Bob’s Thanksgiving

On every Thanksgiving since he became sober and accepted Jesus and God into his life Bob has donated his time every Thanksgiving feeding the homeless, dispossessed, and the poor. He does this to honor the family that in their own way, literally saved his life and offered him hope. He offers them hope, a warm meal and new socks or wool caps to help keep them warm. He feels his heart warm from the Holy Spirit. 

Thanksgiving night 2002 

Bob awoke at four in the afternoon in a back ally by a dumpster. The darkening Seattle sky appeared as bleak as his surroundings of discarded refuge. No one was around as he ventured out onto First Street and wondered north near Pike Place. His needs became apparent as his jones showed its ugly face. He scratched his left arm where the last syringe entered his vein four hours before. His sunken eyes looked longingly at the quiet street. No one was about. 

He walked slowly uptown away from the heart of the city and ended up in the University District. Traffic was sparce and what few cars travelled, appeared to be families going to see their families or friends for a dinner he could only dream of having. He felt hunger pangs attack his stomach, but not so bad as the pangs that affected his need for a good fix.  

He stumbled to the familiar apartment where his buddy lived. He made Bob feel good and temporarily abate the pain inside his heart. He pounded on the door, hearing laughter and comradery from inside. “Who is it?” Bob heard his friend’s voice ask with suspicion. Bob’s sixth sense told him he was probably packing his magnum. 

“It’s Bob. I need a favor. Can you help?” 

The door opened a crack, a single brown eye stared at Bob a moment. “Fifteen, you got?” 

“No, man I’m short. Look I can pay you tomorrow I promise.” 

He stared at Bob with both disgust and mistrust I that single brown eye. “Wait one minute.” The door slammed shut. He heard him declare to his friends, “It’s a fucking beggar wanting to fix his jones!” 

“Oh my God!” A woman exclaimed, perhaps too loud for Bob’s liking. “Don’t they even know it’s a holiday? What a loser!” 

The door opened and his buddy slipped him a cellophane packet. It was half an eight ball. “Happy Thanksgiving, Bob. Now get lost.” The door slammed shut resoundingly. 

Bob retreated away from the apartment going down the icy staircase and out on the cold and dark street where his hope in life generally was gone. “I am a loser!” He shuffled his way to the back of a convenience store where he could make the medicine. He cooked up the concoction over a spoon and Bic lighter. He had a stolen bottle of water stashed inside his pack. He poured that and watched it bubble as he mixed it and then used his syringe to suck up the heroin. He wrapped the tubing around his arm, trying to locate a vein. But he couldn’t see that well in the dark. The mercury vapor lamp that was normally on, was out. 

“God dammit!” He got up from behind the dumpster and went around the corner and back out onto the street in front of the convenience store. He found the vein and was ready to make this his last injection, ever, when a van pulled up, Christian inspirational music echoing out onto the outside of this Dodge Caravan. A group of young men and women, perhaps his age piled out from the van and smiled sweetly at him. 

“YOU ARE LOVED!” They all exclaimed. The leader, who he assumed was a minister, then asked him, “Brother, Are you hungry? We have food. Turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy! Come eat and be blessed by the Holy Spirit.” 

“Brother,” a young woman went up to him. “You look cold. Here are socks, a cap and a blanket to warm you. Please take as a gift from the Holy Spirit!” 

Bob felt a weight of his despair was lifted as he went to the opened van and he began eating the meal given to him, warmed by the blanket, and later from the woolen socks and the cap that he fitted on his head. 

The preacher then pulled out from his coat the Holy Bible and he recited, “Jeremiah 29:11: For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” 

“Amen,” the group rejoiced. They pulled into an unbroken circle and prayed over him, touching his shoulders and his head. 

The preacher prayed aloud, as he heard the others praying with him, “Bless this man dear Lord so that he will prosper and spread your word of hope and faith to all others like him. In Jesus name we pray, Amen.” 

Bob felt this overwhelming urge to hug them, and he thanked the preacher and then they all piled back inside the van. Then they were gone. “They must’ve been angels to save me. I guess it’s not my time yet.” 

The Present Day 

He recalls that day with his church to everyone who wants to hear his testimonial. He’s been there and knows what these people feel. Bob doesn’t just talk about giving money to those homeless, dispossessed and broken, Bob puts himself back in the fold and gives them hope and faith for a tomorrow without despair, drugs and destitution. 

It’s My Fault 

I’m still at a loss as to how my candidate for President lost and lost so bad. 

It’s not like Trump was well liked; most people thought him crude, crass and arrogant, a typical asshole who you would never invite to your boss’ dinner party.  

Where did me and most democrats get it so wrong? 

Granted, the economy wasn’t great but was turning itself around for the better. Trump kept hammering about immigration, but the borders are closed now. 

As I have said before, I am a firm believer in the good nature of mankind. That people like Donald Trump are the exception and that we are better than his words or those who listen to him. 

But I had blinders on these past four years and did not see what those that were unhappy saw or appeared more affected by the economy or the immigration issue. I chose to see the bills that Biden wished passed: infrastructure and economic recovery into laws that all was good and would be wonderful. 

On paper, it appeared I was right, but once again I failed to see what the vast majority apparently experienced and apparently other Democrats fell into that same demise including Biden and Harris. 

I also failed to see the weathervane of change that seem more directed right than center or left. I had always believed in the change that progressive policies would help all people get ahead in life. The right in my view were a cynical crowd, brainwashed by the elitists Republicans pounding into them that anything that would benefit them was bad for all. I never ever went as far as to accuse these people that they were either uneducated or misinformed, but they definitely preferred Trump’s ideal of the American dream rather than what I envisioned. 

So, what does this new America want? What change do they prefer? I cannot assume anything anymore. I live in an area that is predominantly Republican. There are Trump banners and flags flying proudly on poles, red MAGA hats cover men’s heads at the casino I work at, and I feel like an alien from another land. 

The best that I can hope for is that someday, the beliefs I hold will eventually rub off on my Republican brethren and they too will see the optimism of progressive change as a good thing, not something will cost them unnecessary taxes. 

Buck & Stag

The two big deer with large rack of antlers on their massive heads barreled through the wilderness as shots from hunters’ rifles whizzed by them. They bounded through thick foliage, briars and brush. They sprinted up a draw and the shooting stopped as they heard voices of the men echo off the hillside. 

“Did you get them?” 

“No! Did you?” 

“I’m not sure. They sure were fast. Did you see the racks on them bucks?” 

Both deer stopped at the summit of the ridge and looked down at the two hunters. “Were they talking about you?” Stag asked Buck curiously. 

“I guess. Stag let’s head down the other side to that clearing.” 

“Sure. I always was curious about that place anyway.” 

They slowly meandered down the other side of the ridge and moved cautiously down the steep grade until they found the familiar deer trail that took them to a clearing where they saw the stone columns of various sizes placed in uniformed formations. 

The pair sniffed the ground and they both smelled earthen decay below them. “Buck, have you seen this place when people show up?” 

“Once when I was a fawn. Mom said they take the dead people inside wood boxes and dig a hole and bury them.” 

“I saw the same exact thing not too long ago,” Stag replied. Both began feeding on the grass that the man with the water hose tended to daily. Both raised their heads alertly as they chewed on the green grass. “I often wondered why humans do that, bury their dead. When we die, if we don’t get shot or run over by humans, our bodies decay naturally as most of our animal cousins do. Why do you suppose that humans go through all that trouble to place their dead inside wood boxes, dig a hole, then bury them?” 

“I guess their spirits must rest inside the ground to feel safe.” 

Stag thought about that for a second or two before resuming eating the grass. “I do like the flavor of this grass as opposed to other grasses in other clearings we’ve been to.” 

“I agree with that assessment, Stag. Why do you supposed that is?” 

“I guess we’ll never know,” Buck replied as they continued feeding from a stone marker that read Forrest Hunter. 

Nine Lives of Cosmo 

At any rate, I’m a cat named Cosmo who came into this world a year ago. I’m sure I was probably a doctor or lawyer in my previous life, and I came back as a cat. The irony of it all! 

Of course I don’t remember my previous life, hence my confusion of what I actually did when I wore human flesh and clothes. My mother was Siamese with an exceptionally long tail. That I inherited from her. I’m a tom and according to her dear old Dad was an American Standard. I don’t even know what that means.  

I was picked by some well-meaning girl who I supposed thought I was an adorable little kitten full of playfulness and loving. We lived in an apartment campus in some town though I have no idea what an Airway Heights is. I just know that every morning after being playful and giving me food and loves, she’d suddenly leave. I didn’t like that at all. Especially considering all the other neighbors around us who had cats, would come by and torment and tease me unceasingly. I couldn’t leave and be playful too. 

She had a boyfriend. I got the distinct impression he wasn’t a fan of me, and the feeling was mutual. He’d play too rough, get angry easily and constantly scolded me for making messes, though I did my best to cover it up as Mom did, but that wasn’t good enough. 

One day I saw my girl type a message on her phone contraption and not more than a day later this old man comes in carrying an empty container with a very pleasant and appealing odor coming from inside. He looked nice. He had a nice, friendly vibe to him that I liked. He laid the container down and I sniffed inside. To my amazement an opened can of tuna sat there. I was delighted to say the least. I gorged myself on this treat, not realizing the door zipped shut and I was carried away from this apartment and placed inside a car that smelled of this older man. She called him Jerry and apparently, he knows her from somewhere nearby. 

He got inside and the car started, and I wasn’t certain where we were headed, but a part of me was relieved to be leaving that place. Is he a nice msn or did my gut tell me a big fat lie? I meowed at my displeasure of being led into a trap like this. But eventually after making several turns that confused me to no end, we stopped. He turned off the car and got out. I could see we were in a different environment than what I had lived in these past ten months. There was grass, buildings, lots of trees, dogs…DOGS! Oh, my goodness there were two of them and he told both, whose names were Roxie and Amber, “No, not yet. Give him a few days to get used to his new home first.” 

I growled a warning to them both. They backed away and I saw next to a big house a smaller house. I smelled birds and also heard one from inside. Does he keep live birds to eat later? I asked myself as we went inside. He went inside another room. I heard a distinct sound that was the same as at the apartment when she went inside this other room that I named her litter box. Then I heard the same exact flushing noise come from inside and my suspicion was confirmed. 

After a while he let me out of that contraption and set it on a chair next top a table. I looked around me and saw a bird alright. Because cats as a rule are color-blind, I couldn’t distinguish the colors on her. Jerry called her Elsa. Why would he name a potential meal? 

He introduced us, which I also found odd, “Elsa this is Cosmo. Cosmo—Elsa. You two will keep each other company while I’m at work. Hopefully, you guys will get along.” 

Oh yeah, we’ll get along alright, right into my belly, I said to myself. But she apparently wanted nothing to do with me as evidenced by the fact she kept lunging at my face with her sharp beak. Needless to say, she got my nose and won that first battle, but there will be more to come, trust me. 

To say I didn’t miss that girl would be a fib because I did miss her at first. Not that I couldn’t do anything about it. He purposefully drove me literally in circles to where I have no idea where I am or where she is. I gave up even trying. After four days of being coop up inside that house where I had every square inch known, marked and clawed by heart, I got to look outside those windows at the outside world. I wanted to go out and explore. I saw a whole bunch of wild birds feeding in front where Jerry always threw out what Elsa didn’t eat from the day before. 

One evening he had the outside door opened. It had been pleasantly warm inside and Jerry wanted the place aired out so he left the screen door closed and the outside door opened. He mentioned to us that today was his Friday. Again, I had no idea what he was talking about. After he fed himself, he threw out scraps presumably for those dogs. To my surprise though another cat came by and began having himself a little snack. 

“That’s Cato,” Jerry told me as I sat at the door watching this slightly smaller and somewhat younger cat, calico, I think he is, sit in front of me oblivious to my presence munching away on those scraps. The next day, Jerry let me outside for the first time and then I knew I was home and happy because he had enough trust in me to let me out every morning after that. 

We had a deal in a manner of speaking where I could be outside by day but had to be inside after it got too dark. It’s now two months later and I think I’ll hang out here for the duration. I have no plans to go anywhere. Plus, my cat sense tells me it’s going to be a cold and nasty winter.  And Cato? We’re best of friends, playing and hunting flying bugs and taking afternoon naps in the warm sun. It’s the best decision I ever made. 

Observations While Sitting at a Stop Light 

Driving in city traffic is stop and go and stop and go. We, well I and the other anonymous drivers who drive to our collective destination’s in our rather ordinary Fords, Buicks and Dodges ignore each other, pretend none of us exist; invisible and clueless.  

The stop lights we all approach have men and women of different stripes and behaviors shuffling about, running to a bus stop to catch their ride, wondering about, looking hopelessly lost in their own world. They ignore the world around or talk to each other or talk to themselves. 

An old man stands at the corner, scratching himself, not aware or maybe doesn’t care that he is doing this in public for all of us to witness, though I honestly doubt anyone pays him any attention. Next to him is a woman who has no teeth and looks ancient too, though she appears younger than the elderly man standing next to her. I see their lips move but don’t know what they are saying. 

The light changes and we continue to the next stop light where we all stop and see a pair of panhandlers earning their daily bread. Of course: “But he answered, “It is written, “‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that comes from the mouth of God.’” They hold their cardboard handwritten signs begging for whatever we can afford to give in black permanent markers. 

I look at the two with disdain but also realize that other Bible verse: Judge not, that ye be not judged. Matthew 7:1. I realized that this wasn’t their idea to earn money this way. They live day by day on what is meted out to them. And aren’t we all in one way or another panhandlers?  

We have jobs that we work at, and we are expected to follow the policies and procedures and work hard for the money we earn that is meted out each day. If we don’t abide by those rules set forth by someone higher up than us, we have to pay the consequences for not following the rules. And some end up like these two. 

The light changes and we continue to the next light. School children dressed in casual pants and dresses wait for their turn to cross the street. Their teacher wears a dress, brown woolen sexless thing that appears appropriate for a schoolteacher. She appears middle-aged, maybe thirty or forty with professionally styled hair and no makeup. She holds hands with two young girls, who look up at her and seem to be asking a question, but it’s time to go and she walks with a purpose across the street on the crosswalk followed by her students. 

I wonder how many of those children will grow up to become successful cogs in the machinery of our collective socio-economic society. How many will become that old couple living on Social Security, if there is any such thing in the future, or become those panhandlers begging for quarters nickels and dimes to buy food or beer or fortified wine? Will they fight and scrape to get to the top, caring nothing about their fellow man? Will they become writers or poets or artists pursuing a passion that only they can express? Will one or two become a politician that helps others or become so tainted by the pursuit of power that they don’t see the poor or dispossessed? Will one live past eighteen, or twenty or thirty? Will any of those children have children or grandchildren of their own? Will they pursue a life of crime, become victims or villains? Will one become a murderer or rapist? 

The light changed and I heard about a band coming to town calling themselves Observations While Sitting at Traffic Signals, and I thought what a wonderful idea for a blog post! 

The Tale of the Vampire and the Ghostwriter 

Candace McIntire drafted stories about other people who paid her for her time. Ghost writing wasn’t all she enjoyed. She wrote of witchery, vampires and werewolves that went bump in the night. She was a slender, tall woman of raven hair and deep brown eyes. Unlike the others though her face was white as snow. One evening she got a call from a mysterious sounding voice, a voice that sent a chill down her spine. 

“Ms. McIntire, I understand you are a ghost writer.” His voice sounded deep with a baritone and Spanish dialect.  

“Yes, I write about ghosts and other creatures of the night,” she replied with hesitancy and feelings of dread in her voice. 

“My name is Sebastian Rodrigues. I originally came from Madrid. I live here now. I wish for you to author my story. It is a long saga of how I came to being. I was of a normal life but was reborn years ago.” He paused. She wondered where this conversation was leading to. “Are you intrigued?” 

Why does that name sound so familiar? “I’m not sure, I charge by the hour and my rate is a minimum of $1000.” 

“Money is not an issue with me. I am, as you say, old money. I will gladly pay you what you charge, maybe even provide you a bonus afterwards, Ms. McIntire.” 

“A bonus? What kind of bonus?” She asked, her voice rose significantly sounding overly excited or greedy. 

“While I have lived many years, my time is nearing its end, and time has become more tangible now. If you can write my life story within six months and can guarantee a respectable publisher, I will gladly give you a bonus plus your rate.” 

“Cancer?” 

“No, something else is slowly draining my life force.” 

“I will need to see you and conduct interviews, plus I’ll need to have documentation. Can you provide me with your records?” 

“I have everything that you will need, Ms. McIntire.” 

“Can I come and visit your hacienda or…” 

“There is a cantina near where I live off the Sunset highway called Benito et Geraldo’s. Are you familiar?” 

It took Candace a brief moment to gather her bearings on the outskirts of Mazatlán. “I believe I have seen it a time or two.” 

“Meet me there after sunset in two days when the bats come out from their cave.” The connection abruptly ended, and the same shiver caused involuntary convulsions to jiggle her petite and slender form. 

Two nights later 

Candace strolled into the smoke-filled cantina, filled with mostly local regulars who talked amongst themselves. Suddenly, the place became deathly quiet. She stood at the entrance. A bearded man of medium height came to her. He looked middle aged, perhaps no older than sixty with a hint of salt and pepper interlocking his black hair and beard. He too appeared deathly pale to her. 

“Ms. McIntire, I am Senor Gomez, Senor Rodrigues’ go between,” he introduced himself but didn’t offer a complimentary salutation. He instead pulled an ancient looking valise up upon a table where the two men sat but appeared in a hypnotic state, neither blinking nor exchanging glances with the man, who opened the flap using brass buckles that he deliberately opened showing a folder with many files inside. 

“Where is he? Why didn’t he come in person?” she asked with suspicion in her voice. 

“He will be here at another time. He wants you to start here with these pages, reports, and other documents to get you started. If you have any questions, I will be available to answer most of them.” 

“I am not certain I like this. When will I get to interview him?” 

“When you have gone through all the documentation here and have an outline made out, you will call me. Here is my card. At that time, an interview will be granted.” 

“Granted? Are you kidding me?” 

“I assure you Ms. McIntire, Senor Rodrigues is not frivolous and understands your time is valuable. Here in my breast pocket is an envelope with one thousand American dollars that you said was the minimum amount you would accept. Consider this a good faith gesture.” He said this while pulling the envelope from his white breast suit pocket. He laid it flat on the table next to the valise. Candace reluctantly took the money and the files. 

She glared at Senor Gomez. “I am not happy with this arrangement. Tell Senor Rodrigues I want an interview within a week after I finish this.” 

“Very well, have a pleasant evening Ms. McIntire.” He stared after her. Candace did an about face and stormed out of the cantina. The conversation continued as if there had not been an interruption. 

She followed Gomez to a beachside cottage a mile or so east of the main highway. She continued to her apartment after she knew this was where Sebastian lived. 

The Following Night 

She spent the entire night going over every document and public record Sebastian provided. She went ahead and drafted out an outline, knowing exactly what needed to be done. Candace knew the moment she read his files, his records, who he was. She had in her mind the perfect ending to this story. Now she just needed Sebastian Rodrigues to interview and complete his story. 

After the bats had left the cave, she entered the house Sebastian lived at, along the sandy beach of the resort. It was a modest cabana. A single light from a kerosine lantern showed her the starkness of the one room place. In the center of the room Sebastian was reposed on a divan of rich velvet the color of blood. 

“I thought we had an arrangement, Ms. McIntire,” he stated to her. He remained as he was, appearing death-like. 

“I’m afraid I don’t take commands very well, Senor Rodrigues.” 

“That is most unfortunate.” 

“I’m ready for the interview, sir.” 

“What was your first impression of me when I called you?” 

“I don’t know. You frightened me, I supposed.” 

“And now? How do I appear to you now, Ms. McIntire?” 

“You are older than I imagined, much older. You mentioned you have a short time left, tell me why if it is not cancer?” 

“I need not explain my condition to you. You are correct though; I am old. Did you read my records?” 

“They could’ve easily been altered—” 

“But they were not. I am as old as is recorded. The paper those records were written on should have been your first clue, Ms. McIntire. My first life as a human ended in 1793 in France during the reign of terror. A young girl cursed me. Her name was Fleur. She was imprisoned as I was. My crime was my opposition to this madman, Rospierre, and his reign of terror. She, well as you can imagine, what her crime was. The guillotine was not her death, but the bright morning sun. How I escaped a similar fate, I do not remember. When I awoke though, I was on a ship destined for the Americas. I eventually wound up here.” 

“So, you are a vampire,” Candace concluded. 

“No, actually I am a vampire slayer. It is both blessing and curse.” 

“Well, now that I know for certain, this will be much more blessed. Do you remember Maria?” 

Sebastian turned his head in her direction. The sunken eyes, the bald head and the pointed ears made her gasp in horror. “Yes, yes, I do remember Maria. She was my first here in Mexico. Why?” 

“Because she was my mother until the village where we lived learned the truth.” 

“If you are her daughter…” 

“Yes, I too am cursed,” Candace replied as she lunged toward him in one motion so fast that it would appear like a flash of white light went across the room. He never saw it coming and cried out in agony as she sank her pearl-white fangs into his throat and sucked the undead blood from him, reducing Sebastian to a withering dried mound of dust.

A Natural Gift

My stepdaughter Emely has many gifts that I am immensely proud of her for having. The latest is her gift for making automobiles look remarkable as you my loyal readers can plainly see from the image above. She is going through an auto body class at one of the local community colleges here in Spokane. At this point she learned wrapping. 

Before she took this class I never even heard of wrapping a car, yet I guess, so long as the original finish on the car one is going to wrap, is clean—no marks, rust or dings—then one can opt for doing this kind of work. 

I had a minor booboo happen to me last week and I asked her about this method. While it was nothing more serious than trading paint, she explained to me that any imperfection on the original finish was a none issue because the vinyl used in wrapping would peel away, exposing the original finish and creating more problems down the road. 

Though she didn’t say so in so many words, I’m hopeful she’ll volunteer to make my car her next project when that time occurs and she’s been train in that next phase of auto body repair. In the meantime, the person who got his Dodge Challenger wrapped in that neon green that Nicolas swore glows in the dark, is very satisfied with the result. As I am as well.

Change of Seasons

I don’t know how you my loyal readers feel about our seasons, but I kind of enjoy the changes that each season brings to me. Winter’s snow and bare trees make way for blossoms and greenery of spring. Heat of summer steadily makes way to autumn splendor of golden rod and rust. Then first blasts of winter in the form of storms that blow cold gusts into my face and watching virgin snow fall gently to the ground covering everything in white. 

Of course, the symbolism of the changes doesn’t go unnoticed on me either. Children and adolescents bound and play in their springtime youth, summertime brings young adults into marriage and future growth. Autumn shows maturity as we slowly and surely gracefully age and mellow, followed finally by the finiteness of winter and our own mortality that awaits all of us. To that end, springtime renews itself with fresh life. 

As I have told many of you and perhaps fittingly so, if we didn’t at least appreciate the changes in seasons, we certainly wouldn’t be living here where the seasons are appropriate. Many of you have chosen to live south of here, where winters are not as apparent with cold, snow and ice. Some may well live in places where winter isn’t a factor at all, but then you are faced with severe weather like hurricanes and tornadoes. 

I think that is a trade off of sorts. After all, we have to endure those nasty winters to have the pleasantness of those other seasons to have that equilibrium you in the south must cope with. I truly don’t know how climate change will affect future weather long after you and I are gone. I just hope the changing seasons aren’t so drastic, it makes life unbearable. 

At First You Remember, Now You Don’t 

I don’t know if I got dementia, or just getting at that stage in life where I’m becoming more forgetful and getting those memory lapses seemingly more often. I read an article about the seven early warnings of dementia. 

Needless to say, I was shocked and perhaps not as surprised to realize we all are in that stage, whether in our sixties, older or younger, that these signs of dementia symptoms may well be what defines old age.  

As an example, I always had trouble communicating my thoughts, but lately it has become more apparent. I’m sure you, my loyal readers have faced the same issue—talking to someone and trying to come up with that certain perfect word or phrase, but just isn’t coming up. 

I used to be able to see a fellow co-worker and right off the bat, state their name without blinking an eye. Anyway, I have struggled remembering people’s names or seeing that familiar person but forgetting their name and feeling inferior. 

I know that you, my loyal readers, know my history that I’m a recovering alcoholic, who suffered a serious life-changing stroke that obviously affected me physically, and perhaps mentally as well. But these latest issues have arose quite subtly but suddenly to where I’m more than a little concerned, especially considering I have lost a cousin and an aunt to Alzheimer’s. 

I know I will need to have my care provider refer me to a specialist to go through the regimen of cognitive tests to rule out Alzheimer’s, and hope that what form of dementia I may have is easily manageable. I can at least still write, and my thoughts are clear when I am writing though I continuously have to check my characters from the chapters before, so I don’t embarrass myself. 

Angels in Our Lives 

I have often considered, even back my more agnostic days that we are surrounded by angels in our lives. I know many of you my loyal readers have at one time, or another been touched by someone who somehow changed your life for the better. 

I have at least had one experience and yet, there are probably too many to count, times when someone or something interrupted the path I was headed and took a turn away from what most likely would have been my demise. 

I know these people were angels because I never saw them again. They appeared and just as quickly disappeared from my life forever. I even sometimes suspect that God might have even appeared in the form of a human to guide me away from that which would have surely ruined me. 

Then, let us not forget those memorable angels from their roles in movies: Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life, Cassiel and Damiel of Wings of Desire, Dudley in the Bishop’s Wife, Pete Sandich of Always, Gabriel in Prophesy, Joe Pendleton in Heaven Can Wait, Al the Boss in Angels in the Outfield, Azazel in Fallen, and Loki and Bartleby of Dogma. These angels for better or worst shaped the mortals who made them either understand something clearly at last or create chaos. 

I believe in the angels more now than ever because how my own path has taken me. At first, I didn’t listen to those angels who came to me in their human disguises. I denied they knew what they were saying. I now realized they were right, and I was the fool. After my stroke I became a different person not just because I realized my limited human life had changed but because those better angels had indeed rescued me from ruin.