign as the rock of His Church and to echo the Blessed words in His Testament to Humanity…

The Stranger

Feeling somewhat tired and lightheaded after the long drive, I check in at the Motel and find my room. After watching T.V. for an hour, I decide to go into the Lounge for a drink and happy hour snacks.

“Not many people here,” I say to myself as I make my way to the empty bar. “Bud Lite,” I tell the bartender, “and a pack of cigarettes,” I continue as an afterthought.

Sipping at my beer and inhaling deeply from a freshly lighted cigarette, I feel myself drifting back into my world of mystery, the unknown, the supernatural of time, the unexplained. The year is in the 1800s. The place? Somewhere in the southwest. The tale? “The Stranger.”

“A shot! A smoking colt,” the boy trembles as he holsters his gun. A single six gun hangs low at his hip. The pearl-handled, silver revolver glitters in the sunlight. A boy, not more than twenty years away from the threshold of his birth. “Right through the heart,” he mutters, as a fiendish smile forms on his face. “I killed him!” he shouts, “I just drew the fastest gun that ever was!” The crowd starts to close in now for a closer look.

“That’s him, alright. That sure was the fastest gun. It doesn’t look very tough lying there,” calls out a bystander watching the gun fight.

“The best gun fight I ever saw,” adds another. “I don’t believe there’s a man faster, not in this world, anyway.”

With that, the boy, still nervous but very much

in control, turns and walks toward the saloon.

Pushing the swinging doors with

renewed strength, he walks toward the bar.

His body still trembles as he fights

desperately to regain control.

“Whiskey,” he yells, “a double,” he adds.

The bartender nervously gets the whiskey,

a glass, and leaves the bottle. The boy

smiles and reaches for his cigarette makings

and expertly rolls out an almost-perfect one. Taking the smoke, he places it between his lips and reaches for a match, which he strikes on the bottom of his dusty, but well-worn boot. The glow of the match reflects an almost-evil stare from his deep-set brown eyes. He inhales deeply, pours himself another drink, and invites the bartender to join him for one.

“C’mon barkeep, haven’t you ever had a drink with the fastest gun in the world?” he asks.

“I’ll have one with you,” a voice calls out. “I’ll have one with the fastest gunfighter in the world.”

The boy turns and there at a table just across the room, a stranger sits, his hat lying on the table, and a glass, almost empty in his grasp smiles as he downs the rest of it.

“Bartender,” the stranger yells, “another whiskey for me and one for the fastest gun in the world.”

“Thanks,” the kid responds, “much obliged,” he continues.

The stranger smiles and nods calmly as the boy looks into the stranger’s eyes. Cold and deep-set, they seemed to be looking right through the kid. Chills began to form as the confidence radiating from the stranger, was like looking, he thinks, at death itself. The kid gains control and with a flash of intuitive realization, knows he must prove himself once again. With the instinct of a gunfighter, the kid takes his revolver and replaces the spent shells. Real hard-hitting lead, he chuckles, as the stranger gets up from the table.

The kid looks down at the two six guns strapped to his hips, dressed in black, even to his hat that shadows his deep-set eyes. It only added to the unearthly appearance reflected by the thick eyebrows and heavy mustache on the stranger’s face. The kid nervously rolls another cigarette, lights it, and continues the search for new confidence.

“Hey stranger, were you going to a funeral?” the kid chides. The stranger only smiles and calmly nods.

“But don’t worry, kid, there’s nobody in this world that can beat you. No one” he repeats.

With that, the kid is filled with confidence, watching the stranger leave the saloon, downs the last of his drink, and yells

“Stranger!”

With the movement of lightning, the kid pulls on the stranger. Before the kid can clear leather, the stranger’s guns are blazing. Lead rips through the kid’s body. Gasping for breath, the kid falls, mortally wounded. The stranger looks at the kid, a fiendish smile forms on his face.

“But, I thought you said I was the fastest gun in the world,” the kid weakly says.

“I know what I said,” the stranger answers.

“But then, what happened? I’m the fastest gun in the world, right?” The kid asks.

The stranger holsters his revolvers and answers the kid,

“you were kid, you were. But only in your world.”

With laughter that could have been heard for twenty miles, the stranger turns and walks away. The kid, somewhat bewildered by the stranger’s word, looks up at the stranger as he walks away. With his dying breath, groans and cries out,

“his name, his name.”

For as the stranger walked away, well-centered on the stranger’s belt was the name “HELL,” the last word the kid would ever see in HIS world.

The bartender startles me as he asks me if I want another drink. I tell him to give me another and to bring me another pack of cigarettes, realizing that I have gone through a whole pack.

“Too bad I didn’t bring the makings to roll one of my own,” I jokingly respond.

The bar is full now and noise level is now a low roar.

“Bartender, make that beer to go, okay?” I ask, deciding to vacate the bar and to withdraw to the isolation of my room.

Striking a match on the sole of my dusty and well-worn boots, I light another cigarette and make my way to the lounge door. The bartender calls out,

“Hey, Conde! What’s that inscription on your belt?”

“Oh, that!” I reply, “It’s a gift from a friend. They called him ‘Kid.’ He was the fastest gun in the west. But only in HIS world. Good night!”

The Visit

There were tears but there was also a definite admiration for a wonderful and selfless niece, Tamara Gomez Cunningham. Her mother, my sister, Mary, (Chavel) would have been very proud of her beloved daughter and I’m sure she was. Certainly, the celebration of Tammy’s selfless life was indeed a time to praise this special individual that was so involved in the work that Jesus had in mind in his Divine testament to humanity. My sister’s love for her children would have been a significant factor in her desire to be with Tammy on her need for a mother’s love and comfort in her incurable terminal condition. Somehow, I feel that she was there throughout Tammy’s final hours.

My sister Chavel had preceded Tammy by many years and I’m sure she, if humanly or spiritually possible, would have been there to welcome Tammy to her Heavenly home. Sometimes we wonder about the unexplained events that take place on this side of Heaven and we invariably brush them aside with a shrug of the shoulders or maybe an,

“I don’t know" or a mystified, "I wonder.”

I walked into the church with brother Gil and his wife Vona and quickly found the pew where we

would sit. I sat at the first seat or next to the aisle in the bench like pew. I watched and listened to

individual comments regarding Tammy and her late husband Noel in their selfless contributions to

benevolent activities which included working with internationally organized charities for countries that

were devasted with hunger and disease. I found it very enlightening and certainly impressed with the

compassion and care they so generously exhibited. Noel, had preceded Tammy’s death which was very

devastating to Tammy and quite difficult to deal with. But then, it seems that, in the recipe of life one

definite ingredient is adversity.

And once again, I recalled my belief that funerals were certainly to honor the passing of someone

very special but also for a definite reunion of family and friends that had not gathered for some time and

in some cases, a considerable period of time.

There will never be a funeral, I believe, that does not include anxiety, hurt and at times a feeling

of spiritual abandonment. But the support by family and friends most definitely eases some of the hurt

and dampens some of the unbearable stress. There, I don’t believe, will ever be the complete acceptance

in the loss of a loved one that has departed from one’s life. Even though it’s a very difficult and emotional

occurrence, I believe that life has a way of continuing its existence by continuing to live, if not

physically then spiritually and most certainly, well enclosed and wrapped in the Heavenly gift of memory.

Since I am an advocate and a firm believer of Life everlasting, the premise, in my opinion,

that life has come to an end when one passes, is really quite difficult for me to believe. If one would sit

back and realize that every physical existence is confirmed as a reality only by the awareness of the five

senses. This, as we have determined, is the physical world. Can we, utilize our five senses to observe

the Spiritual world? Well, not really but maybe occasionally by the controversial sixth sense which is a

remote possibility brought about by Paranormal and Precognition enthusiasts. But this concept is not

consistent with, or certainly not included in the realm of human ideology and acceptance. But just maybe,

as a casual visit, in a dream, an intuitive feeling or maybe just an unexplained visit by someone that

touches you with an alluring glow of an incomprehensible peace and contentment. These events are

certainly, in the accepted phenomena since there have been many instances where these phenomenal

incidents have occurred but, without confirmation placed in the annals of ‘the unexplained.’

My attention to the on-going funeral Mass was suddenly interrupted by a woman who asked if

the seat or the adjoining space in the pew where I sat was taken. Since I sat next to the aisle, I moved

over to make room to accommodate the lady. She smiled pleasantly and quietly thanked me.

“Tammy was a very special person and I am extremely grateful to have the opportunity of being here for her,”

She whispered warmly as I was taken unexpectedly by the charismatic glow of the Lady.

She, interestingly looked about the church and at the people that had come to attend the Funeral

Mass. I instinctively voiced my opinion emphasizing that there was no doubt in my mind that Tammy had

dedicated her short life, by Divine influence, to Almighty God. The Lady turned toward me and smiled,

“Oh yes, she has certainly pleased the Father.”

With a nod, I silently offered, “I am Tammy’s uncle and I was very close to Tammy’s mother, my sister.”

She looked up at me and asked, “how are you doing and when do you think you’ll be leaving for home?"

It was then that I assumed that she was either family or a friend of Tammy or her sisters. Certainly, at the very least, a close friend of the family. I still wonder how she knew I wasn’t living in Colorado.

“I’m originally from Colorado and have been living in Kansas City, Missouri for the last few years. Do you live here in Colorado?” I asked with a bit of interest. She looked up at me and smiled while

shaking her head.

“No,” she whispered.

I waited for a continued exchange but none came. I seemed to feel satisfied with the lack of

information and it was quite baffling to me that I accepted it with no additional questions. Somehow

there was complete acceptance to her indistinct or basically incomplete comments. Strangely though, it

was a sensation of previously knowing her and felt comfortable with her presence.

I did notice a wedding band on the Lady’s left ring finger and I asked if she was married and she

nodded with a smile.

“Yes,” she said and touched the ring.

I sat in wonder, why did I feel as if I knew who she was and felt quite elated with her presence as well as a most pleasant unexplained awareness?

I turned toward the Lady and during a pleasant hug at the conclusion of the Mass, I was suddenly

overwhelmed with a feeling of acclamation. It was a sensation of being lifted and then I unpredictably

whispered,

"thank you for the visit."

It was a term, not unlike an insinuation, of someone’s surprise visit

but an unexpected and mesmerizing assembly.

I was completely overwhelmed with the feeling of peace and well-being as I looked into her eyes

and felt that somehow, we were not strangers. There was an excitement which was not unlike seeing

someone that you haven’t seen for some time. We spoke quietly and she mentioned the beauty of the

church and the pretty plants and flowers as we walked through the Courtyard on our way to the

refreshments which are customarily offered to friends and family after a weekly or Funeral Mass.

The Lady led the way through the courtyard and stopped at the designated area where Doves

were to be released. I was completely unaware of the planned tribute that included the release of the

Doves. Which is an Acknowledgement, depicting the last tribute to the soul of the body with a symbol of

Love, Peace and the Holy Spirit lifting and carrying it home.

The Lady looked pleasantly toward the people in attendance

and smiled. It was a pleasant smile more like a thank you for

the large attendance and, with a radiance of gratitude, returned

her attention to the pending release of the Doves.

My feeling of contentment and a most overwhelming

comfort enveloped me as we waited for the Doves that were

soon to be released. I asked about the significance of the Doves

and their release and she smiled and turned.

“They are the

instruments of the Father and they will return the soul to its

freedom and eternal peace.”

The Lady looked at me and smiled,

“yes, they are the symbol of Love, Hope and the freedom to the

Spirit of the departed, who is finally at Peace.”

I looked at the Doves and whispered,

“it’s like returning the soul to the Father and thanking Him for the loan.”

The lady smiled with a nod and pleasantly spoke,

“you see, the soul entered the physical world at Birth, just like the Father’s beloved Son, Jesus.”

The Lady looked up at the released Doves and whispered softly,

“We, cannot exist in this physical world in spirit form so we must accept the spiritual world as the ultimate altered dimension, of course, living in the physical world we have essentially become sensitive to the brain’s five

senses. Which is a physical form that became a physical reality by birth or, in certain instances, by the

will of God.”

The Lady looked up at the returning Doves in a group formation and smiled,

“the soul has been returned to its Spiritual form and is now in the hands of God, In Peace with life everlasting.”

She turned gracefully and smiled so fulfilling and comforting that I with disappointment heard

the words when she whispered,

“I have to go now.”

She looked up at me with a Heavenly glow as we hugged and I whispered, softly.

“Thank you for the Visit.”

The lady nodded, “I’ll see you again,” she whispered as she walked away.

I was overwhelmed with emotion when I realized that I didn’t even know her name, where she was from or her relationship with my Niece’s family. It was as if I had known her and maybe, just maybe, she was here to confirm that 'the end is definitely a Spiritual beginning. ‘

No, I didn’t ask her name or her relationship with the family but I do know how I felt when we

were together. It was a comforting and a fulfilling state of contentment of which I will never forget. Her

visit was obviously directed at me for when I asked my family and friends about her, they all responded

with the same, I don’t know who she was and no, she didn’t interact with any of the family except, of

course, me. And, I’ll always wonder and question, why did she appear at the onset of the Mass and leave

right at the end of the Services which was the release of the Doves. I’ll never forget her parting words,

“I have to go now.”

There were many questions and, of course, many possibilities like a special friend that was

Attending Tammy’s funeral, or just maybe an acquaintance that wanted to pay her respects. I don’t know

and I don’t expect I’ll ever know. But I do have my conceptual ideas and though vague, I somehow

feel very good about my perceptions.

Through the progression of time there have been many theories about the onset of spiritual

Intervention or Divine intervention. But more evidence to my individual belief is the many instances that

have been reported by the media or just passed along from generation to generation. Even though this

premise is certainly my opinion and my belief, there can be no doubt that because we are religiously

versed and ultimately believe in the concept of ‘The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,’ we instinctively

introduce and in many cases accept, the existence of the Spiritual world. One may want to define

spiritual intervention by realizing that sometime in your endeavors when an individual offers his or her

assistance when you need someone to help or lift you from a depressive mood or continued assistance

in resisting the turmoil of life’s ongoing adversities. When you are enthusiastically overcome with

gratitude and you whisper,

“What would I have done without him or her?”

Maybe, you may want to consider the possibility, yes, the possibility of a loved one, that has long

passed, simply donning a suitable attire for a temporary visit with us in our physical world.

‘If the unexplained were explained it would be an ‘Awakening.’

Author’s Notes

During the Memorial Mass for my Niece Tammy, the atmosphere was sad but it was

also, wonderful to see my family and to visit with them. With the realization that time waited for no one,

physical changes were definitely evident with the progression of time. It was almost funny to see the

effect of the years on each of us and gifted with a sense of humor we grinned and agreed that it had been

a wonderful past. Didn’t have much but then, we certainly didn’t know of anyone that did.

As a matter of fact, it was four years since I had made my last visit to Colorado. The gathering

was quite pleasant even though the reason for the gathering was sad. Tammy’s life after losing her

husband Noel had taken a toll on Tammy’s initiative and motivation. She seemed to have lost that

desire or physical ability to go on in her work for the less fortunate.

And then the onset of a prolonged and persistent, disease. Cancer was diagnosed and would

eventually claim her life. It was a heartbreaking battle and it would Eventually erase the essence of her

existence by taking every bit of strength and the natural ability and desire to go on.

I’m sure that her Mother Mary, (Chavel) with God’s Blessing, escorted and welcomed Tammy home.

Dedicated to ‘The Lady.’

My Short Stories

-section 1-

Back to Top

The Evil

Farewell to an Angel

Guest Book Entry for Tommy Ronan

I Remember When

“It Was Like a Journey – A Wonderful Journey.”

Keys to the Kingdom

The Looking Glass

Love One Another

The Magnificent Conversion

-section 2-

Back to Top

My Sanctuary

No One Cared

The Ogre of Windrose Woods

The Padre

The Quarter

The Weeping Woman

'La LLorona'

The Smoke at St. Peter's Square

The Stranger

The Visit